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- Author: Jules Verne
- Performer: 014036711X
Book online «Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne (top novels to read TXT) 📖». Author Jules Verne
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 tomorrow, Monday?”
“For tomorrow, Monday,” said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda.
“Yes; for tomorrow, Monday,” she replied.
Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG’S NAME IS ONCE MORE AT A PREMIUM ON ‘CHANGE
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 is 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 tomorrow.”
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 tomorrow.”
“Why so?”
“Because tomorrow—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
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