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 passions.

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 against anybody.

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.

It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s lively nature would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was
impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master
required; experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early
years, and now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served in
ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he found his masters
invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or on the look-out for
adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the
Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on policemen’s shoulders.
Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on
such conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for
a servant, and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from
home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He presented himself, and was
accepted, as has been seen.

At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row. He begun its
inspection without delay, scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion
pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lighted and warmed by gas, which sufficed for both
these purposes. When Passepartout reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he
was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded
communication with the lower stories; while on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in
Mr. Fogg’s bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. “That’s good, that’ll do,”
said Passepartout to himself.

He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of
the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the
morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the
Reform Club—all the details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the
shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything
was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at
which the methodical gentleman retired.

Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest bore
a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing;
and the same system was applied to the master’s shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must
have been a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was
cosiness, comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have
been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other
of law and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to
defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere;
everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.
Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his
features, and he said joyfully, “This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I!
What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind serving a machine.”