At this moment there was a knock at the door of the small parlor in which was Phileas Fogg. James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared. "The new servant," said he.
A young man, aged thirty, came forward and bowed.
"You are a Frenchman, and your name is John?" Phileas Fogg asked him.
"Jean, if it does not displease monsieur," replied the newcomer. "Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me and which my natural aptitude for withdrawing from a business has justified. I believe, sir, that I am an honest fellow; but to be frank, I have had several trades. I have been a traveling singer; a circus rider, vaulting like Leotard, and dancing on the rope like Blondin; then I became professor of gymnastics, in order to render my talents more useful; and in the last place, I was a sergeant fireman at Paris. I have among my papers notes of remarkable fires. But five years have passed since I left France, and wishing to have a taste of family life, I have been a valet in England. Now, finding myself out of a situation, and having learned that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and the most settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have presented myself to monsieur with the hope of living tranquilly with him, and of forgetting even the name of Passepartout."
"Passepartout suits me," replied the gentleman. "You are recommended to me. I have good reports concerning you. You know my conditions?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, what time have you?"
"Twenty-four minutes after eleven," replied Passepartout, drawing from the depths of his pocket an enormous silver watch.
"You are slow," said Mr. Fogg.
"Pardon me, monsieur, but it is impossible."
"You are four minutes too slow. It does not matter. It suffices to state the difference. Then, from this moment twenty-nine minutes after eleven o'clock A. M., this Wednesday, October 2, 1872, you are in my service." That said, Phileas Fogg rose, took his hat in his left hand, placed it upon his head with an automatic movement, and disappeared without another word.
