Вокруг света за 80 дней / Around the World in Eighty Days. Жюль Верн

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style="font-size:15px;">      “I called you twice,” observed his master.

      “But it is not midnight,” responded the other.

      “I know it; I don’t blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes.”

      A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout’s round face. He did not comprehend his master.

      “Monsieur will leave home?”

      “Yes,” returned Phileas Fogg. “We will go round the world.”

      Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands. He was stupefied.

      “Round the world!” he murmured.

      “In eighty days,” responded Mr. Fogg. “So no time to lose.”

      “But the baggage?” gasped Passepartout.

      “We’ll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag[42], with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We’ll buy our clothes on the way.”

      Passepartout tried to reply, but was silent. He went out, mounted to his own room, and fell into a chair. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then?

      Eight o’clock. Passepartout packed the carpet-bag, carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was quite ready. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped into it a roll of Bank of England notes.

      “Didn’t you forget anything?” asked he.

      “Nothing, monsieur.”

      “Good! Take this carpet-bag. There are twenty thousand pounds in it.”

      They then descended, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross[43]. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout followed his master, who was ready to enter the station, when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, approached, and mournfully asked for alms.

      Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas and handed them to the beggar,

      “Here, my good woman. I’m glad that I met you.”

      Passepartout saw it; his master’s action touched his susceptible heart. Mr. Fogg bought two first-class tickets for Paris, and then perceived his five friends of the Reform.

      “Well, gentlemen,” said he, “I go, you see; and you will be able to examine my passport when I get back.”

      “Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg,” said Ralph politely. “We will trust your word.”

      “You do not forget when you are in London again?” asked Stuart.

      “In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen.”

      Phileas Fogg and his servant sat in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine. Five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station.

      Chapter V

      Phileas Fogg did not suspect that his departure from London created a lively sensation at the West End[44]. The news of the bet soon got into the papers throughout England. They talked, disputed, argued about his “tour of the world”. Many people shook their heads and declared against him. It was absurd, impossible – in this minimum of time! People in general thought him a lunatic, and blamed his Reform Club friends for this wager.

      A few readers of the Daily Telegraph even dared to say, “Why not, after all? Stranger things happened.” Everybody knows that to bet is in the English temperament. Not only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made wagers for or against Phileas Fogg. He became a race-horse. But everybody was against Fogg, and the bets stood a hundred and fifty and two hundred to one.

      A week after his departure an incident occurred. The commissioner of police was in his office at nine o’clock one evening, when the following telegraphic dispatch arrived:

      “Suez to London.

      Rowan, Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard[45]:

      I found the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send with out delay warrant of arrest[46] to Bombay.

      Fix, Detective”.

      The effect of this dispatch was instantaneous. The polished gentleman disappeared to give place to the bank robber. The mysterious habits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary ways, his sudden departure.

      Chapter VI

      The circumstances were as follows. The steamer Mongolia[47] plied regularly between Brindisi and Bombay via the Suez Canal, and was one of the fastest steamers.

      Two men walked up and down the wharves, among the crowd of natives and strangers. One was the British consul at Suez. The other was a small personage, with a nervous, intelligent face and bright eyes. He was nervously paced up and down, and was unable to stand still for a moment. This was Fix, one of the detectives. Fix came from to catch the bank robber. It was his task to watch every passenger who arrived at Suez, and to follow up all suspicious characters. The detective hoped to obtain the splendid reward, and awaited with a feverish impatience, easy to understand, the arrival of the steamer Mongolia.

      “So you say, consul,” said he, “that this steamer comes directly from Brindisi?”

      “Directly from Brindisi. Have patience, Mr. Fix; it will not be late. But really, I don’t see how, from the description you have, you will be able to recognise your man, even if he is on board the Mongolia.”

      “A man rather feels the presence of these fellows, consul, than recognises them. You must have a scent for them – hearing, seeing, and smelling. If my thief is on board, he’ll not slip through my fingers.”

      “I hope so, Mr. Fix, for it was a heavy robbery.”

      “A magnificent robbery, consul; fifty-five thousand pounds!”

      “Mr. Fix,” said the consul, “I hope you’ll succeed; but what about your description?”

      “Consul,” remarked the detective, dogmatically, “great robbers always resemble honest folks. To unmask honest countenances, it’s a difficult task, I admit.”

      Soon Mongolia appeared. It brought many passengers, some of whom remained on deck. Fix carefully examined each face. Presently one of the passengers came up to him and politely asked about the English consulate. Fix instinctively took the passport, and with a rapid glance read the description of its bearer. An involuntary motion of surprise nearly escaped him, for the description in the passport was identical with that of the bank robber from Scotland Yard.

      “Is this your passport?” asked he.

      “No,

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