A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where
Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.

"The new servant," said he.

A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.

"You are a Frenchman, I believe," asked Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?"

"Jean, if monsieur pleases," replied the newcomer, "Jean Passepartout,
a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness
for going out of one business into another. I believe I'm honest,
monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been
an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard,
and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics,
so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman
at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France
five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life,
took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place,
and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled
gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope
of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name
of Passepartout."

"Passepartout suits me," responded Mr. Fogg. "You are well recommended
to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?"

"Yes, monsieur."