Chapter Chapter 19 · IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TAKES A TOO GREAT INTEREST IN HIS MASTER, AND

IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TAKES A TOO GREAT INTEREST IN HIS MASTER, AND

WHAT COMES OF IT

Hong Kong is an island which came into the possession of the English by

the Treaty of Nankin, after the war of 1842; and the colonising genius

of the English has created upon it an important city and an excellent

port. The island is situated at the mouth of the Canton River, and is

separated by about sixty miles from the Portuguese town of Macao, on

the opposite coast. Hong Kong has beaten Macao in the struggle for the

Chinese trade, and now the greater part of the transportation of

Chinese goods finds its depot at the former place. Docks, hospitals,

wharves, a Gothic cathedral, a government house, macadamised streets,

give to Hong Kong the appearance of a town in Kent or Surrey

transferred by some strange magic to the antipodes.

Passepartout wandered, with his hands in his pockets, towards the

Victoria port, gazing as he went at the curious palanquins and other

modes of conveyance, and the groups of Chinese, Japanese, and Europeans

who passed to and fro in the streets. Hong Kong seemed to him not

unlike Bombay, Calcutta, and Singapore, since, like them, it betrayed

everywhere the evidence of English supremacy. At the Victoria port he

found a confused mass of ships of all nations: English, French,

American, and Dutch, men-of-war and trading vessels, Japanese and

Chinese junks, sempas, tankas, and flower-boats, which formed so many

floating parterres. Passepartout noticed in the crowd a number of the

natives who seemed very old and were dressed in yellow. On going into a

barber’s to get shaved he learned that these ancient men were all at

least eighty years old, at which age they are permitted to wear yellow,

which is the Imperial colour. Passepartout, without exactly knowing

why, thought this very funny.

On reaching the quay where they were to embark on the “Carnatic,” he

was not astonished to find Fix walking up and down. The detective

seemed very much disturbed and disappointed.

“This is bad,” muttered Passepartout, “for the gentlemen of the Reform

Club!” He accosted Fix with a merry smile, as if he had not perceived

that gentleman’s chagrin. The detective had, indeed, good reasons to

inveigh against the bad luck which pursued him. The warrant had not

come! It was certainly on the way, but as certainly it could not now

reach Hong Kong for several days; and, this being the last English

territory on Mr. Fogg’s route, the robber would escape, unless he could

manage to detain him.

“Well, Monsieur Fix,” said Passepartout, “have you decided to go with

us so far as America?”

“Yes,” returned Fix, through his set teeth.

“Good!” exclaimed Passepartout, laughing heartily. “I knew you could

not persuade yourself to separate from us. Come and engage your berth.”

They entered the steamer office and secured cabins for four persons.

The clerk, as he gave them the tickets, informed them that, the repairs

on the “Carnatic” having been completed, the steamer would leave that

very evening, and not next morning, as had been announced.

“That will suit my master all the better,” said Passepartout. “I will

go and let him know.”

Fix now decided to make a bold move; he resolved to tell Passepartout

all. It seemed to be the only possible means of keeping Phileas Fogg

several days longer at Hong Kong. He accordingly invited his companion

into a tavern which caught his eye on the quay. On entering, they found

themselves in a large room handsomely decorated, at the end of which

was a large camp-bed furnished with cushions. Several persons lay upon

this bed in a deep sleep. At the small tables which were arranged about

the room some thirty customers were drinking English beer, porter, gin,

and brandy; smoking, the while, long red clay pipes stuffed with little

balls of opium mingled with essence of rose. From time to time one of

the smokers, overcome with the narcotic, would slip under the table,

whereupon the waiters, taking him by the head and feet, carried and

laid him upon the bed. The bed already supported twenty of these

stupefied sots.

Fix and Passepartout saw that they were in a smoking-house haunted by

those wretched, cadaverous, idiotic creatures to whom the English

merchants sell every year the miserable drug called opium, to the

amount of one million four hundred thousand pounds—thousands devoted to

one of the most despicable vices which afflict humanity! The Chinese

government has in vain attempted to deal with the evil by stringent

laws. It passed gradually from the rich, to whom it was at first

exclusively reserved, to the lower classes, and then its ravages could

not be arrested. Opium is smoked everywhere, at all times, by men and

women, in the Celestial Empire; and, once accustomed to it, the victims

cannot dispense with it, except by suffering horrible bodily

contortions and agonies. A great smoker can smoke as many as eight

pipes a day; but he dies in five years. It was in one of these dens

that Fix and Passepartout, in search of a friendly glass, found

themselves. Passepartout had no money, but willingly accepted Fix’s

invitation in the hope of returning the obligation at some future time.

They ordered two bottles of port, to which the Frenchman did ample

justice, whilst Fix observed him with close attention. They chatted

about the journey, and Passepartout was especially merry at the idea

that Fix was going to continue it with them. When the bottles were

empty, however, he rose to go and tell his master of the change in the

time of the sailing of the “Carnatic.”

Fix caught him by the arm, and said, “Wait a moment.”

“What for, Mr. Fix?”

“I want to have a serious talk with you.”

“A serious talk!” cried Passepartout, drinking up the little wine that

was left in the bottom of his glass. “Well, we’ll talk about it

to-morrow; I haven’t time now.”

“Stay! What I have to say concerns your master.”

Passepartout, at this, looked attentively at his companion. Fix’s face

seemed to have a singular expression. He resumed his seat.

“What is it that you have to say?”

Fix placed his hand upon Passepartout’s arm, and, lowering his voice,

said, “You have guessed who I am?”

“Parbleu!” said Passepartout, smiling.

“Then I’m going to tell you everything—”

“Now that I know everything, my friend! Ah! that’s very good. But go

on, go on. First, though, let me tell you that those gentlemen have put

themselves to a useless expense.”

“Useless!” said Fix. “You speak confidently. It’s clear that you don’t

know how large the sum is.”

“Of course I do,” returned Passepartout. “Twenty thousand pounds.”

“Fifty-five thousand!” answered Fix, pressing his companion’s hand.

“What!” cried the Frenchman. “Has Monsieur Fogg dared—fifty-five

thousand pounds! Well, there’s all the more reason for not losing an

instant,” he continued, getting up hastily.

Fix pushed Passepartout back in his chair, and resumed: “Fifty-five

thousand pounds; and if I succeed, I get two thousand pounds. If you’ll

help me, I’ll let you have five hundred of them.”

“Help you?” cried Passepartout, whose eyes were standing wide open.

“Yes; help me keep Mr. Fogg here for two or three days.”

“Why, what are you saying? Those gentlemen are not satisfied with

following my master and suspecting his honour, but they must try to put

obstacles in his way! I blush for them!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it is a piece of shameful trickery. They might as well

waylay Mr. Fogg and put his money in their pockets!”

“That’s just what we count on doing.”

“It’s a conspiracy, then,” cried Passepartout, who became more and more

excited as the liquor mounted in his head, for he drank without

perceiving it. “A real conspiracy! And gentlemen, too. Bah!”

Fix began to be puzzled.

“Members of the Reform Club!” continued Passepartout. “You must know,

Monsieur Fix, that my master is an honest man, and that, when he makes

a wager, he tries to win it fairly!”

“But who do you think I am?” asked Fix, looking at him intently.

“Parbleu! An agent of the members of the Reform Club, sent out here to

interrupt my master’s journey. But, though I found you out some time

ago, I’ve taken good care to say nothing about it to Mr. Fogg.”

“He knows nothing, then?”

“Nothing,” replied Passepartout, again emptying his glass.

The detective passed his hand across his forehead, hesitating before he

spoke again. What should he do? Passepartout’s mistake seemed sincere,

but it made his design more difficult. It was evident that the servant

was not the master’s accomplice, as Fix had been inclined to suspect.

“Well,” said the detective to himself, “as he is not an accomplice, he

will help me.”

He had no time to lose: Fogg must be detained at Hong Kong, so he

resolved to make a clean breast of it.

“Listen to me,” said Fix abruptly. “I am not, as you think, an agent of

the members of the Reform Club—”

“Bah!” retorted Passepartout, with an air of raillery.

“I am a police detective, sent out here by the London office.”

“You, a detective?”

“I will prove it. Here is my commission.”

Passepartout was speechless with astonishment when Fix displayed this

document, the genuineness of which could not be doubted.

“Mr. Fogg’s wager,” resumed Fix, “is only a pretext, of which you and

the gentlemen of the Reform are dupes. He had a motive for securing

your innocent complicity.”

“But why?”

“Listen. On the 28th of last September a robbery of fifty-five thousand

pounds was committed at the Bank of England by a person whose

description was fortunately secured. Here is his description; it

answers exactly to that of Mr. Phileas Fogg.”

“What nonsense!” cried Passepartout, striking the table with his fist.

“My master is the most honourable of men!”

“How can you tell? You know scarcely anything about him. You went into

his service the day he came away; and he came away on a foolish

pretext, without trunks, and carrying a large amount in banknotes. And

yet you are bold enough to assert that he is an honest man!”

“Yes, yes,” repeated the poor fellow, mechanically.

“Would you like to be arrested as his accomplice?”

Passepartout, overcome by what he had heard, held his head between his

hands, and did not dare to look at the detective. Phileas Fogg, the

saviour of Aouda, that brave and generous man, a robber! And yet how

many presumptions there were against him! Passepartout essayed to

reject the suspicions which forced themselves upon his mind; he did not

wish to believe that his master was guilty.

“Well, what do you want of me?” said he, at last, with an effort.

“See here,” replied Fix; “I have tracked Mr. Fogg to this place, but as

yet I have failed to receive the warrant of arrest for which I sent to

London. You must help me to keep him here in Hong Kong—”

“I! But I—”

“I will share with you the two thousand pounds reward offered by the

Bank of England.”

“Never!” replied Passepartout, who tried to rise, but fell back,

exhausted in mind and body.

“Mr. Fix,” he stammered, “even should what you say be true—if my master

is really the robber you are seeking for—which I deny—I have been, am,

in his service; I have seen his generosity and goodness; and I will

never betray him—not for all the gold in the world. I come from a

village where they don’t eat that kind of bread!”

“You refuse?”

“I refuse.”

“Consider that I’ve said nothing,” said Fix; “and let us drink.”

“Yes; let us drink!”

Passepartout felt himself yielding more and more to the effects of the

liquor. Fix, seeing that he must, at all hazards, be separated from his

master, wished to entirely overcome him. Some pipes full of opium lay

upon the table. Fix slipped one into Passepartout’s hand. He took it,

put it between his lips, lit it, drew several puffs, and his head,

becoming heavy under the influence of the narcotic, fell upon the

table.

“At last!” said Fix, seeing Passepartout unconscious. “Mr. Fogg will

not be informed of the ‘Carnatic’s’ departure; and, if he is, he will

have to go without this cursed Frenchman!”

And, after paying his bill, Fix left the tavern.