Main Characters: Phileas, Jules, Passepartout

Rating/Category: G; Gen; introspective rather than active

Summary: Takes place immediately after events in "Black Glove of Melchizedek;" reference to/spoiler for "Southern Comfort." Phileas struggles to put his relationship with Passepartout on a slightly different footing.

Jules Verne was watching Phileas Fogg watch Rebecca Fogg, his writer's mind recording the play of expression and tucking it away for future use. For once, Fogg's habitual mask of remote severity had failed him. He looked sad, worried, close to exhaustion - not surprising, Verne concluded, considering what they'd all been through - and something more, something incongruous. It looked like apprehension, but that couldn't be: the danger was over, the glove destroyed, and in any case, Fogg never showed fear. Mystified, Verne glanced at Rebecca, who had just taken the first sip from her cup of tea. She leaned back and smiled; Fogg relaxed; and Verne, grasping the source of the other man's tension, concealed a grin.

"You haven't forgotten how to make a pot of tea, at any rate," Rebecca said.

"I've forgotten nothing," her cousin replied, handing Verne a glass of Bordeaux and sinking into his armchair with a sigh. They were in the study of Fogg's townhouse, a comfortable, quiet room lined with bookcases and portraits. Under the influence of the excellent wine, Verne's mind began to wander. His attention strayed to the canvas opposite him, a woman who, by her dress, had lived in the time of Charles I. He wondered who she was and whether she was related to the Foggs. The cold civility of her expression argued in favor of a connection. He felt his eyes closing and carefully set the wineglass down; it would never do to spill red wine on such a carpet. From a distance he listened to Rebecca's teasing voice.

"I'm relieved to know that Passepartout's exemplary service hasn't entirely enfeebled you." No response. Something in her cousin's face must have caught Rebecca's attention for she added, "He will be all right, won't he?"

"Yes, given time. It could have been very much worse. The doctor's opinion is that Zai Chao intended that damned pig-sticker to open a major vein or artery in the groin. He could have bled to death before our eyes."

"How typical of him not to let us know he was wounded."

"Yes. Also idiotic and infuriating."

Verne puzzled over a shading in Fogg's voice. Now, is he angry or not? His tone contradicts the words.

Evidently Rebecca heard it too. "You are surely not angry with him?"

"Of course not. How could I be? He and Verne very likely saved our lives tonight." Verne, drifting, basked in the warmth of his friend's approval. When Fogg spoke again, his voice was so low that Verne wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "I'm thinking of seeking a new valet."

"Phileas! You'll break his heart!"

"Don't be absurd, Rebecca. The man is clever and creative. He's wasted in his present position."

"I doubt he'd agree with you."

"Besides, as long as we keep pitching headlong into one disaster after another, he will keep trying to pull us out again. I don't want his life on my conscience. He's not even trained as an agent."

"He does well enough without it. Phileas . . . " Verne had never heard that voice from Rebecca Fogg, tender and compassionate. "Does it never occur to you that Passepartout follows you for the same reason we all do? You're like a - a force of nature; you draw everyone, even Jules, along in your wake."

Fogg snorted. "Rubbish! If anything, you are the lodestar for all of us, even Passepartout - and especially for Verne."

"Oh, hush! He'll hear you!" A furtive pause, while the Foggs regarded their friend and Verne tried to look as if he were fathoms deep asleep.

"He seems to be sleeping," Fogg finally decided. "As we should be, I suppose. Finished? Thank you." With a faint chime of porcelain, Rebecca's empty cup changed hands.

"Phileas - think what you're about. The man is devoted to you. And you need him just as much."

"I know it. But I find this master and man relationship grates on me. I suppose our sojourn in the States had something to do with it."

"Relaxing the formalities, you mean? Do you want more distance between you and Passepartout?"

"For his sake? Yes, about a continent's worth. For my sake? I'm not sure I could function without him. But there's the difficulty. He's behaved magnificently time and again - risked his life - acted as a friend. He shouldn't have to polish my boots and iron my newspaper, even if he does both superlatively well."

Verne, wide awake by now, was fascinated. This was an astonishing view of the patrician Fogg: an aristocrat acknowledging a servant's humanity, showing concern for his welfare? It seemed to Verne that Fogg barely saw Passepartout much of the time, in fact it was one of the things about Fogg that most annoyed the young egalitarian. By this evidence, the man saw his servant very well indeed.

"I doubt that Passepartout finds your service demeaning, as you seem to suggest," Rebecca said. "However, since you feel so strongly, you'd better ask him about it, hadn't you?"

"Yes," Fogg replied sadly, "I rather think I had."

"Goodnight, then, Phileas. I'll just look in on him as I go by. What about Jules?"

"He can have 'Ras's old room. The staff keeps it aired, just in case. Goodnight, Rebecca."

A rustle of cloth and what might have been the sound of a chaste, cousinly kiss, a wayward drift of scent, and Rebecca was gone. Verne waited to see what would happen next. The teacups rattled as Fogg gathered them onto a tray and took them off to the butler's pantry. Verne smiled to himself at the thought of Phileas Fogg wiping the dishes. The quiet footsteps returned; then came the faint grate of glass on ground glass. The decanter, of course. He might have guessed.

Fogg came up to him so quietly that Verne shied like a nervous colt when the other man laid his hand on Verne's shoulder. Recovering, he blinked up at his host in what he hoped was a sleepy fashion. Fogg smiled.

"Come along, Verne, you can't sleep there. I'll show you to your room. And Verne" - Fogg cast a sharp look back over his shoulder as he led the way out of his study - "eavesdropping is a despicable habit."

Passepartout was watching Phileas Fogg watch Passepartout. After a disordered week, the household had settled into an uneasy semblance of its usual routine. Verne had returned to Paris; Rebecca had disappeared into her latest assignment. Passepartout, in defiance of the doctor's orders, had risen from his sick bed and resumed his regular duties. Only Fogg remained at loose ends. Tense and irritable, he prowled his rooms or wore out his shoe leather on the London pavement. He rarely looked in at his usual haunts, which was fortunate, as his ability with cards seemed to have deserted him. His attention was elsewhere. All too often, it was alarmingly focused on his valet. Passepartout, unsure in what way he could have offended, checked his conscience and the silver chest a dozen times a day. The fact that neither showed signs of tarnish could not reassure him. He knew that in some essential way he had failed to give satisfaction.

It was teatime, and Fogg had allowed his beloved Darjeeling to cool almost untasted. The plateful of muffins was untouched, save for one that Fogg's restless fingers were reducing to a pile of crumbs. Early darkness screened the room. Passepartout, prevented by Fogg's peremptory "Let be!" from lighting the lamps, hovered unhappily at his employer's elbow, wondering if he dared remove the tea tray. Fogg's deep-set eyes were in shadow, but Passepartout knew they were watching him. He braced himself for a reprimand. As Fogg continued silent, reaching out to dismember another muffin, Passepartout had the sudden conviction that he was about to be sacked. Why? Unless Fogg was holding him accountable for the days he'd missed due to injury, but that made no sense. His master was really angry with him the first day he hobbled back to work. And since then he'd been careful to get everything right. He'd even succeeded in curbing his unruly impulse toward comedy. He had been, as nearly as possible, invisible, to no avail: that cold grey gaze pulled him relentlessly out of the shadows. It was agony. He would have to say something, just to break the silence.

"Master..."

"Passepartout..."

The two spoke in the same instant, broke off, and predictably began again in unison.

"Oh, sorry, Master..."

"I beg your pardon..."

Another pause. Fogg made a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh, a characteristic comment denoting exasperation.

"Never mind, Passepartout. Yes, all right, clear away. Thank you, that will be all."

Fogg sighed as Passepartout left the room. He'd been trying for three days to find the words that would make Passepartout understand that he regarded him too highly as a friend and comrade at arms to continue employing him as a valet. Each time he thought he'd found the proper approach, a look at the other man's face would drive every carefully crafted phrase from his mind. Rebecca was right. Passepartout enjoyed his employment. Enjoyed and excelled at it. Would it not be churlish to deprive him of a pleasant living just because Fogg wanted to hurl the fire irons across the room every time he heard the word "Master"? Besides, what did he imagine Passepartout would do upon release from service? The man wasn't independently wealthy. He would have to seek work elsewhere. Out of the question. On the other hand, working for Phileas Fogg was no sinecure. While he didn't actively seek danger, he had to admit that it nevertheless seemed to find him and everyone around him. Giving Passepartout a different title and duties would change nothing, not even the way he addressed Fogg. And it would be cruel and pointless to expect him to watch another valet bumbling in his place.

Fogg sighed again, rose and began to pace. It ought to be very simple. He needed a valet and Passepartout needed a job. There was nothing demeaning about honest work, done well - nothing demeaning to Passepartout, at any rate. Good Lord. He was beginning to sound like Jules Verne. Quelle catastrophe.

That mutual trust and reliance, even affection, could exist between "master and man," as Fogg put it, was outside his experience. As a quiet, often disregarded child, he'd seen too many wry looks on the faces of his parents' servants to believe in the myth of the devoted family retainer. Being the son of an exacting and undemonstrative father had cost him the ability to fit easily into his social stratum. He could take nothing for granted, not wealth nor privilege nor friendship, but must always be testing them, risking their loss, whether at the gaming tables or in the field. It was all a matter of chance.

His father's stern tutelage had forced Fogg to master a number of roles; in particular, he played the self-satisfied, imperturbable British dandy to perfection. The impassive face he showed the world had become both shield and refuge. But it was, as he told Saratoga Browne, an illusion, albeit an illusion that had come to fit him like a second skin. He'd never thought about what might lie beneath the skin until he met and loved Saratoga. To her he could offer no less than his true self. Losing her made no difference. He still felt impelled to strip away the finish and see himself with whatever dispassionate clarity he could manage. Losing her made no difference but to turn what should have been a labor of love into a meaningless exercise.

And now, it seemed, his growing sense of imposture was going to cost him the services of his valet. It was ironic, Fogg mused, that he had never employed another manservant who suited him so well. Perhaps it was due to Passepartout's lack of artifice, even that daft informality which was often so maddening and yet so damned comical that Fogg had much to do to keep a straight face. It had almost become a game between the two of them, Fogg thought, rolling his eyes at the recollection of the cuckoo clock imitation. Then the thought struck him that there was an elegant and fitting solution to his dilemma. He returned to the tea table and, seating himself, rang the bell.

Passepartout appeared in less than a minute, pale and resolute, a man about to be marched before the firing squad. Why, he thinks I'm angry with him! Fogg thought, astonished.

"Passepartout, you may light the lamps, and then bring me another pot of tea, if you would be so good." The younger man moved quickly about the room, his face marked by concentration as he lit and adjusted the flame of each lamp, a task he had done hundreds of times without effort made difficult by observation.

The replacement pot of tea was set before Fogg in record time. Passepartout gave him a nervous, guilty smile and turned to leave the room.

"One moment, Passepartout. Sit down, won't you?"

The valet looked around wildly and then perched on the very edge of the nearest chair. It was just as he feared; he was about to lose his position. What would he do? Where would he go? He would miss the Aurora so much, and his workshop, and - and his family. Miss Rebecca, Mr. Jules, Master Phileas; what would they do without him?

"Passepartout, I observe that in the time you have been in my employ, your sphere of duties has widened far beyond what is usually required of a valet. The position you have created for yourself combines tasks usually performed by cook, butler, blacksmith and, most recently, bodyguard, with the more traditional responsibilities. Not to mention your care of the Aurora. I believe I have been remiss in allowing you to take so much on yourself."

"Oh, no, Master. I can be doing all this, it is no worry."

"No trouble, you mean. Relax, man; I have no complaints, quite the contrary. Still, I did not engage you to be a one-man band. I'm inclined to rethink your position in the household and look about for someone else who would take over the valet's duties." There was no mistaking the look of horror on Passepartout's face. "No? Well, perhaps it's just as well. In that case, Passepartout, I wonder if you could possibly see your way to regarding the valet position as a sort of disguise?"

For a moment, Passepartout's expression registered only bewilderment. Then he grasped the suggestion and a wicked grin of complicity spread across his face.

"You are making me a - a muffler?"

"What?" Fogg, considerably startled, tried to reconstruct the semantic workings of his valet's mind. Light dawned. "Are you thinking of camouflet? A smokescreen? Not exactly, Passepartout. I am making you a co-conspirator."

"That is even better, I am thinking."

"What a relief to know you approve and that I won't have to take up knitting."

It occurred to Passepartout that Fogg had made a joke. Was the world coming to an end? He saw that the other man was watching him uneasily, waiting for his reaction, and his grin grew even wider.

"Don't worry, Master. I have already three that Aunt Louisa make for me."

"Ah. I will consider myself reprieved. Well, then, I think that'll do, Passepartout."

"Yes, Master."

"One more thing. Passepartout - when you address me - 'Sir' is quite sufficient."

The rascal actually winked. "Very good, sir."

Passepartout and Fogg took the Aurora to Paris a month later. Fogg had regained his facility with cards and was looking forward to some challenging play. While there, he naturally invited Jules Verne to dine. The three men had not been together since the episode of Melchizedek's troublesome glove, and Verne was eager to learn how Fogg had resolved his quandary regarding Passepartout.

Dinners aboard the Aurora tended to be informal, particularly since the galley was cramped and, moreover, adjacent to the salon. However, on this occasion Passepartout was moved to an almost intimidating level of ostentation. He laid a table that glittered with silver and crystal; he planned a meal of no fewer than seven courses. While Fogg drew Verne into conversation about his latest play, Passepartout went back and forth in complete silence, the perfect, self-effacing footman. It was so unlike his usual demeanor that Verne found it difficult to concentrate on the discussion. His eyes kept straying to watch the valet, then focusing again on Fogg with a look of mournful reproach. At the end of the meal, Passepartout brought out a decanter of port and then, prompted by Fogg's "That will do," departed in the direction of his workroom.

"What have you done to Passepartout?" Verne demanded.

"Whatever can you mean, Verne?"

"He's so quiet! I've never seen him like that. Something's wrong with him."

"I can't say I noticed anything amiss, just a rather welcome silence," Fogg retorted. "That he has finally learned to keep his place is surely no cause for concern."

"But I thought you were going to hire another valet, give Passepartout a different position?"

"What position had you in mind, Verne? Chief engineer and inventor of impractical mechanical nuisances? It happens that I have most need of a valet, and Passepartout suits me rather well."

"I might have known you didn't mean it. I thought for a while that you actually cared about Passepartout's feelings, but that would be out of character, wouldn't it? You're an aristocrat to the core, Fogg. Have you even read Mr. Marx's book? This parasitic way of life is doomed, you know, and the sooner the better."

"All the more reason to enjoy it while it still exists. Don't let us quarrel, Verne. Does it seem to you that Passepartout is unhappy? If so, I give you leave to call me every hard name you can think of."

"Well - not exactly unhappy. Just subdued. Not himself."

"Don't let it trouble you. He will no doubt have recovered his usual level of cheerful inefficiency tomorrow."

"You shouldn't bully him."

"Bully him? I? If anything, he bullies me. I assure you, I daren't set foot out of doors without presenting myself for inspection."

Verne shook his head. "You can't be serious about it, can you? The man is dependent on you, and all you can do is make a joke about it."

Fogg's amused expression hardened into something close to annoyance. "I appreciate your ideals, Verne, but you are being impertinent. And, as it happens, wrong. I am quite aware of my responsibilities toward Passepartout. Now for heaven's sake, find another subject to harp on. You mentioned Marx's interesting Manifesto. Are you naïve enough to accept his conclusions?"

The conversation shifted ground, becoming more abstract and correspondingly less hostile. Verne left the Aurora some hours later with a grudging respect for Fogg's intellectual abilities, though unconvinced by his arguments. As Fogg watched the young man disappear into the darkness, he became aware of Passepartout standing at his elbow.

"Well, Master, sir, I think we pull the dust out from under Mr. Jules."

"Yes, Passepartout, I think we did, and threw the rug in his eyes as well. Very well done, indeed. Now, would you like some help with the dishes?"

At the scandalized look on his valet's face, Phileas Fogg actually burst out laughing.

Perhaps the world really was coming to an end.

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