"Verne, Jules - Around the World in 80 Days" - читать интересную книгу автора (Verne Jules)

"Faith," muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, "I've seen people
at Madame Tussaud's as lively as my new master!"

Madame Tussaud's "people," let it be said, are of wax, and are much
visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.

During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been
carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age,
with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and
whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather
pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest
degree what physiognomists call "repose in action," a quality of those who
act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg
seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica
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Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various
phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly
well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg
was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the
expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals,
the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions.

He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and
was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step
too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made
no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was
the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination
at the exact moment.

He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation;
and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and
that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.

As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had
abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in
vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no
means one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliшre with a bold gaze and a
nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face,
lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round
head, such
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as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his
complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body
muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his
younger days. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient