For a Lady In Blue

The next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously at his master's door. Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, "What's the matter, Passepartout?"

"What is it, sir? Why, I've just this instant found out—"

"What?"

"That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight days."

"No doubt," returned Mr. Fogg, "by not crossing India. But if I had not crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have been my wife, and—"

Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door.
---Around the World in Eighty Days, Ch. 37

Outside No. 7, Saville Row, the world was turning. The cobblestones in the street shone with the red light only found during the mellowest of sunsets, illuminating the passers-by as they strode quickly along the road.

Inside No. 7, Saville Row, Mr. Phileas Fogg sat in his armchair, feet planted firmly on the ground, hands resting precisely on his thighs. His eyes gazed out the window, but his focus was inward, and though the world turned outside his house, he didn't see it move.

To him, the world was a still, solitary place, frozen in time - a clock whose hands have stopped moving.

Mr. Fogg was waiting. The clock that ticked dully on the wall opposite informed whosoever cared to notice that the time was a quarter past four o'clock.

Tea-time.

The second hand had just completed one steady circuit, and, as expected, a light, respectful rap sounded on the room's door.

Mr. Fogg did not have to answer it. He knew it was Passepartout, because this was the time when his servant brought him his tea - the only meal he took at home - and it was simply inconceivable that anything other than Passepartout bringing tea should happen at this time.

Passepartout, knowing his master's ways, opened the door with one hand, the other carefully balancing the tray of tea things.

"Tea, monsieur," Passepartout said, in the subdued, respectful voice he only used for his master.

"Set it on the table, Passepartout," his master replied. This was in the way of the tea-time ritual; Jean was already moving across the room to lightly place the tray on the table beside Phileas. He poured the tea, adding just the right amount of sugar - the tiniest bit, just enough to sweeten the beverage, which was at precisely the right temperature - Jean knew what Mr. Fogg liked.

It was the same as tea-time was every day. Just the same. The same knock on the door, the same words to the ritual, the same sugar in the same tea at the same time every day, every week, every month. Invariable. Still. Frozen.

Passepartout, closing the door behind himself as he left his master to his tea, allowed himself a small, unprecedented sigh as he made his way lightly down the hall. He had come to work for Mr. Fogg expecting, and desiring, a steady, unvarying routine. He believed that he had had enough of the constant change, always moving from place to place, never having a home to belong to or a rut to settle into.

He had certainly achieved this goal.

Phileas felt cold.

It was not Passepartout's fault; the fire was exquisitely lit and crackling merrily in the hearth, and anyway it was not a cold evening for this time of the spring. As it happened, the room in which he sat was quite warm by Mr. Fogg's exacting standards.

Still, he felt cold. It was as though a chill had entered his bones, many years ago, and it didn't matter how warm the air was or how thick his coat - the chill was inside him, inside his heart perhaps, and it would not leave.

Phileas felt...

He was not a man accustomed to analysing his emotions. Indeed, he was not a man accustomed to admitting that he had emotions at all, and certainly introspection was not one of his few pasttimes, and so what it was that he felt he was unsure.

He felt a lack of something in his life, but that was ridiculous; he had everything a gentleman of leisure could wish for, did he not? He was wealthy, he had the Club to go to, he had ample partners at whist and opponents in wagers...

He had Passepartout, the loyal, ever faithful valet, always at the door with the tea tray the moment Phileas wished for it.

Why, then, with all these luxuries and comforts, did Mr. Fogg feel that his life was so empty? So... cold?

He sighed, and shifted the cushion behind his head. Perhaps it was merely that he was growing old. It had been many years since that famed trip around the world, the journey that had made him more than ever an enigma to the other members of the Reform Club, the journey that had brought him Passepartout's eternal devotion.

Maybe, Phileas reflected, he was just wishing for the old days. The days of... well. Excitement. Exotic locales, dangerous risks, new faces - in short, the days of variety.

Phileas leaned his head back into the cushion (Passepartout made sure that his master's chair pillow was always soft, just as he made sure everything was just right) and closed his eyes. He remembered the journey...

India! Beautiful country, magnificent land. He had sped across it in record speed, hardly stopping to glance out the window in between hands of whist. Passepartout, who had been so much more inclined toward sightseeing than his taciturn employer, might have been surprised to know just how much of the sights of India Mr. Fogg had seen.

It was a jewel of a land, Phileas thought, a tiger with a fiery sapphire for a heart.

This reflection surprised even the unsurprisable Mr. Fogg. Was he waxing poetic in his old age? Or was it just that India, gemlike India, inspired in him something that was beyond this time-stilled, never-changing, predictable, mechanical life?

There was something there. There was something in India, something that Phileas wanted... needed. He felt the lack of it, whatever it was - the warmth of the bright sun, the radiancy of the sapphire, the vitality of the tiger, the love of...

With a start, Phileas awoke. He often drifted off like this in the evenings, sitting before his fire. He looked about the room. Passepartout had not yet been in to draw the curtains, and Phileas gazed out the window.

Outside No. 7 Saville Row, the street was mostly empty, save for a few carriages rattling down the moonlit cobblestones. Once or twice, the carriage might stop outside a Saville Row mansion and a top-hatted gentleman and silk-clad lady might step down from it, emerging for a moment into the streetlamp's glowing circle before entering whatever house they stood before.

Once, one of these bejeweled and beautiful women laughed at her escort, a high, singing sound that echoed in Phileas's ears long after the lady and gentleman had entered their home.

Outside No. 7 Saville Row, the world turned for the laughter of a lady in blue, and inside Mr. Fogg's heart, something froze a little more.