本章证明路路通终于找到了理想的工作
“说真的，”路路通有点慌乱地自言自语，“我在杜莎夫人蜡像馆里见到的那些人，可都跟我的新主人一样活灵活现呢！”
杜莎夫人蜡像馆里的“那些人”，得说明一下，都是用蜡做的，在伦敦参观的人很多；他们缺少的只是说话，否则就跟真人一模一样了。
在跟福格先生简短交谈的时候，路路通一直在仔细地打量他。他看起来大约四十岁，相貌英俊，五官端正，身材高大匀称；头发和络腮胡颜色很淡，额头饱满没有皱纹，脸色相当苍白，牙齿非常漂亮。他的面容具有面相学家所说的“静止中的活跃”的最高特质——这是那些多行动、少说话的人所特有的品质。福格先生安详而沉着，目光清澈，似乎就是那种沉静英国人的完美典型，安吉莉卡·考夫曼曾在画布上如此巧妙地描绘过这种气质。在日常生活中观察他给人的印象，就会觉得他心态极其平衡，就像勒鲁瓦的精密计时器一样精确无误。事实上，斐利亚·福格就是精确的化身，这一点甚至从他的手和脚的动作上就能看出来；因为对于人类，就如同对于动物一样，四肢本身也能表达出情感。
他非常精确，因此从不匆忙，总是有备无患，就连步子和动作都很节省。他从来不多走一步，总是走最短的路线到目的地去；他没有任何多余的手势，也从来没有人见过他激动或不安。他是世界上最审慎的人，却总能准时到达目的地。
他独自生活，可以说是处于一切社交关系之外；而且因为他知道在这个世界上必须考虑到摩擦，而摩擦会延缓速度，所以他从来不去摩擦任何人。
至于路路通，他可是个地地道道的巴黎人。自从离开自己的国家来到英国当用人以来，他一直在寻找一个合他心意的男主人，但始终没有找到。路路通绝非莫里哀笔下那种厚颜无耻、目光大胆、鼻子朝天的蠢材；他是个老实人，面容讨喜，嘴唇微微突出，举止温和，乐于助人，有一个圆圆的好脑袋——就像人们喜欢在朋友肩膀上看到的那种。他的眼睛是蓝色的，面色红润，身材几乎算得上魁梧匀称，肌肉结实，年轻时的锻炼使他的体力得到了充分的发展。他棕色的头发有点蓬乱；因为，虽说古代雕刻家据说知道十八种梳理密涅瓦头发的方法，但路路通对于打理自己的头发只熟悉一种：用一把大齿梳子梳三下，就理好了。
要预言路路通活泼的天性与福格先生能否合得来，那是轻率的。没人能断定这个新仆人是否能做到主人所要求的绝对有条不紊；只有经验才能解答这个问题。路路通早年有点像流浪汉，现在渴望安定的生活；但迄今为止，尽管他已经在十个英国家庭里服侍过，却始终未能找到归宿。他在哪家都住不长久；他懊恼地发现，他的那些主人总是任性而毫无规律，不是满世界乱跑，就是四处寻找冒险。他的上一个主人是年轻的国会议员朗斯费里勋爵，此人常在草市街的酒馆里过夜，清晨往往是由警察用肩膀扛着送回家的。路路通出于对服侍的绅士的尊重，曾对这种行为小心翼翼地提出过温和的劝诫；但对方反应不佳，于是他辞职了。听说斐利亚·福格先生正在找一个仆人，而且他的生活一成不变地有规律，既不出门旅行，也不在外过夜，路路通便确信这就是自己一直寻找的地方。他前去应聘，然后就像我们看到的，被录取了。
那么，到十一点半的时候，路路通就独自待在萨维尔街的这所房子里了。他毫不拖延地开始检查整栋房子，从地窖到阁楼都搜了个遍。这所宅邸如此整洁、井然有序、庄严朴素，让他非常满意；在他看来，这所房子就像一只蜗牛的壳，靠煤气来照明和取暖，而煤气就足以同时满足这两个目的。当路路通来到二楼时，他立刻认出了自己将要居住的房间，并且对房间非常满意。电铃和传声管使这里可以与楼下各层联络；壁炉台上放着一个电钟，与福格先生卧室里的那个一模一样，两个钟在同一瞬间敲打出相同的秒数。“很好，这就行了，”路路通自言自语道。
他忽然看到钟上方挂着一张卡片，仔细一看，原来是这所房子每天作息时间表。上面列明了仆人需要做的一切事项，从早上八点——斐利亚·福格准时起床的时刻——到十一点半他离开家去改良俱乐部——所有服务细节：八点二十三分送茶和烤面包，九点三十七分送刮胡子用的热水，九点四十分梳洗打扮，一切都安排得井井有条，十一点半开始到午夜十二点这段时间内要做的所有事情也都预先考虑到了，那时这位有条不紊的绅士就要就寝了。
福格先生的衣橱里衣物充裕，且品味极佳。每一条裤子、每一件外套和背心都编了号码，标明它们轮流拿出来穿着的年、月、日时令；主人鞋子也采用了同样的系统。总之，萨维尔街的这所房子，在声名显赫却生活放荡的谢里登住在这里时，必定曾是一座混乱和动荡的殿堂，如今却成了惬意、舒适和条理化的典范。这里没有书房，也没有书籍，那些东西对福格先生来说是毫无用处的；因为改良俱乐部有两个图书馆，一个收藏文学类图书，另一个收藏法律和政治类图书，都供他使用。他的卧室里有一个中等大小的保险柜，构造既能防火也能防盗；但路路通在房里找不到任何武器或打猎用具；一切都显示出主人最宁静、最平和的习性。
从上到下仔细打量完这栋房子后，他搓了搓手，脸上绽开一个灿烂的笑容，然后快活地说道：“这正是我想要的！啊，福格先生和我，我们肯定会相处融洽的！多么有条理、有规律的一位绅士啊！简直是一台机器；嗯，我不介意侍候一台机器。”
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL
“Faith,” muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, “I’ve seen people at
Madame Tussaud’s as lively as my new master!”
Madame Tussaud’s “people,” let it be said, are of wax, and are much
visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.
During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been
carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of
age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his
hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his
face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in
the highest degree what physiognomists call “repose in action,” a
quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a
clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure
which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen
in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being
perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer.
Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed
even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well
as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions.
He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was
economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step
too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he
made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or
agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always
reached his destination at the exact moment.
He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and
as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and
that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.
As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had
abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he
had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was
by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Molière with a bold
gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a
pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable,
with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a
friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost
portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully
developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was
somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have
known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva’s tresses, Passepartout was
familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a
large-tooth comb completed his toilet.
It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s lively nature would
agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant
would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required;
experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort
of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far
he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English
houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he
found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly
running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last
master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his
nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the
morning on policemen’s shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting
the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such
conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr.
Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of
unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home
overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He
presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen.
At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the
house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring
it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion
pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lighted and warmed
by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout
reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to
inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and
speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on
the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg’s
bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. “That’s
good, that’ll do,” said Passepartout to himself.
He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon
inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house.
It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the
morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past
eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club—all the details of
service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the
shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at
twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that
was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at
which the methodical gentleman retired.
Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair
of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year
and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and
the same system was applied to the master’s shoes. In short, the house
in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and
unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness,
comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there
books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the
Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law
and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his
bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but
Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere;
everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.
Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a
broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, “This is
just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What
a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind
serving a machine.”
