Around the World in 80 Days
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND
"Faith," muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, "I've seen people at Madame
Tussaud's as lively as my new master!"
Madame Tussaud's "people," let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London;
speech is all that is wanting to make them human.
During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him.
He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a
tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and
unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the
highest degree what physiognomists call "repose in action," a quality of those who act
rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type
of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on
canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly
well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed,
exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and
feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the
He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical
alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to
his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen
to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always
reached his destination at the exact moment.
He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in
this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed
As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own
country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after
his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by
Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a
pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round
head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his
complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his
physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair
was somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen
methods of arranging Minerva's tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one of
dressing his own: three strokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet.