Chapter 131 - Around the World in 80 Days

Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom House, and he was to be transferred to London the next day. Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon Fix had he not been held back by some policeman. Aouda was thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not understand. Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber. The young woman's heart revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly. As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether Mr. Fogg were guilty or not. The thought then struck Passepartout that he was the cause of this new misfortune. Had he not concealed Fix's errand from his master? When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix proof of his innocence and satisfied him of his mistake. At least Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of his master only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil. Passepartout wept till he was blind and felt like blowing his brains out. Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the courthouse. Neither wished to leave the place. Both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again. That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal. Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the twenty-first of December, he had till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter. The journey from Liverpool to London was six hours. If anyone at this moment had entered the Custom House he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true, resigned, but this last blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which only burst forth with an irresistible force at the last moment? No one could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting. For what? Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed? However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the table and observed its advancing hands. Not a word escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern. The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be thus stated. If Phileas Fogg was honest, he was ruined. If he was a knave, he was caught. Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were any practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping from it? Possibly, for once he walked slowly around the room, but the door was locked and the window heavily barred with iron rods. He sat down again and drew his journal from his pocket. On the line where these words were written, twenty-first December, Saturday, Liverpool, he added, EIGHTIETH DAY, ELEVEN FORTY A.M., and waited.