In 1872, in London, a gentleman lived alone in a fine house in Saville Row. His name was Phileas Fogg and he was about forty years old. He was tall, calm and very rich, but nobody knew where his money came from.
Mr. Fogg had no wife, no children and no friends. He was a member of the Reform Club, an elegant club in London, and every day he did exactly the same things at exactly the same times. He left his house at half past eleven, had lunch at the club and read the newspapers. In the evening he played whist, an English card game, and then he went home at midnight exactly.
Nobody knew if he had ever travelled, because he never left London. And yet he knew the map of the world better than anyone.
For Mr. Fogg, being exact was everything. On the morning of Wednesday, 2 October, he had sent his servant away because the water for his shave was two degrees too cold.
At twenty-two minutes past eleven, the new servant arrived. He was a Frenchman of about thirty, with broad shoulders and a round, smiling face.
— You are French and your name is John? asked Mr. Fogg.
— Jean, sir, Jean Passepartout. People call me that because I always find a way out. I have had many jobs: I have sung in the streets, I have been an acrobat in a circus, and then a fireman in Paris. Now I want a quiet life, and people told me that you were the man with the most regular habits in England.
— Passepartout suits me, answered Mr. Fogg. What time does your watch say?
Passepartout took an enormous silver watch out of his pocket.
— Twenty-two minutes past eleven, sir.
— You are four minutes slow.
— Impossible, sir, it is a family watch!
— It does not matter, it is enough to know it. It is twenty-six minutes past eleven, and from this minute, Wednesday, 2 October 1872, you are in my service.
At exactly half past eleven, Mr. Fogg took his hat and went out without another word.
Passepartout looked around the house, where everything was perfectly in order. In his room there was a gas lamp and, on the wall, a timetable for every day, minute by minute.
"A man as regular as clockwork!" thought Passepartout. "With him, I will finally have a quiet life!"
That evening, at the Reform Club, Mr. Fogg was playing whist with his five usual partners. Among them were Andrew Stuart, an engineer, and Gauthier Ralph, one of the directors of the Bank of England. Everybody was talking about a robbery.
On 29 September, a stranger had stolen fifty-five thousand pounds from the Bank of England. People only knew that he was a well-dressed gentleman, and since then detectives had been watching all the big ports in the world. The Bank was offering a reward of two thousand pounds to the detective who arrested the thief.
— He won't be able to escape, said Ralph firmly.
— Why not? answered Stuart. The Earth is big enough to hide in!
— It was, once, said Mr. Fogg quietly.
— Mr. Fogg is right, Ralph went on. Today you can go around the world in three months.
— In eighty days, Mr. Fogg corrected him.
One of the partners read the calculation in a newspaper: from London to Suez, then Bombay, Calcutta, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco, New York, and back to London. The route always went east, and the journey took eighty days.
— On paper, perhaps, said Stuart. But there are storms, accidents, delays...
— Everything is included, answered Mr. Fogg.
— I bet four thousand pounds that it is impossible!
— On the contrary, it is perfectly possible. I have twenty thousand pounds in the bank, and I bet them against all of you. I will go around the world in eighty days, or less.
— Twenty thousand pounds! cried Ralph. One single unexpected delay, and you lose everything!
— The unexpected does not exist, answered Mr. Fogg simply.
The five partners accepted the bet. These twenty thousand pounds were half of Mr. Fogg's fortune, and the other half was going to pay for the journey.
— The train for Dover leaves tonight at a quarter to nine, said Mr. Fogg, and I will take it. Today is Wednesday, 2 October: I will be back in this room on Saturday, 21 December, at a quarter to nine in the evening. If I am not here, my twenty thousand pounds will be yours. Here is a cheque.
It was seven o'clock, and his partners offered to stop the game to give him time to get ready.
— I am always ready, answered Mr. Fogg. It is your turn to play, Mr. Stuart.
At ten to eight, Mr. Fogg came home. Passepartout looked at his watch in surprise, because his master was supposed to come home at midnight!
— Passepartout, we are leaving in ten minutes.
— Is sir going on a journey?
— Yes, we are going around the world.
— Around the world! repeated Passepartout, with his eyes wide open.
— In eighty days, and we do not have a minute to lose. No suitcase: just one bag, with two shirts and three pairs of socks each. We will buy the rest on the way.
Passepartout went up to his room and fell onto a chair.
"And I wanted a quiet life!"
At eight o'clock, Mr. Fogg put a thick bundle of banknotes into the bag.
— Be careful with this bag, he said, because there are twenty thousand pounds in it.
The bag almost fell out of Passepartout's hands.
In front of Charing Cross station, a poor barefoot woman with a small child held out her hand to Mr. Fogg. He gave her all the money that he had just won at cards.
— Here you are, madam. I am glad that I met you.
Passepartout felt tears in his eyes: so his master had a heart.
The five partners were waiting on the platform.
— Goodbye, gentlemen, said Mr. Fogg. Until Saturday, 21 December, a quarter to nine in the evening.
At a quarter to nine, the train left in the dark and the rain. Passepartout was holding the precious bag tightly when suddenly he gave a cry.
— What is the matter? asked Mr. Fogg.
— Sir... I forgot to turn off the gas in my room!
— Well, my boy, it is burning at your expense.
The next day, the whole of London was talking about the bet, and for the newspapers, Phileas Fogg was mad.
A week later, on the evening of 9 October, the chief of the London police received a telegram from Suez, in Egypt:
"Bank thief found: Phileas Fogg. Send arrest warrant to Bombay. Fix, detective."