Chapter: The China, in leaving, seemed to have carried off Phileas Fogg's last
hope.  None of the other steamers were able to serve his projects.  The
Pereire, of the French Transatlantic Company, whose admirable steamers
are equal to any in speed and comfort, did not leave until the 14th;
the Hamburg boats did not go directly to Liverpool or London, but to
Havre; and the additional trip from Havre to Southampton would render
Phileas Fogg's last efforts of no avail.  The Inman steamer did not
depart till the next day, and could not cross the Atlantic in time to
save the wager.

Mr. Fogg learned all this in consulting his Bradshaw, which gave him
the daily movements of the trans-Atlantic steamers.

Passepartout was crushed; it overwhelmed him to lose the boat by
three-quarters of an hour.  It was his fault, for, instead of helping
his master, he had not ceased putting obstacles in his path!  And when
he recalled all the incidents of the tour, when he counted up the sums
expended in pure loss and on his own account, when he thought that the
immense stake, added to the heavy charges of this useless journey,
would completely ruin Mr. Fogg, he overwhelmed himself with bitter
self-accusations.  Mr. Fogg, however, did not reproach him; and, on
leaving the Cunard pier, only said: "We will consult about what is best
to-morrow.  Come."

The party crossed the Hudson in the Jersey City ferryboat, and drove in
a carriage to the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Broadway.  Rooms were engaged,
and the night passed, briefly to Phileas Fogg, who slept profoundly,
but very long to Aouda and the others, whose agitation did not permit
them to rest.

The next day was the 12th of December.  From seven in the morning of
the 12th to a quarter before nine in the evening of the 21st there were
nine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes.  If Phileas Fogg had
left in the China, one of the fastest steamers on the Atlantic, he
would have reached Liverpool, and then London, within the period agreed
upon.

Mr. Fogg left the hotel alone, after giving Passepartout instructions
to await his return, and inform Aouda to be ready at an instant's
notice.  He proceeded to the banks of the Hudson, and looked about
among the vessels moored or anchored in the river, for any that were
about to depart.  Several had departure signals, and were preparing to
put to sea at morning tide; for in this immense and admirable port
there is not one day in a hundred that vessels do not set out for every
quarter of the globe.  But they were mostly sailing vessels, of which,
of course, Phileas Fogg could make no use.

He seemed about to give up all hope, when he espied, anchored at the
Battery, a cable's length off at most, a trading vessel, with a screw,
well-shaped, whose funnel, puffing a cloud of smoke, indicated that she
was getting ready for departure.

Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got into it, and soon found himself on
board the Henrietta, iron-hulled, wood-built above.  He ascended to the
deck, and asked for the captain, who forthwith presented himself.  He
was a man of fifty, a sort of sea-wolf, with big eyes, a complexion of
oxidised copper, red hair and thick neck, and a growling voice.

"The captain?" asked Mr. Fogg.

"I am the captain."

"I am Phileas Fogg, of London."

"And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff."

"You are going to put to sea?"

"In an hour."

"You are bound for--"

"Bordeaux."

"And your cargo?"

"No freight.  Going in ballast."

"Have you any passengers?"

"No passengers.  Never have passengers.  Too much in the way."

"Is your vessel a swift one?"

"Between eleven and twelve knots.  The Henrietta, well known."

"Will you carry me and three other persons to Liverpool?"

"To Liverpool?  Why not to China?"

"I said Liverpool."

"No!"

"No?"

"No.  I am setting out for Bordeaux, and shall go to Bordeaux."

"Money is no object?"

"None."

The captain spoke in a tone which did not admit of a reply.

"But the owners of the Henrietta--" resumed Phileas Fogg.

"The owners are myself," replied the captain.  "The vessel belongs to
me."

"I will freight it for you."

"No."

"I will buy it of you."

"No."

Phileas Fogg did not betray the least disappointment; but the situation
was a grave one.  It was not at New York as at Hong Kong, nor with the
captain of the Henrietta as with the captain of the Tankadere.  Up to
this time money had smoothed away every obstacle.  Now money failed.

Still, some means must be found to cross the Atlantic on a boat, unless
by balloon--which would have been venturesome, besides not being
capable of being put in practice.  It seemed that Phileas Fogg had an
idea, for he said to the captain, "Well, will you carry me to Bordeaux?"

"No, not if you paid me two hundred dollars."

"I offer you two thousand."

"Apiece?"

"Apiece."

"And there are four of you?"

"Four."

Captain Speedy began to scratch his head.  There were eight thousand
dollars to gain, without changing his route; for which it was well
worth conquering the repugnance he had for all kinds of passengers.
Besides, passengers at two thousand dollars are no longer passengers,
but valuable merchandise.  "I start at nine o'clock," said Captain
Speedy, simply.  "Are you and your party ready?"

"We will be on board at nine o'clock," replied, no less simply, Mr.
Fogg.

It was half-past eight.  To disembark from the Henrietta, jump into a
hack, hurry to the St. Nicholas, and return with Aouda, Passepartout,
and even the inseparable Fix was the work of a brief time, and was
performed by Mr. Fogg with the coolness which never abandoned him.
They were on board when the Henrietta made ready to weigh anchor.

When Passepartout heard what this last voyage was going to cost, he
uttered a prolonged "Oh!" which extended throughout his vocal gamut.

As for Fix, he said to himself that the Bank of England would certainly
not come out of this affair well indemnified.  When they reached
England, even if Mr. Fogg did not throw some handfuls of bank-bills
into the sea, more than seven thousand pounds would have been spent!




An hour after, the Henrietta passed the lighthouse which marks the
entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea.
During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and
directed her course rapidly eastward.

At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the
vessel's position.  It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy.
Not the least in the world.  It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire.  As for
Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was
uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and
excessive.

What had happened was very simple.  Phileas Fogg wished to go to
Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there.  Then Phileas
Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he
had been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the
sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on
the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body.  This was
why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the
captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the Henrietta
was directing her course towards Liverpool.  It was very clear, to see
Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor.

How the adventure ended will be seen anon.  Aouda was anxious, though
she said nothing.  As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg's manoeuvre
simply glorious.  The captain had said "between eleven and twelve
knots," and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction.

If, then--for there were "ifs" still--the sea did not become too
boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident
happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta might cross the
three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days,
between the 12th and the 21st of December.  It is true that, once
arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta, added to that of the Bank
of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he
imagined or could desire.

During the first days, they went along smoothly enough.  The sea was
not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east,
the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves
like a real trans-Atlantic steamer.

Passepartout was delighted.  His master's last exploit, the
consequences of which he ignored, enchanted him.  Never had the crew
seen so jolly and dexterous a fellow.  He formed warm friendships with
the sailors, and amazed them with his acrobatic feats.  He thought they
managed the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like
heroes.  His loquacious good-humour infected everyone.  He had
forgotten the past, its vexations and delays.  He only thought of the
end, so nearly accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with
impatience, as if heated by the furnaces of the Henrietta.  Often,
also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a
keen, distrustful eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old
intimacy no longer existed.

Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on.
The conquest of the Henrietta, the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing
the boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him.  He did not
know what to think.  For, after all, a man who began by stealing
fifty-five thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was
not unnaturally inclined to conclude that the Henrietta under Fogg's
command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the
world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself
in safety.  The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the
detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair.

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.  Sometimes 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 been 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!"




Phileas Fogg was in prison.  He had been shut up in the Custom House,
and he was to be 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!




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.




It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion
when it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand,
had been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh.  Three
days before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being
desperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable
gentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the
world.

The papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had
laid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic;
the "Phileas Fogg bonds" again became negotiable, and many new wagers
were made.  Phileas Fogg's name was once more at a premium on 'Change.

His five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state
of feverish suspense.  Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten,
reappear before their eyes!  Where was he at this moment?  The 17th of
December, the day of James Strand's arrest, was the seventy-sixth since
Phileas Fogg's departure, and no news of him had been received.  Was he
dead?  Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey
along the route agreed upon?  And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st
of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold
of the Reform Club saloon?

The anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be
described.  Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas
Fogg.  Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning
and evening.  No news.  The police were ignorant what had become of the
detective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent.
Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value.  Phileas Fogg, like
a racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point.  The bonds were
quoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at
five; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour.

A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets
on Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently
established around the Reform Club.  Circulation was impeded, and
everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going
on.  The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as
the hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to
its highest pitch.

The five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the
club.  John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart,
the engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and
Thomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously.

When the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got
up, saying, "Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between
Mr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired."

"What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?"  asked Thomas
Flanagan.

"At twenty-three minutes past seven," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and the
next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve."

"Well, gentlemen," resumed Andrew Stuart, "if Phileas Fogg had come in
the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time.  We can,
therefore, regard the bet as won."

"Wait; don't let us be too hasty," replied Samuel Fallentin.  "You know
that Mr. Fogg is very eccentric.  His punctuality is well known; he
never arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if
he appeared before us at the last minute."

"Why," said Andrew Stuart nervously, "if I should see him, I should not
believe it was he."

"The fact is," resumed Thomas Flanagan, "Mr. Fogg's project was
absurdly foolish.  Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the
delays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three
days would be fatal to his tour."

"Observe, too," added John Sullivan, "that we have received no
intelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along his
route."

"He has lost, gentleman," said Andrew Stuart, "he has a hundred times
lost!  You know, besides, that the China the only steamer he could have
taken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday.  I have seen
a list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among
them.  Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can scarcely
have reached America.  I think he will be at least twenty days
behind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand."

"It is clear," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and we have nothing to do but
to present Mr. Fogg's cheque at Barings to-morrow."

At this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes
to nine.

"Five minutes more," said Andrew Stuart.

The five gentlemen looked at each other.  Their anxiety was becoming
intense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr.
Fallentin's proposal of a rubber.

"I wouldn't give up my four thousand of the bet," said Andrew Stuart,
as he took his seat, "for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine."

The clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine.

The players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the
clock.  Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed
so long to them!

"Seventeen minutes to nine," said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards
which Ralph handed to him.

Then there was a moment of silence.  The great saloon was perfectly
quiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and
then a shrill cry.  The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player
eagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity.

"Sixteen minutes to nine!" said John Sullivan, in a voice which
betrayed his emotion.

One minute more, and the wager would be won.  Andrew Stuart and his
partners suspended their game.  They left their cards, and counted the
seconds.

At the fortieth second, nothing.  At the fiftieth, still nothing.

At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by
applause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls.

The players rose from their seats.

At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the
pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared,
followed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club
doors, and in his calm voice, said, "Here I am, gentlemen!"




IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR
AROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS


Yes; Phileas Fogg in person.

The reader will remember that at five minutes past eight in the
evening--about five and twenty hours after the arrival of the
travellers in London--Passepartout had been sent by his master to
engage the services of the Reverend Samuel Wilson in a certain marriage
ceremony, which was to take place the next day.

Passepartout went on his errand enchanted.  He soon reached the
clergyman's house, but found him not at home.  Passepartout waited a
good twenty minutes, and when he left the reverend gentleman, it was
thirty-five minutes past eight.  But in what a state he was!  With his
hair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never
man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the
sidewalk like a waterspout.

In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into
Mr. Fogg's room.

He could not speak.

"What is the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg.

"My master!" gasped Passepartout--"marriage--impossible--"

"Impossible?"

"Impossible--for to-morrow."

"Why so?"

"Because to-morrow--is Sunday!"

"Monday," replied Mr. Fogg.

"No--to-day is Saturday."

"Saturday?  Impossible!"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" cried Passepartout.  "You have made a mistake of
one day!  We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time; but there are
only ten minutes left!"

Passepartout had seized his master by the collar, and was dragging him
along with irresistible force.

Phileas Fogg, thus kidnapped, without having time to think, left his
house, jumped into a cab, promised a hundred pounds to the cabman, and,
having run over two dogs and overturned five carriages, reached the
Reform Club.

The clock indicated a quarter before nine when he appeared in the great
saloon.

Phileas Fogg had accomplished the journey round the world in eighty
days!

Phileas Fogg had won his wager of twenty thousand pounds!

How was it that a man so exact and fastidious could have made this
error of a day?  How came he to think that he had arrived in London on
Saturday, the twenty-first day of December, when it was really Friday,
the twentieth, the seventy-ninth day only from his departure?

The cause of the error is very simple.

Phileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey,
and this merely because he had travelled constantly eastward; he would,
on the contrary, have lost a day had he gone in the opposite direction,
that is, westward.

In journeying eastward he had gone towards the sun, and the days
therefore diminished for him as many times four minutes as he crossed
degrees in this direction.  There are three hundred and sixty degrees
on the circumference of the earth; and these three hundred and sixty
degrees, multiplied by four minutes, gives precisely twenty-four
hours--that is, the day unconsciously gained.  In other words, while
Phileas Fogg, going eastward, saw the sun pass the meridian eighty
times, his friends in London only saw it pass the meridian seventy-nine
times.  This is why they awaited him at the Reform Club on Saturday,
and not Sunday, as Mr. Fogg thought.

And Passepartout's famous family watch, which had always kept London
time, would have betrayed this fact, if it had marked the days as well
as the hours and the minutes!

Phileas Fogg, then, had won the twenty thousand pounds; but, as he had
spent nearly nineteen thousand on the way, the pecuniary gain was
small.  His object was, however, to be victorious, and not to win
money.  He divided the one thousand pounds that remained between
Passepartout and the unfortunate Fix, against whom he cherished no
grudge.  He deducted, however, from Passepartout's share the cost of
the gas which had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty
hours, for the sake of regularity.

That evening, Mr. Fogg, as tranquil and phlegmatic as ever, said to
Aouda: "Is our marriage still agreeable to you?"

"Mr. Fogg," replied she, "it is for me to ask that question.  You were
ruined, but now you are rich again."

"Pardon me, madam; my fortune belongs to you.  If you had not suggested
our marriage, my servant would not have gone to the Reverend Samuel
Wilson's, I should not have been apprised of my error, and--"

"Dear Mr. Fogg!" said the young woman.

"Dear Aouda!" replied Phileas Fogg.

It need not be said that the marriage took place forty-eight hours
after, and that Passepartout, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride
away.  Had he not saved her, and was he not entitled to this honour?

The next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously
at his master's door.  Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, "What's the
matter, Passepartout?"

"What is it, sir?  Why, I've just this instant found out--"

"What?"

"That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight
days."

"No doubt," returned Mr. Fogg, "by not crossing India.  But if I had
not crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have
been my wife, and--"

Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door.

Phileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the
world in eighty days.  To do this he had employed every means of
conveyance--steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading-vessels,
sledges, elephants.  The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed
all his marvellous qualities of coolness and exactitude.  But what
then?  What had he really gained by all this trouble?  What had he
brought back from this long and weary journey?

Nothing, say you?  Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who,
strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men!

Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world?

 It seems as if all hope is lost, because none of the other steamers would be able to carry him to England on time. Passepartout blames himself, as usual, and is distraught. Mr. Fogg only says that they will talk about the best course of action tomorrow, and takes them to a hotel for the night. Mr. Fogg goes searching at the harbor and finds a trading ship, and gets on to speak to its captain. The captain, Captain Speedy, says the ship is on the way to Bordeaux, and absolutely refuses to carry them to Liverpool instead. No amount of money will convince him. Mr. Fogg changes his tone and instead asks him to carry them to Bordeaux for two thousand dollars apiece. That he agrees to, and Fogg goes back to the hotel to fetch the rest of his party. As the ship passes Long Island and enters the Atlantic Ocean, it is revealed that Fogg himself is now the captain, not Captain Speedy. As soon as Fogg got on board, he had bribed the crew to join his side, imprisoned Captain Speedy in his cabin, and set core for Liverpool. Fogg expertly manages the craft, indicating that he had been a sailor. The ship makes good progress, and Passepartout is delighted by his master's brilliance. Fix, however, is extremely perplexed by the entire situation, and assumes that Fogg is actually steering the ship towards some location where he, as a robber, will be safe. A storm strikes for two days, but Fogg continues to make headway. A wrench gets thrown in the plan, though, when the ship's engineer comes to tell Fogg that they do not have enough coal to make it all the way to Liverpool on full steam. Fogg tells them to keep the coal burning on full blast, and as it is about to run out, he calls Captain Speedy back up on deck and offers to buy the ship so that he can burn parts of it in order to keep the engines running. He offers him sixty thousand dollars, and Speedy accepts it since the ship is old and he will still have parts of it left after Fogg finishes with it. Fogg explains that he stands to lose twenty thousand pounds if he does not make it back to London in a few days' time. Speedy is still astonished, but pays Fogg the highest compliment he can give, saying that he has something of the Yankee about him. They burn enough of the wood from the ship to make it to Queenstown, Ireland, and from there they instead get on a train to Dublin, and in Dublin board rapid boats intended for mail that would get them to Liverpool twelve hours quicker than the steamer would. As soon as they make it there, however, Fix whips out the warrant he has been carrying and arrests Fogg in Queen Victoria's name. Fogg is locked up in the Custom House, imprisoned, and Passepartout and Aouda are shocked. Even though he has surely lost his wager, Fogg, sitting in the Custom House, remains calm. While sitting there, he realizes his watch is two hours too fast, and that if he got on an express-train immediately he could make it to London in time. Another hour and a half of waiting passes, and suddenly the door slams open and Fix, Passepartout, and Aouda rush towards him. Fix, out of breath, says that there was a misunderstanding, and the real robber was arrested three days ago. Fogg is free. The most recent express train has just left, but Fogg orders a special train with an offer to reward the engineer for taking him to London. The journey could have been completed in time on clear rails throughout, but forced delays mean that Fogg gets into the station in London having lost his wager by five minutes. Fogg returns quietly to his home, realizing that he is ruined. A room is made up for Aouda in his house as well. Passepartout keeps a close eye on his master to make sure he is okay, and wonders why Fogg does not curse him, since he caused so many delays along the way. He tells Aouda that she should talk to him, but she does not know what sort of influence she could have. Mr. Fogg remains at home all day for the first time, seeing no point in going to the Reform Club. That evening, he decides he must talk to Aouda, and finds himself alone with her. He asks her to pardon him for taking her to England, for when he rescued her he was rich and had a fortune that he could use to keep her safe and provide for her comfort. Aouda instead asks him to forgive her for following him and possibly delaying him. She asks him what he will do now, and begins to suggest that he seek help from his friends and family. Fogg calmly tells her that he has neither. All at once, Aouda rises and takes his hand, asking if he would like a kinswoman and a friend at the same time and if he will have her as his wife. Mr. Fogg stands as well, a certain light in his eyes, and declares that he loves Aouda and is entirely hers. They summon Passepartout, who is elated at the news, and he is sent to notify Reverend Samuel Wilson to arrange a wedding for the following day, Monday. Chapter XXXVI shifts to talking about the whole of London, who, after the arrest of the real bank robber, James Strand, realized that Fogg really was an honorable man pursuing a trip around the world, and everyone waits in suspense to see if he will make it. The members of the Reform Club are anxious, and at twenty minutes past eight on the designated evening, with only twenty minutes remaining in the wager, it appears he will not make it. They muse over whether or not he will appear, wondering why they never received any telegrams from him. Suddenly, though, at the very last second before the wager will be lost... Phileas Fogg bursts into the club, announcing that he has made it. The final chapter backtracks to explain how this happened. Passepartout had set out to speak to the reverend about the wedding at five minutes past eight. The reverend is not at home, so he waits to speak to him; after he eventually does, he rushes out of the house in a hurry and back to Fogg's home. He has realized that tomorrow is Sunday, not Monday, which means today is Saturday, the day Fogg must return to London by in order to win the bet. They had gained a day by crossing the International Date Line traveling constantly eastward. After realizing this, Fogg rushes to the Reform Club just in time to win. Fogg marries Aouda two days later, a rich man again. Passepartout remarks that with all this in mind, they could have actually made the tour of the world in seventy-eight days instead of eighty. Fogg agrees, but says it was worth the delays because it was how he had met and saved his new wife, Aouda, and this is what he has truly gained from the journey.

