Around the World in 80 Days: Jules Vernes reloaded E-Book

Francis London

• Herausgeber: via tolino media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Exciting, thrilling, and captivating! The world's most famous travel narrative is presented here in a new version dramatized by Francis London. Drawing inspiration from the original, the author transforms the somewhat ponderous, old-fashioned story into a modern novel filled with gripping action, expressive dialogue, and stirring adventures. "Around the World in Eighty Days" is the tale of three men and a woman brought together by an extraordinary fate on a breathtaking journey. It is a story of mistrust and betrayal, of hope in victory and despair. And ultimately, it is a story of triumph for the power of true love. The excellent revision of the text turns this book into a compelling narrative, written in a modern style and masterfully presented. Classic literature for the contemporary reader.

Leseprobe

© 2018 Francis London

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Frontispiece: Pixabay, Gerd Altmann

Chapter 1 Jean Passepartout 1

Chapter 2 Phileas Fogg’s home 9

Chapter 3 At The Reform Club 11

Chapter 4 The Departure from London 19

Chapter 5 The Security 23

Chapter 6 Mr. Fix 25

Chapter 7 In the Consul's Office 33

Chapter 8 On the Trail 39

Chapter 9 On board the Mongolia 49

Chapter 10 Danger in Bombay 55

Chapter 11 By Rail through India 61

Chapter 12 The Elephant Ride 73

Chapter 13 The Practice of Sati 85

Chapter 14 The Journey to Allahabad 95

Chapter 15 Accused in Calcutta 103

Chapter 16 On Board the Rangoon 111

Chapter 17 From Singapore to Hong Kong 119

Chapter 18 The Strom 125

Chapter 19 Opium 137

Chapter 20 The Encounter at the Harbor 145

Chapter 21 On Board the Tankadere 153

Chapter 22 Passepartout Awakens 161

Chapter 23 The Circus 169

Chapter 24 The Journey on the General Grant 175

Chapter 25 San Francisco 187

Chapter 26 The Central-Pacific-Railway 195

Chapter 27 In the Land of the Mormons 199

Chapter 28 The Bridge at Medicine Bow 205

Chapter 29 Sioux 215

Chapter 30 The Search for Passepartout 221

Chapter 31 Ice sailing 231

Chapter 32 In the Port of New York 239

Chapter 33 Across the Atlantic 245

Chapter 34 In Liverpool 253

Chapter 35 Back in Savile Row 257

Chapter 36 Saturday Evening at the Reform Club 263

Chapter 37 As It Happened 267

Around the World in Eighty Days

Chapter 1 Jean Passepartout

The childlike and benevolent expression on his face contrasted with the determination in his stride, the breadth of his shoulders, and the powerful tension in his body. This unusual interplay gave him the demeanor of a young boy who had bravely set out into the world.

He had wasted the previous years of his life, perhaps doubting his hopes at times, getting bewildered by the twists of fate with incredulous wonder, and always trying new paths. But now, he wanted to find a place where he could stay, a place where he would be valued and needed, a place that would give his life a calm and reliable center.

Jean Passepartout vigorously pushed his muscular body through the narrow streets of this noble London neighborhood, smiling to the left, smiling to the right, admiring the beauty of the houses and the orderliness of the street. His attire displayed a restrained elegance that conveyed his sense of belonging to the second tier of society—neat, clean, and ready to serve.

For five years, he had roamed this city, sometimes in the employ of one master, sometimes another, until finally, like the sun breaking through the fog, a unexpectedly good opportunity presented itself. Today, he hoped with resignation, he would finally be able to draw a line under the escapades that had given him an unsettled, eventful, unsatisfying, and often dangerous life since his time in Paris.

The streets were quiet on this Wednesday morning in early October 1872 in Burlington Gardens, London. Passepartout had avoided the bustling main streets, choosing his way through the side alleys because they seemed more secretive and peaceful. There, he wouldn't have to be on guard at every step, confronted with the hustle and bustle of life. He roughly knew the direction he had to take, and when he became unsure, the passersby willingly provided him with directions, as his pleasant, albeit somewhat naïve manner endeared him to the people around him.

He had inquired about the man he was on his way to meet. What he had learned about him had immediately captivated Passepartout. He was said to be a man of impeccable reputation, exceptionally calm, composed, and downright boring. In the mental images he had conjured up, he saw a portly Englishman, comfortable, cozy, and sluggish. And rich. Blessed with enough money, living in a respectable household, a diligent curator of an orderly life. That was precisely the goal of his desires.

Phileas Fogg, as he had been told, was a man of extremely regulated habits, never sleeping away from home, never traveling, and never absent for even a day. That was the kind of life Jean Passepartout now aspired to with all his heart.

He took the time to admire the magnificent facades of the houses as he passed by, convinced that this neighborhood would become his new home from today onward. He liked what he saw; he never wanted to leave this place!

A shudder ran through him as he briefly thought of the slums, the ugly belt that threatened to strangle the city, where violence and crime reigned. A chill ran down his spine at the thought of the waterfront districts near the docks, where the stranded people from all corners of the world had taken root. He thought of his own homeless past and tried to banish those unpleasant memories from his mind.

As he turned into the bright and friendly Savile Row, those gloomy images vanished on their own, and the tranquil order of the street lightened his heart. He made his way to the house with the number seven, the destination of his journey, where, he knew, Sir Phileas Fogg Working for Sir Phileas Fogg would finally mean peace for him. A regulated life. He imagined him to be a wonderful person. He had already taken this man into his heart before even laying eyes on him!

In stark contrast to the cheerful mood Jean Passepartout was in, the atmosphere in the house he was heading towards was much darker. It was the somber atmosphere of another man who already resided in that house. Much darker, because Mr. James Forster was aware of his transgression. Under the cultivated self-control, the emotional coldness and composure that a well-trained English butler could display to perfection, a disappointed heart was racing. He already had a clear and frightening idea of what awaited him now.

His shoes produced the obedient, willing sound on the polished parquet of the corridor, befitting a house like this. However, his soul shattered under the weight of the encounter that awaited him.

At no moment during all the years he had kept the household running, at no second when he had fed and lubricated the machinery perfectly, had his master ever uttered the smallest praise. The smooth functioning was simply taken for granted.

Only this morning, when he made that mistake, unforgivable to Phileas Fogg, did he receive feedback for the first time regarding the impression he had achieved with the efforts of his years of work. That feedback was an immediate, unconditional dismissal.

As if in a trance, he had taken care of the man who would succeed him and would now personally fulfill his final task.

He startled for a moment, realizing that he was frozen in front of the door to the drawing-room, his hand already on the handle. He briefly wondered how long he had been standing there. His gaze traveled back down the corridor to the figure he had just opened the front door for. This figure stood motionless, waiting, giving no indication if there was anything unusual about his behavior.

So, with a suppressed but prolonged sigh, James Forster turned back to his duty. He raised his hand and let the characteristic knock sound on the dark wood of the door, waited for the precisely prescribed time, before entering without expecting any reaction from the inside. The length and speed with which he placed his steps into the room were precisely tailored to his master's requirements, they were almost precisely measured and carried him precisely to the spot he knew his master had determined as the only correct one.

Deviating from the usual calm and clarity with which he had always entered the drawing-room, today he only perceived his master as if through a veil. Phileas Fogg sat rigid in his chair, expressing through his stiff posture that he intended to ignore the comfort this piece of furniture could offer him. He was annoyed, and he displayed it with his characteristic coldness and rejection.

Forster gazed at the figure he knew so well. His master was one of the most handsome gentlemen in London, with a symmetrical face, sporting the mustache and sideburns appropriate for his social class, a wonderfully flawless figure from head to toe.

But he also noticed that his master's expression exuded a petrified calmness, which held his dissatisfaction in check and had his emotions in the deadly grip from which they could never free themselves, not since he knew him, not since he worked for him.

Despite the dramatic nature of this situation, Forster did not perceive his master as threatening. Phileas Fogg was never threatening, only consistent and infallibly precise. Forster knew that for his master, events that occurred never demanded correction, only consequences.

Phileas Fogg's facial expression, his rigid posture showed him no hostility but denied him the attention that would have given James Forster the opportunity to bid a human farewell. With a toneless, tormented voice, Forster announced to this petrified semblance of a human being, "The new butler, sir."

He lingered for a tiny bit longer than necessary. There was no reaction from the man sitting upright in his chair, waiting, both feet precisely aligned, hands resting on his touching knees.

Almost no reaction.

No other reaction except for a brief, curt nod, signaling his request.

Forster allowed himself to express his emotions through a long, heavy breath.

As Jean Passepartout stood on the threshold of the front door, he watched the butler disappear from the dark corridor into the drawing-room. He waited for a moment, then decided it wouldn't be appropriate to wait outside the door when his future place of work was within this house. He entered and closed the entrance door behind him, with a swinging but respectful motion.

He was immediately taken by the extraordinary order that prevailed in this house. He walked through the polished hallway toward the open door of the drawing-room, where the butler had just disappeared. Something had seemed strange about this man to him; he appeared troubled, hesitated in front of the drawing-room door as if there were a monster lurking behind it, an encounter he wanted to avoid. A monster? In this impeccably tidy house?

Passepartout stopped at a respectful distance from the drawing-room door and listened for any indication. He strained his ears but couldn't hear a sound. He didn't have to wait long because shortly after, the door opened again, and the butler emerged back into the corridor.

Passepartout was surprised by the way the man almost sneaked out. At this sight, his hackles rose, his sixth sense for danger kicked in.

The butler had stopped a few steps away from him, trying to maintain an upright, dignified posture. But Passepartout, whose eventful past had taught him to carefully assess impressions from other people, noticed that the butler exuded an aura of a beaten dog. His shoulders slumped a little too far forward, his steps shuffled dejectedly across the parquet. Passepartout saw that the butler gestured to him with his hand, a gesture that Passepartout assumed meant for him to enter the drawing-room.

He hesitated for a moment, feeling confused and cautious. What awaited him behind this door? He decided to be on guard, pulled his shoulders back, straightened up, and conjured a confident yet friendly smile on his face. Then, passing by the butler, he briskly stepped through the open door into the grand drawing-room.

"You're a Frenchman and go by the name of John?"

Passepartout was abruptly stopped in his tracks by this matter-of-fact greeting and felt taken aback. He studied the man, sitting stiffly in his chair, seemingly oblivious to his presence. However, he sensed no immediate danger emanating from him, so he quickly overcame his surprise and decided to chat amiably: "Jean, if you please, my name is Jean Passepartout. Passepartout is the nickname I owe to my ability to extricate myself from the embarrassments that life occasionally presents."

He waited for a moment, observing the man who sat there silently and motionless, paying little attention to him. Since he remained mute and unmoving, Passepartout decided to bridge the uncomfortable silence by continuing his introduction: "I have worked as a valet for various gentlemen in England for the past five years. As I am currently without a position and have heard that you are seeking a valet, renowned for your punctuality and reliability, I have decided to present myself to you."

With these words, he executed a flawless bow, supported by a sweeping gesture of his arm. However, this behavior did not elicit the slightest reaction from his interlocutor.

"What were your previous employments before coming to London?"

"Various," Passepartout replied, evasively, "I was a balladeer, a horseback rider in a circus, a tightrope walker, worked as a gymnastics instructor, and then I was a sergeant in the Paris Fire Brigade."

"I was involved in many fires," he added with a mysterious smile, "but I hope that now, with you, I can leave that part of my life behind and enter calmer waters."

"You remind me of my youth," Phileas Fogg replied, delivering this sentence with a sobriety that did not befit the message.

"Where did you work in London?"

"Most recently, with the young Lord Longsserry, a member of Parliament. However, he often came home on the shoulders of policemen after spending his nights in the oyster cellars on Haymarket. I prefer it when my master upholds the honor of his household. I heard this morning that you were looking for a servant?"

"You were recommended to me, and I have received good references about you. Do you understand my terms and agree to them?"

"Yes, sir," confirmed Passepartout.

"Good. What time is it?"

Passepartout pulled out a large, old-fashioned silver watch from his pocket. "Eleven o'clock and twenty-two minutes."

"Your watch is slow."

"Apologies, sir, but that is impossible!" protested Passepartout with surprising vehemence, giving the watch another glance.

"You are four minutes behind," Fogg replied in a sober voice, accompanied by a serious, stern gaze at Passepartout, clearly dismissing any contradiction. "Nevertheless, we note the deviation. So, from this moment, eleven o'clock and twenty-six minutes, Wednesday, the second of October 1872, you are in my service."

Passepartout observed with astonishment the smoothness with which Phileas Fogg rose from his chair, admired the precision of his movements as he put on his hat and walked past him through the drawing-room door. Still standing in the drawing-room, completely surprised and motionless, he heard the front door open and then close, leaving him engulfed in silence.

He audibly exhaled, gradually releasing the tension from his body. "What kind of soulless machine is this?" he asked himself incredulously as he timidly looked around.

Chapter 2 Phileas Fogg’s home

He cautiously stepped out into the corridor, peering in both directions. He appeared to be completely alone. Carefully, he tried one door after another, peeking into the rooms, and then began systematically exploring the entire house.

Mr. Phileas Fogg had clearly created a shell for himself. A home where everything had its order, where he could live entirely alone, and which was perfectly arranged for a servant to carry out his work. Nothing in this house indicated that Fogg had any family or relatives. Nothing within it gave Passepartout a clue about his new master's past, his preferences, or passions. Everything was pure practicality.

He opened the closets and examined the wardrobe. Each jacket, waistcoat, and pair of trousers was labeled with a reference number, recorded in a register that noted the date when the corresponding garment should be worn. The shoes were sorted in a similar manner.

There was no library in this house since Mr. Fogg made use of the libraries at the Reform Club. However, there was a medium-sized safe where the valuable possessions of the house were presumably kept, protected against fire and theft.

On the second floor, he found the room designated for him. Numerous electric bells and speaking tubes hung in the room, allowing him to be called and assigned tasks from all the other rooms. On the mantelpiece, there was an electric clock that struck the exact same second as the clock in his master's bedroom. Above the clock, a memorandum was pinned to the wall, listing the regulations for daily service. The service began at eight o'clock in the morning, the time when Fogg rose every day, extended until half-past eleven, when he went to the Reform Club, and finally ended at midnight, the time this gentleman retired to bed.

Passepartout diligently set about studying and memorizing this schedule. He still vividly remembered how his predecessor had sneaked out of the house. He had to resist being infected by the fear and disappointment he had seen on that man's face, but he was already questioning whether accepting this position had been a good idea. The environment seemed pleasant for his work, but could he tolerate this man he had just encountered as his master for many years? This cold, unapproachable person?

Hesitantly, he made a decision: "I will now consider this house as my place in the world. Even if Mr. Phileas Fogg does not seem to be a human but rather a machine, I will embrace it." Then he sighed once more, resigned, and awaited whatever was to come.

Chapter 3 At The Reform Club

"How's the theft going, Ralph?"

Walter Ralph felt someone slap his shoulder with force. He turned around and faced the mocking expression on Thomas Flannagan's face, the brewer.

Beside him, he recognized the engineer Andrew Stuart, who joined in the laughter, amplifying his discomfort by exclaiming, "The Bank will certainly lose its money!"

He could sense the two men relishing his embarrassment and enjoying themselves at his expense. Walter Ralph was a member of the Board of the Bank of England and had grown tired of this topic. The theft had been as scandalous as it was extraordinary. It was his duty to defend the institution entrusted to him and try to counter the impression that they had made themselves ridiculous.

The three men stood in the splendid lobby of the London Reform Club, under the large glass roof through which the autumnal London sun beamed. Their voices and mocking laughter echoed off the stone walls and cold marble floor. Walter Ralph sighed, turned, and strolled towards the fireplace room. The two gentlemen followed him, positioning themselves on either side, eagerly awaiting a comment from their friend.

"On the contrary, dear Stuart," Walter Ralph attempted a vigorous rebuttal. "We have sent the best policemen and detectives to Europe and America. They are lurking in Liverpool, Glasgow, Le Havre, Brindisi, Suez, and wherever else. All landing and embarkation ports are under surveillance. We will recover the money."

"Do you have a description of the thief?" Stuart inquired.

"First, I must admonish you for your choice of words," Ralph reproached him gravely. "He is not a thief."

"What?" Stuart's eyes widened in surprise. "This man steals £55,000 in banknotes from the Bank of England, and you don't call him a thief?"

"That's correct," Walter Ralph fixed his gaze on him, emphasizing his stance with his stern expression as they walked through the open door into the fireplace room.

"Then what do you call him?" Stuart pressed.

Walter Ralph was about to respond but was interrupted by a loud, deep voice that was simultaneously sober and matter-of-fact. "According to the Morning Chronicle, he is a gentleman, if we are to believe it."

The three gentlemen turned in astonishment towards a chair where a man sat, his face hidden behind an open newspaper, giving the impression of reading but actually eavesdropping on their conversation. He slowly lowered the newspaper to his lap, revealing the face of Phileas Fogg. "Greetings, gentlemen."

He then folded the newspaper so precisely and neatly that it appeared unread, stood up, and shook their hands. Fogg had already anticipated the arrival of these gentlemen as they were his partners for the card game, and they intended to begin their daily whist game promptly at quarter past six.

After hiring Jean Passepartout as his new valet earlier this morning, he spent his day at the Reform Club exactly as he typically did. He dined, read the newspaper, and eventually awaited the arrival of the gentlemen who would play whist with him.

Together, the four gentlemen strolled towards the gaming tables in the adjacent room, with the sensational theft from the Bank of England on September 29 remaining the centerpiece of their conversation.

"You seem to have sympathies for the thief, pardon, this gentleman, my dear Fogg?" Stuart addressed him acerbically.

"I cannot deny a certain admiration," Fogg affirmed the question with a meaningful smile, disregarding the taunt.

"Please explain to me then, what distinguishes a thief from a gentleman," Stuart attempted to embarrass him.

"I shall elucidate it for you, my dear Stuart," Fogg responded thoughtfully, "are you familiar with the procedures at the Bank of England? The security systems?"

Stuart shook his head.

The gentlemen reached the gaming table and took their seats. Fogg sat opposite Ralph, while Flannagan and Stuart positioned themselves on either side.

"Well," Fogg explained as he retrieved the cards from the case, "there aren't any. The Bank of England is concerned with the dignity of the public. There are no guards, no bars. Gold, silver, banknotes—everything is left entirely exposed, so to speak, at the discretion of the customers."

"You are remarkably well-informed," Stuart marveled, "where did you acquire this knowledge?" His face displayed incredulous astonishment as he turned to Walter Ralph to gauge his reaction to Fogg's account.

"I can even relate an incident that I experienced myself," Walter Ralph eagerly confirmed Fogg's statement, "I was in one of the Bank's halls with a visitor. My guest wanted to examine a seven or maybe an eight-pound gold bar more closely, so I lifted it up and handed it to him. He inspected the bar, passed it to his neighbor, who then passed it to another, and so the bar circulated from hand to hand, eventually disappearing into a dark corridor. It only returned to its place after half an hour, with the cashier not even raising an eyebrow."

"To my utmost regret," Ralph continued with a woeful expression, "things did not go quite the same way on September 29. The missing banknotes did not reappear, and when the magnificent clock, positioned above the banking hall, chimed five o'clock, signaling the end of business hours, we had no choice but to mark the £55,000 as a loss, dispatch agents to the port cities, and offer a reward of £2,000."

Thomas Flannagan and Andrew Stuart burst into laughter. "Just imagine if anyone could take the beer barrels from our brewery so easily. They wouldn't return either," Flannagan remarked.

"Unlike your brewery, only gentlemen visit the Bank of England," Ralph attempted to defend the practices at the Bank of England.

"Except that these gentlemen are no better than common thieves!" Flannagan roared with laughter.

"I must disagree!" Ralph retorted.

"I'm curious. What is the difference?"

"It lies in the escape options."

"You'll have to explain that to me," Flannagan was skeptical, and he gestured to Fogg with a wave of his hand, urging him to start shuffling the cards.

Leaning forward to capture Flannagan's attention, Ralph Walter explained, "There is a vast difference between searching for a thief and searching for a gentleman. One can trust a gentleman because he cannot hide due to his appearance and his social environment. His desire for a certain level of refinement guarantees him. The common thief retreats to the nearest hideout, but the gentleman will want to continue his life. Inevitably, he will be found!"

"But a gentleman has the means to leave England. He can travel, he can hide anywhere. The world is vast, there are many countries where he will find refuge," Stuart pondered.

"That may have been the case once..." Fogg picked up the thread but then fell silent to shuffle the cards. With the words, "It's your turn to deal, Flanagan!" he passed the deck to his neighbor, who complied with the request.

Fogg dealt the cards, and the gentlemen picked up their hands, playing the first round. However, the discussion about escape options after a bank robbery had not left Andrew Stuart's mind, prompting him to seize the opportunity to resume the conversation at the end of the first game.

"What did you mean by your insinuation earlier? Why was the world once big? Has it become smaller?" Stuart inquired.

"It has," confirmed Fogg, "because nowadays, one can travel much faster than before. As a result, every trace can be easily followed. He pushed the cards together and handed them to Stuart. "It's your turn."

Stuart took the cards and mechanically began shuffling while his thoughts remained fully engaged in the intriguing conversation. "However, this also makes the thief's escape easier."

"The gentleman's escape," Fogg corrected him as he picked up his cards that Stuart had started distributing. Then he nodded approvingly, "The one who knows the timetables better, who has more knowledge of geography, who can navigate the countries better, will win. It's either the police or the gentleman."

"Still, escaping from England is always an uncomfortable and arduous affair. Especially for a gentleman!" Andrew Stuart remarked pointedly, gesturing with his head towards Walter Ralph.

"No," Fogg didn't let the conversation slip away, "there are excellent and convenient travel options. Those who are knowledgeable can travel very comfortably and incredibly quickly from London to India."

"You're acting as if you could be there in three weeks," Stuart quipped.

"It would take two weeks. To be precise, thirteen days," Fogg corrected him matter-of-factly as he sorted his cards.

Flanagan, who had already picked up his cards, was taken aback by this remark and exclaimed incredulously, "In two weeks to India?"

"In two weeks to India. And in 80 days around the entire world!" Fogg confirmed with his characteristic composure.

"You seem to be exceptionally well-informed," Ralph said thoughtfully, but before he could continue speaking, he was interrupted.

"Never!" Flanagan exclaimed loudly, throwing his cards on the table. "It is impossible for someone to travel around the world in 80 days."

"The Morning Chronicle published the list today," Fogg replied in an unspectacular and factual voice. "The possibility of completing a journey around the world in 80 days exists since the opening of the great Indian railway line between Rothal and Allahabad."

He fell silent for a moment, fixing his gaze on Flanagan and reaffirming his statement, "Eighty days and not a single day more."

His calmly delivered remark unsettled his fellow players and silenced them. They all picked up their hands, sorted their cards, and furrowed their brows thoughtfully. Fogg gave Ralph a prompting look, urging him to play his hand.

Ralph appeared distracted, hesitantly reaching for a card, but before he could fully pull it out, Stuart interjected, "Yes, perhaps. Eighty days, but without considering the weather, shipwrecks, derailments, and all the other things that can happen on a long and dangerous journey!"

"Eighty days, everything included," Fogg replied casually, his gaze fixed on his hand.

"Even if Hindus or Sioux destroy the railway? If they halt the trains, loot the luggage cars, and massacre the passengers?" Stuart asked indignantly.

"Everything included," Fogg remained unruffled.

"Theoretically, you may be right, Fogg, but in practice..."

"Also in practice."

"I'd like to see that!"

"It depends on you. Let's make the journey together!"

"For heaven's sake!" Stuart expressed genuine horror, "Count me out! But I'd be willing to bet £4,000 that a journey around the world in 80 days is impossible."

"You would lose."

"Well, what do you propose then?"

"A journey around the world in 80 days?"

"Yes."

"I accept the bet."

"And when will you begin the journey?"

"Immediately. However, I will undertake this journey at your expense."

"That's nonsense," Flanagan exclaimed, finding the conversation bothersome. "Let's continue with our game."

"Then pick up your cards again, gentlemen," Fogg pushed the contentious topic aside.

Stuart picked up his cards again, his hand trembling with excitement, then he threw them back onto the table. "Very well, Fogg, I bet £4,000..."

"Stuart!" Flanagan interrupted him with an annoyed voice, "Calm down. That wasn't meant seriously."

"When I say I bet, it's always meant seriously!" Stuart retorted angrily.

"I accept," Fogg agreed, "I have £20,000 with the Barings. That's the stake!"

"Twenty thousand pounds! You could lose it with a single delay!" Walter Ralph exclaimed excitedly.

"Everything is plannable. Systems can be mastered," Fogg replied calmly.

"I must remind you that the Morning Chronicle mentions at least 80 days," Ralph warned.

"At least 80 days means that it is achievable in 80 days," Fogg firmly dismissed this objection.

"For that, you would have to switch precisely from the train to the mail steamer and then back to the train with mathematical precision," Ralph mocked.

"Then I will simply switch with mathematical precision," Fogg confirmed with a bored voice, as if he were explaining his intention to be punctual for lunch.

"You're joking?" Ralph reassured himself once again.

"An Englishman never jokes when it comes to a bet," Fogg corrected him. "I bet with anyone who wishes to participate, £20,000 that I will make a journey around the world in 80 days, which means in 1,920 hours or 115,200 minutes."

His fellow players let their hands with the cards sink. Silence settled at the card table, a moment of pensive and tense silence, as the gentlemen tried to internalize the enormity of this conversation.

Fogg noticed how his fellow players looked at each other, their gazes silently seeking agreement. Finally, one by one, they showed their approval with a nod.

"Very well, we accept the bet," Ralph declared on behalf of all.

"Alright," Fogg agreed, "the train to Dover departs at eight forty-five. That's the one I'll be leaving on."

"Tonight?" Stuart asked, his gaze filled with astonishment.

Fogg confirmed with a nod and pulled out a calendar from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Today is Wednesday, the 2nd of October, so I will be back here in this salon of the Reform Club on Saturday, the 21st of December, at eight forty-five. If not, the £20,000 held for me at the Barings will be yours."

He reached for his checkbook and filled out an instruction for the amount, placing the paper in the middle of the table. Then he reached for his cards again and looked at his fellow players expectantly. "Gentlemen?"

"Would you not like to make your travel preparations?" Ralph offered.

"I am always prepared to travel," Fogg replied in a calm voice, devoid of any excitement. "I play the diamond suit. It's your turn, Stuart."

Only Walter Ralph regarded him with very suspicious eyes.

Chapter 4 The Departure from London

"Passepartout!" Passepartout heard the call. He understood the content and the commanding nature of it. It was directed at him, an invitation to come to his master.

However, he hesitated. He picked up the note and let his eyes scan the strictly defined sequence of tasks that described the workings of the house in Savile Row in an obligatory, eternal order. Then he looked at the clock; it was seven fifty-two. He picked up the list again, but there was no entry for this time.

The call came again, "Passepartout!"

The tone hadn't changed despite Passepartout's delay. He couldn't ignore the fact that the call came from his master's room. Finally, he jumped up and ran. The expression on Forster's face, his predecessor, was still fresh in his memory. He was confused. Was it his watch? What had happened? What was it that had invalidated the laws of eternity in the list of tasks he was supposed to perform in this house?

The door to his master's room was open, and Phileas Fogg stood by the window, looking thoughtfully at the street.

"I had to call you twice," Fogg said calmly and composedly.

Passepartout took out his watch from his pocket and attempted to explain his hesitant reaction. "It's not yet midnight!" He held up the watch, the face directed towards Fogg, his eyes wide open and bewildered.

"That is correct," Phileas Fogg confirmed. "I don't blame you. In ten minutes, we'll be traveling to Dover and Calais."

The Frenchman tried to regain control over his confusion. Had he understood correctly what his master was trying to convey to him?

"The master intends to go on a journey?" he asked to confirm.

Phileas Fogg nodded in affirmation. "We will be undertaking a journey around the world."

Passepartout swallowed, taken aback. "Around the world?"

"In 80 days," Phileas Fogg replied nonchalantly. "We have no time to lose."

"But the luggage..." Passepartout involuntarily interjected. The preparations necessary for such a journey seemed so extensive to him that he didn't know where to begin. His light-heartedness had vanished.

"No luggage," Fogg assisted him in organizing his thoughts. "We only need a traveling bag with two woollen shirts and three pairs of socks, the same for you. We'll buy the rest along the way. Fetch my Macintosh and travel blanket, and put on good footwear. By the way, we'll be walking very little or not at all. Now, quickly!"

Passepartout hurried back to his room. Was this the calm life for which Phileas Fogg was known? A journey? To Dover? Fine. To Calais? That wouldn't be too bad either; he hadn't been to his home country in five years. But it couldn't go any further than that. Not with Mr. Fogg, of that Passepartout was certain.

By eight o'clock, he had packed the travel bag, locked his room, and went to his master. He found him sitting at his desk, ready to travel. In front of him, he had the latest edition of Bradshaw's Railway and Steam Navigation Guide, flipping through its pages. When Passepartout arrived, Fogg stood up, took the travel bag from him, and stuffed a bundle of banknotes into it.

"Do you have everything?" "Yes, sir!" "My Macintosh and the blanket?" "Yes." "Good, take the travel bag. And take good care of it. There are £20,000 inside." Passepartout almost dropped the bag in shock. He quickly regained his composure, followed his master down the stairs and out of the house. They double-locked the front door behind them and took a carriage to Charing Cross. Passepartout sat frozen next to his master, his arms wrapped around the travel bag, not knowing what was happening to him. The cobblestones rattled under the carriage wheels, and the horse's hooves made rhythmic beats on the stones as he trance-like watched the streetlamp lights passing by outside the dark cabin. "Am I dreaming?" crossed his mind. "What kind of man have I entered into service with today? What trick is fate playing on me?"

At eight twenty, the carriage stopped in front of the train station. As they were about to enter, a ragged beggar woman with a child in hand blocked their way, forcing Mr. Fogg to halt.

Passepartout held his breath. He hurried to position himself between the woman and his master, knowing it was his duty to clear the way for his master. But more importantly, he wanted to shield this woman from the cold aggression he expected from his master. He felt sorry for the beggar woman; she couldn't know what kind of man she had encountered.

To his surprise, Passepartout felt Mr. Fogg grabbing his sleeve, signaling him to wait. Fogg reached into his coat pocket and took out the twenty guineas he had won at whist earlier that evening. He gave them to the woman, smiled encouragingly, spoke a few kind words, and continued on.

A tear welled up in Passepartout's eye. The rollercoaster of emotions this day had brought him became overwhelming. Yet, in that moment, his heart began to open again to his master. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he realized he was standing alone in front of the train station. Mr. Fogg had already moved ahead, entering the grand hall of Charing Cross. Passepartout hurried to follow him.

As he hurriedly entered the ticket hall, Fogg was already waiting for him, hands on his hips, disapproval in his gaze. "Buy two first-class tickets to Paris," he commanded, then turned to the three gentlemen standing next to him.

"Gentlemen, I am departing. The visas in my passport will provide you with proof of my itinerary upon my return."

"Oh, Mr. Fogg," politely replied Walter Ralph, the Governor of the Bank of England, "that won't be necessary. We trust your word as a gentleman."

"I prefer to be able to substantiate the journey," Fogg replied with an impassive expression.

"Do you still remember when you must return?" Andrew Stuart confirmed.

"Of course. In 80 days, on Saturday, the 21st of December, at 8:45 in the evening, in the Reform Club's salon. Goodbye, gentlemen."

"In the Reform Club's salon," Flannagan repeated in confirmation, "we won't pick you up here at the station."

"That was the agreement," Fogg agreed, raised his hat in farewell, and proceeded to the platform where the train was already waiting. Together with his servant, he boarded a carriage. At 8:45, the locomotive whistled, and the train departed into the rain of the dark night.

Phileas Fogg had quietly leaned into a corner, gazing out of the window into the darkness. Sitting across from him was his servant, still not fully comprehending what had happened to him on this day. He held the travel bag tightly against himself, still overwhelmed by the incredible amount of cash he was responsible for. Piece by piece, he tried to process the events of the day in his mind. Then suddenly, before the train had even passed Sydenham, he cried out in despair!

"What's the matter with you?" Fogg asked, surprised.

"In the haste and confusion, I forgot..." Passepartout cried out and fell silent, deeply affected.

"What is it?" Fogg pressed.

"To turn off the gas tap in my room!" Passepartout exclaimed.

Fogg leaned back, relaxed, and looked out of the window into the night. "Well then, my boy, it will burn on your account."

Chapter 5 The Security

Phileas Fogg's departure soon caused a stir. The journey around the world in just 80 days captured interest far beyond the circles of the Reform Club. It found its reflection in every newspaper, every magazine, was mentioned in every discussion and conversation, permeating the entire United Kingdom.

Anyone who had an interest in the matter quickly took sides. Some were for Phileas Fogg, but the majority was against him. A journey around the globe within such a short period, using the means of transportation available today, might be theoretically possible but would surely fail in practice.

Amidst the heated debates about the possibility or impossibility of the venture, the bookmakers also became active. Bets were placed and quickly reached high turnovers. A security based on the undertaking was even listed on the stock exchange, allowing people to buy "Phileas Fogg" or engage in options against him.

During the first few days, there were still a few particularly bold individuals, especially women, on his side, especially since the Illustrated London News managed to procure and publish a photo of him. However, as the discussions progressed, his supporters lost their optimism, and support dwindled.

Within a few days, The Times, The Standard, The Evening Star, and even The Morning Chronicle, along with about twenty other journals, declared themselves against Fogg. Only The Daily Telegraph stood by his side. Most described Phileas Fogg as a mad fool, and his colleagues from the Reform Club were criticized for accepting such a wager, which was only based on the mental weakness of their opponent.

Then it got even worse. On the fifth day after his departure, on October 7th, an extensive article appeared in the Bulletin of the Royal Geographical Society, which examined this question from all perspectives and clearly highlighted the absurdity of this endeavor. According to the experts' opinion, everything was truly working against the traveler. If this project were to succeed, the arrival and departure times had to perfectly align with the schedules. Of course, in Europe, with its short railway routes and small distances covered by ships, one could rely on precise timings. However, traveling through India for three days or across the United States for seven days would disrupt any calculation.

What were the chances of a machine failure? How often were derailments reported? The inclement weather, snowfall at this time of year, and railway robberies—all of these spoke against Phileas Fogg. What about fog and storms at sea, events that regularly delayed mail ships? Even the best sailors on overseas routes experienced delays of two or three days. A single delay would break the delicate chain, and Fogg would inevitably be late. With the publication of this article, the number of his supporters dwindled, as almost all newspapers printed it, and the bets on Fogg and his stocks plummeted hour by hour.

The only remaining supporter was the old Lord Albermale. This gentleman was confined to his chair by gout and would have given anything to undertake this journey himself. He wagered £5,000 on Phileas Fogg. And when people pointed out the futility of the project to him, he said, "If the journey is feasible, it's good that an Englishman was the first to undertake it!"

However, suddenly, a piece of news arrived that shattered all hope. The bets on Phileas Fogg plummeted to rock bottom. This unbelievable news came from Suez, and only Walter Ralph was not so surprised.

Chapter 6 Mr. Fix

The man standing at the dock still couldn't see anything in the shimmering air and felt his frustration growing with each passing minute. He disliked being in Suez. He hated the heat, found the Egyptian landscape desolate and dull, and loathed the desert.

Underneath his feet, he felt the uncomfortable warmth of the cobblestones through the thin leather soles of his shoes. The sweaty fabric of his trousers rubbed against his skin with every movement.

He withdrew his hands from his pockets, trying to create some space between his legs and the trousers to let in some air, and nervously paced a few steps along the quay wall.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---