The night passed. Mr. Fogg had retired; but had he slept? As for Aouda, she could not take a single moment's rest. Passepartout had watched, like a dog, at his master's door.
The next morning Mr. Fogg sent for him, and ordered him very briefly to prepare Aouda's breakfast. As for himself, he would be satisfied with a cup of tea and a piece of toast. Aouda would be kind enough to excuse him from breakfast and dinner, for all his time would be devoted to arranging his affairs. He would not come down, he would only ask Aouda's permission to have a few moment's conversation with her in the evening.
Passepartout, having been given the programme for the day, had nothing to do but to conform to it. He looked at his master, still so impassible, and he could not make up his mind to quit his room. His heart was full, and his conscience weighed down with remorse, for he accused himself more than ever for this irreparable disaster. Yes if he had warned Mr. Fogg, if he had disclosed to him the plans of the detective Fix, Mr. Fogg would certainly not have dragged the detective Fix with him as far as Liverpool, and then———
Passepartout could not hold in any longer. "My master! Monsieur Fogg!" he cried, "curse me. It is through my fault that———"
"I blame no one," replied Phileas Fogg in the calmest tone. "Go."
Passepartout left the room and went to find the young woman to whom he made know his master's intentions. "Madame," he added, "I can do nothing by myself, nothing at all. I have no influence over my master's mind. You, perhaps———"
"What influence would I have," replied Aouda. "Mr. Fogg is subject to none. Has he ever understood that my gratitude for him was overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend you must not leave him for a single instant. You say that he has shown a desire to speak to me this evening?"
"Yes, madame. It is no doubt with reference to making your position in England comfortable."
"Let us wait," replied the young woman, who was quite pensive.
