This passage is excerpted from Jules Verne,. Originally published in 1873.
The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was
exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such
as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg
required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular.
On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster,
because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at
eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he
was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between
eleven and half-past.
Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet
close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands
resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was
steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the
hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the
years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according
to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform.1
A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy
apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster,
the dismissed servant, appeared.
“The new servant,” said he.
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.
“You are a Frenchman, I believe,” asked Phileas Fogg, “and
your name is John?”
“Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the newcomer, “Jean
Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have
a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I
believe I’m honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I’ve had
several trades. I’ve been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider,
when I used to vault like Leotard,2 and dance on a rope like
Blondin.3 Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to
make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant
fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted
France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of
domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding
myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg
was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United
Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with
him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of
Passepartout.”
“Passepartout suits me,” responded Mr. Fogg. “You are well
recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know
my conditions?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Good! What time is it?”
“Twenty-two minutes after eleven,” returned Passepartout,
drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his
pocket.
“You are too slow,” said Mr. Fogg.
“Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible—“
“You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it’s enough to
mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes
after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my
service.”
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on
his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a
word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new
master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his
predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout
remained alone in the house in Saville Row.
1A Private members’ club in London
2A French acrobat
3A French tightrope walker and acrobat
The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was
exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such
as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg
required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular.
On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster,
because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at
eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he
was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between
eleven and half-past.
Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet
close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands
resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was
steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the
hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the
years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according
to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform.1
A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy
apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster,
the dismissed servant, appeared.
“The new servant,” said he.
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.
“You are a Frenchman, I believe,” asked Phileas Fogg, “and
your name is John?”
“Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the newcomer, “Jean
Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have
a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I
believe I’m honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I’ve had
several trades. I’ve been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider,
when I used to vault like Leotard,2 and dance on a rope like
Blondin.3 Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to
make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant
fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted
France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of
domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding
myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg
was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United
Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with
him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of
Passepartout.”
“Passepartout suits me,” responded Mr. Fogg. “You are well
recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know
my conditions?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Good! What time is it?”
“Twenty-two minutes after eleven,” returned Passepartout,
drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his
pocket.
“You are too slow,” said Mr. Fogg.
“Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible—“
“You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it’s enough to
mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes
after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my
service.”
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on
his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a
word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new
master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his
predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout
remained alone in the house in Saville Row.
1A Private members’ club in London
2A French acrobat
3A French tightrope walker and acrobat