Chapter Text
Jean Passepartout lingered outside the grand dark oak door of 7 Savile Row, staring at the large brass knocker gleaming with care.
First impressions mattered; he straightened his bowtie, gently tugged down on his waistcoat, and propped his hat which had been rendered askew by the wind.
It was not particularly warm and feeling the domestic warmth glowing through the windows either side of the door, Passepartout wanted nothing more than to be inside. As soon as he saw his master, face to face, he was sure it would kill his anxieties.
He had had a master before and, before that, he had occupied a variety of roles; most notably: a Parisian firefighter, a circus performer, and a travelling singer.
Yes, Jean Passepartout had lived a life, a perpetually busy life; constantly swept off of his feet by whatever his work demanded of him. But now he had decided to settle down rather than continue to jump around the career field like a manic grasshopper escaping the great predator of a calm domestic life.
Thanks to his previous employer, Lord Longsferry – a rather sociable chap in Parliament with many friends and acquaintances, all who enjoyed a late-night tipple – tales of an eccentric Londoner called Mr Fogg had reached his ear.
The men lazed in armchairs and swooned over their 3rd, or, for some, 4th, glass of wine, still asking Passepartout for more albeit a bit drunkenly. They were merry and Passepartout could only smile to match the mood as he lurked in the corner, occasionally feeding their hard drinking habits.
Their topic of conversation just so happened to stumble into a rather mean territory, and they began to mutter cruel words about their mutuals and make them the butt of their jokes. It made Jean sad, but all he could do was listen deafly. All these opinions and secrets; he could hear them, but not listen. They would comment on appearance, on their wives, on their jobs and servants: scandalising material which Passepartout could not repeat.
There was, though, one specific man they had verbally abused, who really piqued Passepartout’s interest. Not because he was particularly scandalous or famous, but because he was just…
“Fascinating. That’s what Mr Fogg is”, one man commented. “I don’t know how he can live like he does”. He swilled the crimson liquid within his glass and then cleanly poured it down his throat.
“Oh yes. Phileas Fogg. A strange creature”, someone added. “Practically alien”.
The rest of the room howled with laughter at this hilarious statement.
Another man, a visitor to London from the country who couldn’t comprehend their giggling, asked curiously, “Who is this Mr Fogg? Why do you laugh at him so?”.
Passepartout’s master regained himself and patted his chest to calm himself down, “Well, he’s perhaps the strangest person you’ll ever meet. Runs like clockwork”. He mimicked the turning hands of a clock.
Every person in the room claimed that Mr Phileas Fogg’s routine was unbreakable, that he was as mysterious as he was precise. To them – a social and hard-partying bunch – Mr Fogg was a creature of myth and legend. The jokes started to fly in one by one from every mouth in the room, all poking fun at Mr Fogg.
“Do you think he might be a criminal? A murderer? Private hire detective or assassin?” someone theorised ironically, provoking hoots from his friends.
Lord Longsferry shook his head.
“No, Phileas couldn’t hurt a fly,” he began, “but I’m certain, that if anyone dared push anything out of order in his routine, that he would be capable of murder. In fact, he would not hesitate to kill”. He acted out the charade of a murder; he drew his finger across his neck like a knife and pretended to die.
“Oh no!”, the man next to him shouted sarcastically, in a mocking tone, pretending to be Mr Fogg. “I’m 5 seconds late to the Reform Club! What a tragedy!”. He then flung his arms across the chair dramatically like a damsel in distress at the theatre.
Everyone found this act absolutely hilarious; their faces turned bright red, and they had to have extra sips of their wine to cool themselves. They laughed like mischievous schoolboys playing a mean joke. Passepartout even had to stifle a giggle at their absurdity and melodramatic performances, but as the men continued cackling, he realised that – deep down – it wasn’t that funny, and soon his heart panged with regret and guilt for joining in on the mocking of this poor Fogg fellow. What, to these men, was so laughable about a man who cared about structure and balance?
He began to think about this peculiar gentleman; one who respected timings and lived a reclusive life. Then he looked around the room, full of joy, light, and people, a happy sight. Their glowing faces portrayed the simplest signs of merriment and wholesomeness; peering through the gap in the curtains, he saw the gloomy, cobbled streets of central London. He thought that out there was this unsociable, perplexing Mr Fogg that his master has had the joy of abusing, and he felt rather sorry.
For the rest of the evening, Jean Passepartout blindly served drinks and stayed back pondering about Phileas Fogg, as the party jumped from topic to topic like bees to flowers.
He was beginning to wonder if Mr Fogg was even in, despite being told to come at this precise moment, when the sound of the door unlocking startled him and pressed his heart to beat faster.
A sharp gaze greeted him; two voluminous oak brown eyes, like doorknobs, stared into his soul. Beneath the eyes sat a thin, handsomely built nose and propped beneath was a moustache that looked rather like an elegant squirt of chocolate cream, curling and beautiful. Mr Fogg had clearly been blessed with a face that many of the men that Passepartout had met would die for. The red gin noses and deep pink blushes that he was used to were worlds away from the poignant and rigid face of Phileas Fogg.
Worlds away from that previous life is exactly what Passepartout wanted; he was certain he’d found it here in Mr Fogg.
“You must be John”, a silky, deep voice escaped from Mr Fogg’s mouth.
“Jean, sir”, Passepartout corrected him. Mr Fogg stared at him blankly. “Though I have been known amongst friends as Passepartout”, he continued.
As much as he wished to keep the past in the past, he’d formed a sort of loving attachment to the name.
“Jean Passepartout,” his master murmured, “that suits me”.
Passepartout was about to reply that it suits him too, but he was prompted to come in.
It was cold and depressingly unhomely; it seemed like nobody actually inhabited the place. Books, papers, and all signs of other human presence felt unloved, like them and Mr Fogg lived in mutual silence and never acknowledged the other’s existence.
As Passepartout took in his immediate surroundings, Mr Fogg interrupted,
“It is 11:26 on the morning of the 2nd of October 1872 and you are now under my employment”, he said as if he were an ancient wizard casting a spell upon the French man.
“Now,” the man continued, “if you excuse me, I have some place to be”, and without another word he strode out of the house and shut the door behind him. Not too long after, a small elderly gentleman wandered out of that door with his coat and bag: Mr Fogg’s recently fired manservant.
Jean closed his mouth which had slowly dropped open in awe of his master’s behaviour, unlike anything he’s seen before. He watched the door for a bit, and then chuckled lightly to himself.