Chapter 1.
Phileas Fogg Finds a New Butler Mr. Phileas Fogg lived at No.
7 Seville Row in London, England.
Long ago, a famous poet had lived in his house.
Some people said he looked like the poet, but they weren't related.
Phileas was a tall man with dark hair and a serious face.
On his last birthday he had turned forty and his hair and whiskers had started to turn grey.
Other than what he looked like and the fact that he was wealthy, no one knew much about Phileas Fogg.
With the exception of his butler, Phileas lived alone in the house on Seville Row.
When he wasn't at home, he could usually be found at the reform club.
This was where he ate most of his meals.
With the master of the house away for so much of the day.
The butler did not have a long list of everyday duties, but his small list was important.
Phileas Fogg was very particular about how he wanted things done.
They had to be done exactly right.
In fact, just this morning he had fired his butler, James Forster, for bringing him shaving water that was two degrees too cold.
Now, Phileas was sitting in an armchair in his living room.
He was waiting for his new butler to arrive.
There was a strange clock ringing.
In a corner of the room.
It showed the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months and the years.
Phileas timed his life by this clock.
It was quite a sight when all the hands on the clock moved at once.
It was just a few minutes before 11.30 yet.
Precisely 11.30, Phileas would leave for the Reform Club.
There was a knock at the door, and James stepped inside.
He had just finished packing and was on his way out the door.
He said, The new butler, sir.
Then he turned on his heel and left the room.
A young man of about thirty stepped forward and bowed.
My name is Jean Passapattu, he said.
What time is it?
Phileas asked.
Passepartout pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it carefully.
Twenty-two minutes after eleven, sir, he said.
Your watch is slow, Phileas replied.
Pardon me, monsieur, but that is impossible.
Your watch is four minutes too slow, Phileas repeated.
Very well, from this very moment, 11.26 on Wednesday, October 2nd, 1867, you are now my butler.
With that said, Phileas Fogg got up from his chair, put on his hat, and left.
The sound of the closing door echoed through the empty halls.
Faith!
Passepartout whispered to himself.
I've seen figures at Madame Tussauds' wax museum that are livelier than my new boss.
Passepartout, had been searching for the perfect place to work since leaving Paris five years earlier.
When he learned that Phileas Fogg was looking for a new butler, he jumped at the chance to work for him.
He knew Mr Fogg was a man who liked things a certain way and Passepartout was looking for a good, solid routine.
In fact, what Passepartout wanted above all else was an orderly life.
As he stepped out of the sitting room and into the hallway, he thought about what had just happened.
It would be hard to know how he and Mr. Fogg would get along from that short meeting.
Will I be able to do this job, just as he wants me to?
Passapartoo wondered.
Passapartoo set off to explore the house from top to bottom.
What he found was a house that was so clean it shined.
Everything had a place.
While looking around on the second floor, he came upon his own bedroom.
There were electric bells and long speaking tubes to help him keep in touch with the lower floors.
And there was an electric clock on the mantelpiece.
It was just like the one in Mr. Fogg's living room.
Even kept the exact same time.
This will do, Passepartout said.
This will do.
He glanced over at the clock and noticed a piece of paper hanging on the wall.
It was the schedule for all of his chores.
Perfect, Passepartout thought.
Now I can learn the routine as well.
The entire day was planned.
Phileas Fogg woke up at precisely eight o'clock in the morning.
Breakfast was to be brought to him exactly twenty-three minutes later.
At 9.37 he liked to shave.
Passepartout knew what he should be doing every second of every day.
In fact, there was a system for everything.
Even Mr Fogg's clothes and shoes were numbered according to when they were worn, whether summer or fall.
Having seen the house from top to bottom, Passepartout said aloud.
We'll get along just fine, Mr Fog and I.
This is just what I wanted.
