Around the World in 80 Days, by Jules Verne

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As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin;
and Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals,
courageous as he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg
did not seem even to know that there was a captain on board.

On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland,
a dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are
frequent fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening
before the barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching
change in the atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied,
the cold became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east.

This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his course,
furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the vessel's speed
slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves of which broke against
the stern. She pitched violently, and this retarded her progress.
The breeze little by little swelled into a tempest, and it was to be feared
that the Henrietta might not be able to maintain herself upright on the waves.

Passepartout's visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the poor
fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold mariner,
and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept on his course,
without even decreasing his steam. The Henrietta, when she could not rise
upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but passing safely.
Sometinies the screw rose out of the water, beating its protruding end,
when a mountain of water raised the stern above the waves; but the craft
always kept straight ahead.

The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been feared;
it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with a speed
of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it remained
obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless.

The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg's
departure from London, and the Henrietta had not yet been seriously delayed.
Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst localities
had been passed. In summer, success would have been well-nigh certain.
In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season. Passepartout
said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and comforted himself
with the reflection that, if the wind failed them, they might still
count on the steam.

On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and
began to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was
a presentiment, perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy.
He would have given one of his ears to hear with the other what
the engineer was saying. He finally managed to catch a few words,
and was sure he heard his master say, "You are certain of what you tell me?"

"Certain, sir," replied the engineer. "You must remember that,
since we started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces,
and, though we had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to
Bordeaux, we haven't enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool."
"I will consider," replied Mr. Fogg.

Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety.
The coal was giving out! "Ah, if my master can get over that,"
muttered he, "he'll be a famous man!" He could not help imparting
to Fix what he had overheard.

"Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?"

"Of course."

"Ass!" replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on his heel.

Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet,
the reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend;
but he reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much
disappointed and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so
awkwardly followed a false scent around the world, and refrained.

And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult
to imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one,
for that evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him,
"Feed all the fires until the coal is exhausted."

A few moments after, the funnel of the Henrietta vomited forth torrents
of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on;
but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced
that the coal would give out in the course of the day.

"Do not let the fires go down," replied Mr. Fogg.
"Keep them up to the last. Let the valves be filled."

Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position,
called Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy.
It was as if the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger.
He went to the poop, saying to himself, "He will be like a madman!"

In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the poop-deck.
The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the point
of bursting. "Where are we?" were the first words his anger permitted
him to utter. Had the poor man be an apoplectic, he could never have
recovered from his paroxysm of wrath.

"Where are we?" he repeated, with purple face.

"Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool,"
replied Mr. Fogg, with imperturbable calmness.

"Pirate!" cried Captain Speedy.

"I have sent for you, sir--"

"Pickaroon!"

"--sir," continued Mr. Fogg, "to ask you to sell me your vessel."

"No! By all the devils, no!"

"But I shall be obliged to burn her."

"Burn the Henrietta!"

"Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out."

"Burn my vessel!" cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely
pronounce the words. "A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!"

"Here are sixty thousand," replied Phileas Fogg, handing the
captain a roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect
on Andrew Speedy. An American can scarcely remain unmoved
at the sight of sixty thousand dollars. The captain forgot
in an instant his anger, his imprisonment, and all his grudges
against his passenger. The Henrietta was twenty years old;
it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all.
Mr. Fogg had taken away the match.

"And I shall still have the iron hull," said the captain in a softer tone.

"The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?"

"Agreed."

And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them
and consigned them to his pocket.

During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet,
and Fix seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit.
Nearly twenty thousand pounds had been expended, and Fogg
left the hull and engine to the captain, that is,
near the whole value of the craft! It was true, however,
that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank.

When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him,
"Don't let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall
lose twenty thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by
a quarter before nine on the evening of the 21st of December.
I missed the steamer at New York, and as you refused to take me to Liverpool--"

"And I did well!" cried Andrew Speedy; "for I have gained at
least forty thousand dollars by it!" He added, more sedately,
"Do you know one thing, Captain--"

"Fogg."

"Captain Fogg, you've got something of the Yankee about you."

And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment,
he was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, "The vessel now belongs to me?"

"Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts--all the wood, that is."

"Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down,
and burn them."

It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up
to the adequate pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins,
bunks, and the spare deck were sacrificed. On the next day,
the 19th of December, the masts, rafts, and spars were burned;
the crew worked lustily, keeping up the fires. Passepartout hewed, cut,
and sawed away with all his might. There was a perfect rage for demolition.

The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides
disappeared on the 20th, and the Henrietta was now only a flat hulk.
But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light.
By ten in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg
had only twenty-four hours more in which to get to London;
that length of time was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on.
And the steam was about to give out altogether!

"Sir," said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in
Mr. Fogg's project, "I really commiserate you. Everything is
against you. We are only opposite Queenstown."

"Ah," said Mr. Fogg, "is that place where we see the lights Queenstown?"

"Yes."

"Can we enter the harbour?"

"Not under three hours. Only at high tide."

"Stay," replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features
that by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more
to conquer ill-fortune.

Queenstown is the Irish port at which the trans-Atlantic steamers
stop to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin
by express trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin
they are sent on to Liverpool by the most rapid boats,
and thus gain twelve hours on the Atlantic steamers.

Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way.
Instead of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the Henrietta,
he would be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London
before a quarter before nine in the evening.

The Henrietta entered Queenstown Harbour at one o'clock in the morning,
it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped heartily
by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the levelled hulk
of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold it for.

The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted
to arrest Mr. Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle
was going on within him? Had he changed his mind about "his man"?
Did he understand that he had made a grave mistake? He did not,
however, abandon Mr. Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was
just ready to start, at half-past one; at dawn of day they were
in Dublin; and they lost no time in embarking on a steamer which,
disdaining to rise upon the waves, invariably cut through them.

Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay,
at twenty minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only
six hours distant from London.

But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg's shoulder,
and, showing his warrant, said, "You are really Phileas Fogg?"

"I am."

"I arrest you in the Queen's name!"

Chapter XXXIV

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AT LAST REACHES LONDON

Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom House,
and he was to he transferred to London the next day.

Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have
fallen upon Fix had he not been held back by some policemen.
Aouda was thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which
she could not understand. Passepartout explained to her how
it was that the honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber.
The young woman's heart revolted against so heinous a charge,
and when she saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save
her protector, she wept bitterly.

As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty,
whether Mr. Fogg were guilty or not.

The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this
new misfortune! Had he not concealed Fix's errand from his master?
When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told
Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given
Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least,
Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels
of his master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil.
Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains out.

Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico
of the Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place;
both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again.

That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment
when he was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal.
Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before
twelve on the 21st of December, he had till a quarter before nine
that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter;
the journey from Liverpool to London was six hours.

If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House,
he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without
apparent anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true,
resigned; but this last blow failed to force him into an outward
betrayal of any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those
secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which
only burst forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment?
No one could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting--for what?
Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door
of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed?

However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch
upon the table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word
escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern.
The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be
thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he
was a knave, he was caught.

Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were
any practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping
from it? Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room.
But the door was locked, and the window heavily barred with
iron rods. He sat down again, and drew his journal from his pocket.
On the line where these words were written, "21st December,
Saturday, Liverpool," he added, "80th day, 11.40 a.m.," and waited.

The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch
was two hours too fast.

Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an
express train, he could reach London and the Reform Club
by a quarter before nine, p.m. His forehead slightly wrinkled.

At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside,
then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout's voice was audible,
and immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg's eyes brightened
for an instant.

The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix,
who hurried towards him.

Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not speak.
"Sir," he stammered, "sir--forgive me--most-- unfortunate resemblance--
robber arrested three days ago--you are free!"

Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him steadily
in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his life,
or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the precision
of a machine knocked Fix down.

"Well hit!" cried Passepartout, "Parbleu! that's what
you might call a good application of English fists!"

Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word.
He had only received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout
left the Custom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few
moments descended at the station.

Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train
about to leave for London. It was forty minutes past two.
The express train had left thirty-five minutes before.
Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train.

There were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway arrangements
did not permit the special train to leave until three o'clock.

At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by
the offer of a generous reward, at last set out towards London
with Aouda and his faithful servant.

It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half;
and this would have been easy on a clear road throughout.
But there were forced delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped
from the train at the terminus, all the clocks in London
were striking ten minutes before nine."

Having made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand
five minutes. He had lost the wager!

Chapter XXXV

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DOES NOT HAVE TO
REPEAT HIS ORDERS TO PASSEPARTOUT TWICE

The dwellers in Saville Row would have been surprised the next day,
if they had been told that Phileas Fogg had returned home.
His doors and windows were still closed, no appearance of change was visible.

After leaving the station, Mr. Fogg gave Passepartout instructions
to purchase some provisions, and quietly went to his domicile.

He bore his misfortune with his habitual tranquillity.
Ruined! And by the blundering of the detective! After having
steadily traversed that long journey, overcome a hundred obstacles,
braved many dangers, and still found time to do some good on his way,
to fail near the goal by a sudden event which he could not have foreseen,
and against which he was unarmed; it was terrible! But a few pounds were
left of the large sum he had carried with him. There only remained
of his fortune the twenty thousand pounds deposited at Barings,
and this amount he owed to his friends of the Reform Club.
So great had been the expense of his tour that, even had he won,
it would not have enriched him; and it is probable that he had not sought
to enrich himself, being a man who rather laid wagers for honour's sake
than for the stake proposed. But this wager totally ruined him.

Mr. Fogg's course, however, was fully decided upon; he knew what remained
for him to do.

A room in the house in Saville Row was set apart for Aouda,
who was overwhelmed with grief at her protector's misfortune.
From the words which Mr. Fogg dropped, she saw that he was
meditating some serious project.

Knowing that Englishmen governed by a fixed idea sometimes resort
to the desperate expedient of suicide, Passepartout kept a narrow watch
upon his master, though he carefully concealed the appearance of so doing.

First of all, the worthy fellow had gone up to his room, and had extinguished
the gas burner, which had been burning for eighty days. He had found
in the letter-box a bill from the gas company, and he thought it more
than time to put a stop to this expense, which he had been doomed to bear.

The night passed. Mr. Fogg went to bed, but did he sleep?
Aouda did not once close her eyes. Passepartout watched
all night, like a faithful dog, at his master's door.

Mr. Fogg called him in the morning, and told him to get
Aouda's breakfast, and a cup of tea and a chop for himself.
He desired Aouda to excuse him from breakfast and dinner,
as his time would be absorbed all day in putting his affairs to rights.
In the evening he would ask permission to have a few moment's
conversation with the young lady.

Passepartout, having received his orders, had nothing to do but obey them.
He looked at his imperturbable master, and could scarcely bring his mind
to leave him. His heart was full, and his conscience tortured by remorse;
for he accused himself more bitterly than ever of being the cause
of the irretrievable disaster. Yes! if he had warned Mr. Fogg,
and had betrayed Fix's projects to him, his master would certainly
not have given the detective passage to Liverpool, and then--

Passepartout could hold in no longer.

"My master! Mr. Fogg!" he cried, "why do you not curse me?
It was my fault that--"

"I blame no one," returned Phileas Fogg, with perfect calmness. "Go!"

Passepartout left the room, and went to find Aouda,
to whom he delivered his master's message.

"Madam," he added, "I can do nothing myself--nothing!
I have no influence over my master; but you, perhaps--"

"What influence could I have?" replied Aouda. "Mr. Fogg
is influenced by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude
to him is overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend,
he must not be left alone an instant! You say he is going to
speak with me this evening?"

"Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in England."

"We shall see," replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive.

Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if uninhabited,
and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in that house,
did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck half-past eleven.

Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer expected
him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on the
evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine),
he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should go to
his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists already
had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out
and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their credit.

Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so
he remained at home. He shut himself up in his room,
and busied himself putting his affairs in order.
Passepartout continually ascended and descended the stairs.
The hours were long for him. He listened at his master's door,
and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do,
and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment.
Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all
the world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty
in tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout. . . .
This thought haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly.

Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda's door,
went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a corner,
and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still pensive.

About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know
if Aouda would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself
alone with her.

Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace,
opposite Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face.
Fogg returned was exactly the Fogg who had gone away;
there was the same calm, the same impassibility.

He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on Aouda,
"Madam," said he, "will you pardon me for bringing you to England?"

"I, Mr. Fogg!" replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart.

"Please let me finish," returned Mr. Fogg. "When I decided to
bring you far away from the country which was so unsafe for you,
I was rich, and counted on putting a portion of my fortune
at your disposal; then your existence would have been free and happy.
But now I am ruined."

"I know it, Mr. Fogg," replied Aouda; "and I ask you in my turn,
will you forgive me for having followed you, and--who knows?--for having,
perhaps, delayed you, and thus contributed to your ruin?"

"Madam, you could not remain in India, and your safety could
only be assured by bringing you to such a distance that your
persecutors could not take you."

"So, Mr. Fogg," resumed Aouda, "not content with rescuing me
from a terrible death, you thought yourself bound to secure
my comfort in a foreign land?"

"Yes, madam; but circumstances have been against me.
Still, I beg to place the little I have left at your service."

"But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?"

"As for me, madam," replied the gentleman, coldly, "I have need of nothing."

"But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?"

"As I am in the habit of doing."

"At least," said Aouda, "want should not overtake a man like you.
Your friends--"

"I have no friends, madam."

"Your relatives--"

"I have no longer any relatives."

"I pity you, then, Mr. Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing,
with no heart to which to confide your griefs. They say,
though, that misery itself, shared by two sympathetic souls,
may be borne with patience."

"They say so, madam."

"Mr. Fogg," said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, "do you wish
at once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?"

Mr. Fogg, at this, rose in his turn. There was an unwonted
light in his eyes, and a slight trembling of his lips.
Aouda looked into his face. The sincerity, rectitude, firmness,
and sweetness of this soft glance of a noble woman, who could dare
all to save him to whom she owed all, at first astonished,
then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an instant,
as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again,
"I love you!" he said, simply. "Yes, by all that is holiest,
I love you, and I am entirely yours!"

"Ah!" cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart.

Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr. Fogg
still held Aouda's hand in his own; Passepartout understood,
and his big, round face became as radiant as the tropical sun
at its zenith.

Mr. Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify
the Reverend Samuel Wilson, of Marylebone parish, that evening.

Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said,
"Never too late."

It was five minutes past eight.

"Will it be for to-morrow, Monday?"

"For to-morrow, Monday," said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda.

"Yes; for to-morrow, Monday," she replied.

Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.

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