Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Passepartout's Mister |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Odensdisir |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | vignette |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | Totally innocuous, mild character comfort |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Phileas, Passepartout, and the Phileas Passepartout's shopkeepers knows |
| DESCRIPTION: | Passepartout being laid up, Phileas does the marketing. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
Disguise, perhaps, Phileas thought, rubbing at his chin with dubious fingers. Jules Verne's slanders to the contrary notwithstanding Phileas did know how to shave himself, he'd shaved himself on more than one occasion particularly when he'd been younger; he was out of practice, that was all, and what manner of imbecile would inflict that chore on himself when he had a perfectly good valet to do it? And that was the problem, of course. Phileas had a perfectly good valet, but at this point the valet was not perfectly well.
Muttonchops, and a pea-jacket. But a mariner wouldn't be going to the shops that Passepartout frequented, and his lack of the appropriate aroma would betray him - not issues which were likely to concern a man during the execution of a mission, but given the choice between developing the requisite musk and facing up to his duty like a man Phileas considered that the time invested all in all would be minimized if he just went ahead and faced up to it. Passepartout would stare at his garments with that incredulous and moderately wounded stare of his, as well, if Phileas tried any such thing. No. There was to be no help for it. Rebecca's Chaffins was where she properly belonged to be, with Rebecca, and it wouldn't be the least bit decent to ask such a thing of Mary who was unfamiliar with the environment; it was up to him.
Smoothing a wrinkle from his collar that turned out to be a minute smudge on the glass rather than a wrinkle at all Phileas took up his gloves and his hat and exited his bedroom to climb the stairs up to the third level of the row house in London. Passepartout's door was ajar; there were no sounds of snoring. Was his valet within, Phileas thought, or was he going to have to make good on his threat to shackle Passepartout by the ankle to his bed-stead? He hoped not, because he knew very well that there was not a lock in all of London proof against Passepartout's skill as a lock-pick. It would be too embarrassing. Passepartout would be out of the stoutest leg-irons the moment Phileas left the house, and out and around doing everything he wasn't supposed to, and running back to his room at the last minute to chain himself back to the bed and lie down and pull the quilt up to his chin with an appropriately miserable and forlorn expression on his face. No. It was out of the question, and a very great waste of useless energy besides.
Phileas knocked, three times, politely, with the knuckle of the index finger of his right hand. "Passepartout, may I come in?" He heard for his reward a rustling within, and then the quavery response.
"Yes, master."
Phileas stepped in. He stayed strictly away from Passepartout's room as a matter of practice; he stayed strictly away from all of the various of Passepartout's domains, because a man could best demonstrate how deeply he valued his manservant by staying as far out of said manservant's way as possible. Passepartout's room was warm with the fire in the grate, cheerful enough with the light of a London morning coming in through the window; bare floor, area rugs, spotless, lamp on the table, pile of books overflowing the seat of a chair near the bed. Passepartout sat propped up in the bed with a tent at the foot of it where the pillows were stacked on which he was to keep his leg elevated, did you hear the doctor, Passepartout, he said elevated, that means in bed, that means off your feet, you may have been an acrobat in your early years but you are not as young as you used to be and I will not have you hopping around the house like some demented Mohawk with your leg tied up behind you. No. You will stay in bed, or you will leave my service, take your pick.
"Well, what do you think, may I go out?"
Passepartout had been dressing Phileas for three years now, and had developed a streak so stern on the matter of dress that Phileas had concluded he had been permanently corrupted by that icily precise Prussian from whom Phileas had won Aurora and valet alike three years ago. It wasn't that Phileas had any serious questions in his mind about his own presentability: but since he to venture forth on the mission to which he had committed himself he could afford to take no chances that Passepartout would find his toilette wanting.
Passepartout frowned and squinted at him, his face still a little pale. Two days after the accident; he was lucky he had escaped with a bad sprain - a bad sprain, the doctor had pointed out very firmly, that would become considerably more serious a long-term issue if it was not rested. A valet could not perform his duties in a rolling-chair and it was better not to give him any ideas along those lines. Phileas could still remember how difficult a time Rebecca had had in Paris, and how generously she had shared it with all of them - "You are not shaving with the right moistiness in the soap," Passepartout said, as though it were the fundamental tragedy of Creation. "Look at you, you are scratchied on the throat. Oh, master. You should let me do that. You have not tried to wear blue stockings have you - "
The very idea. "No, indeed." Phileas lifted the cuff of his trouser-leg, to prove himself an honest man; Passepartout nodded sadly, and lay back against the pillows.
"You are presentable, master," Passepartout sighed. "I am so sorry that you have to do this. But you must remember about Collins. He will always try to give you the wrong ink, master, you must be very firm."
Phileas drew his pocket-book out of his waistcoat pocket and opened it to the appropriate page. "Collins, book-binders. Best quality black India only, Swiss not to be considered, and the special order to be picked up," he read, to prove himself prepared. "If you have what you need to be comfortable, Passepartout, I'll go now, remember what the doctor said about keeping your foot up. Remember what I said, for that matter, is it agreed?"
For just this moment it seemed that Passepartout was just tired enough, just weary enough of being laid up in bed with a bad sprain, that he could only lie there and nod weakly. "I promise, master. I am not getting out of bed unless for the certain purpose. And not leaving my room. On top of my honor, except that I will be worrying so much until you come back."
Phileas knew very well what Passepartout was afraid of, and he couldn't say he blamed the man. It was the reason he'd been as careful dressing as he had been, after all. A man who knew where his own advantage lay would sooner swallow raw garlic dressed with kumquat pulp than expose his valet to embarrassment; and he was going to go and do the shopping.
"I'll do my best, Passepartout," he promised. "Till later, then."
###
Since there was such an issue with the book-seller Phileas decided he had better go there first. The cab he hired was not so out of place; respectable women frequently did their own marketing, he understood, and anybody who could be up and about at this early hour - it was not ten o'clock - had no excuse for it but respectability. He found the shop quite easily, because the cab stopped right in front of it; tipping the man to hold the horse while he did his first errand Phileas went in, a little unsure whether he should remove his hat or not and electing to err on the side of good manners. There might be women present, if not ladies, and women were by definition ladies, unless they were ladies, in which case sometimes they weren't ladies at all but that was by the way. Somebody came out from the back of the shop as he entered; a man of respectable years and admirable bulk that reminded Phileas suddenly and rather unpleasantly of his father - or was it just the air that the man had about him, that made Phileas feel like a boy?
"Yes, sir, and how may I help you, this fine morning."
A raspy voice, very challenging and skeptical. Didn't like gentlemen, obviously, though he was willing to set prejudice aside in the interests of trade. "Thank you, yes, I'm come to pick up some ink, don't you know. Black ink. India ink." The household went through ink more quickly than it had in previous years; his acquaintance with Jules Verne was very punishing, to ink, not only when Jules was visiting but also when Jules was not and Rebecca had to write him long long letters about the state of the world and her cousin Phileas' irresponsible place in it. The shopkeeper nodded knowledgeably and, lifting the counter-gate, came around from behind his counter to invite Phileas to examine a shelf near the side wall.
"India ink, sir, yes, just the thing for a gentleman. I recommend the ink that the monks of the monastery of St. Gall produce, sir, ancient recipe, traditional oak-gall ink, the very best thing. Not for your average gent, no, but you have the look of a man who knows what's what, if you don't mind my saying so."
It was remarkable. All of the right language, and absolutely no trace of sincerity whatsoever. Phileas had a very good notion that the offered ink was no such thing, but it wasn't necessary to make a fuss about it though a quick sniff would certainly have told the tale. He had instructions. He pulled them out.
"Yes, thank you, very good quality indeed, but I'm to specify best quality India ink, you see, it says so. Here, here, you see?" The man's attitude was wearing off, in some sense; Phileas heard himself drop into one of his very most practiced dithers, his very effective impersonation of an absolute twit, with hardly any effort at all. In fact he felt an absolute twit, just at the moment, trying to get a shopkeeper to read his pocket-book, and the shopkeeper wasn't looking at the pocket-book at all.
"No, I'm sorry, sir, it's quite impossible. Quite impossible. I only carry a small quantity of that particular commodity, sir, there's very little profit in it, and if it wasn't for a special customer I wouldn't trifle with that trade at all. Not at all. I can't sell you my best India ink, sir, won't you please consider this very fine Swiss, instead? Black as a raven's wing, sir, very masculine, and a nice scent as well."
This was not working. Only his very first stop, he had several of them to make, and was he to fail at his first hurdle? What would Passepartout say? "I appreciate that. I'm perfectly happy to take a gallon of your finest Swiss. But I must have the best quality India, and I was told very specifically to apply to you and none other for it. - And the special order, if it's ready." Oh, he was glad he'd remembered that; but why was the shopkeeper staring?
"Special order, sir? I have no special orders for a gentleman on the premises. Are you sure you have the right shop? Perhaps someone at the Burlington - "
Phileas shook his head vehemently, feeling desperate. "No, I'm quite sure, I have the address written down, and surely you are Collins. If you aren't Collins I may indeed have the wrong shop, but Passepartout was very careful with the directions, I shall be humiliated if I cannot accomplish so small a thing as the purchase of ink."
"Passepartout," the shopkeeper said, repeating the name a little stupidly. "Passepartout. You. You can't be. You must be Passepartout's Mister."
Quite suddenly Phileas was very sure that he did not want to know exactly what that meant - but it was too late, he was well and truly embroiled in it now -
"Jean Passepartout is my valet. But he's sustained a minor injury. And the only way I could prevail upon him to stay quiet was to insist on doing his rounds for him, I appeal to you, I have come for the best quality India ink, and the special order."
Leaning his head back in the direction of the back of the shop the shopkeeper roared, loudly enough for the sound to carry through that half-open door, through the shop or back room or whatever room or rooms beyond, out the back door and across the alleyway up against the brick wall on the facing side and back again. "Sarah! Sarah, it's Passepartout's Mister, come quick!"
There was a veritable eruption from beyond the wall, through the door, around the counter. Women. Girls. Children. Six or seven, eight of them, all of them coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, and staring at him. Phileas was glad he'd take off his hat. He bowed. "Madame. And, er, Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss." What did he call the children? He was at a loss, but he was fortunate in that because once he had broken the spell by speaking they were clustered all around him and all talking at the same time.
"Passepartout's Mister, where is our Jean, is he all right, and have you been eating your greens as you ought? Where's Passepartout? He promised me a half-a-crown, no, a crown, no, a guinea - " and the shopkeeper started laughing, and waved them all back with a great sweep of both arms.
"Oh, into the back with the lot of you. Mister Fogg, is it. Oh, a very great pleasure, sir, won't you come back and have a cup of tea? The missus and I, we've heard so much about you, and Passepartout is such a favorite with the children."
Phileas could see that. He didn't know quite what to say. "I would be delighted, Collins." He could tell that they wanted to know about Passepartout; Passepartout would doubtless want to know about them, but he'd left the cab to wait, and the man would be wanting his breakfast surely - "But I wonder if one of the children could take a mug out to the cabman out front, would it be too much of an imposition? Because I've got the errands to run, you see, and I did ask him to wait."
The lady of the house nodded vigourously and crowded the children back behind the counter, back through the door. Collins put the latch on the door and winked; "My Abbie will see to it," Collins said. "Do come into the back, Mister Fogg, it's a poor place for a gentleman perhaps but we promise not to keep you longer than to tell us all of Jean's news. That special package is ready. My cousin in Aberystwyth is a chemist, he has a new formula. Fast-trying, but won't foul the nib, just the thing for them as writes too swiftly and doesn't always mind their cuffs."
"Very kind," Phileas agreed, thinking about Jules Verne, and the pen flying across the page like geese across the autumn moon. Yes, very probably fouling his cuffs. - Or was it Rebecca that Passepartout had had in mind?
So he went back into the private, secret portion of the shop, and there were all of those people standing lined up against the walls staring at him with joy and delight in their faces demanding to know where Passepartout was, how Passepartout was, why hadn't he come and was he all right and would he be back and would you tell us again, sir, about the mysterious island, and the mechanical fish? And your airship, truly all that Passepartout says, and is it true that you've been all over the world in it?
The temper of the shop-keeper had undergone so complete a change that Phileas could hardly believe they were the same man. Phileas didn't know who Passepartout's Mister might be - in anything but the most obvious sense - but whoever he was, Passepartout had clearly taught these people to like him, and it was a very pleasant experience to be liked on first encounter with such plain and uncomplicated enthusiasm. Rather like Passepartout himself, in a sense, plain and uncomplicated and enthusiastic - so long as "uncomplicated" was understood not to rule out "complex," because as this experience was demonstrating Passepartout was continuing to show himself more complex a man than Phileas had imagined.
Collins gave him a cup of tea, Phileas gave the children bright shining coins to delight them and promises that Passepartout would be returning very soon; then Collins packed up his ink - best quality India ink, and the special package - and sent him out of the door. The cab-man was sitting at his post drinking a mug of hot tea and talking to little Abigail about the sea-birds on the strand; Collins had a word or two with the man - something about the route, Phileas gathered - and waved him on his way.
There was a telegraph of some sort, operating in the streets of London that morning. He was to go to the iron-monger's next, but when he got to the iron-mongers they were waiting for him - the entire staff - all of them eagerly peering at him, and exchanging glances with each other, and if Phileas hadn't known that he'd been presentable when he'd left the house he would have been forced to check and see whether his hat had sprouted horns or antlers or branches to be stared at, but it was all just because he was Passepartout's Mister. The entire establishment waited on him. Phileas wasn't quite sure what Passepartout was going to do with some of those supplies, let alone that apparatus; but he was content to check the consignment off against the list in his pocket-book and authorize its delivery -- hoping that Mary (who Mrs. McGarrett had sent down from Shillingworth to help out while Passepartout was hors de combat) would not be too alarmed -- before he went on to the drapers' for the next on his list. The chemist's, well, that was obvious, if the range of commodities Passepartout had bespoken was not; the greengrocer's, and the dry goods store last of all, everywhere people coming running to lay eyes on Passepartout's Mister, to stare and smile and giggle and then demand to be told why their Monsieur Jean wasn't coming in person today.
It took hours.
It was late, by the time that Phileas got back to his house, but he couldn't bear to turn down the numberless invitations not only for fear of giving offense - which a gentleman never did except on purpose - but also for fear of failing to measure up to the stature Passepartout's stories and remarks had apparently given "Passepartout's Mister." Just a little bit of biscuit, Mr. Fogg, it's your Jean as suggested to the missus that she add the candied ginger to the mix. A swallow of tea, Mr. Fogg, please, it would please the missus so. Lovely pear, Mr. Fogg, our Mister Jean says we have the best pears in all of London, and he's right of course an't he?
Hours. Phileas rang at the door just to put poor hard-working Mary on alert and then opened it, holding it wide while Mary and the cabby carried the parcels back to the kitchen and listening anxiously for Passepartoutian sounds from the upper floors. "And thank you, sir," the cabby said, touching his cap with the coin Phileas gave him still grasped firmly in his fingers. "Call for me any time, sir, I haven't had such a treat for an abbot's age. Good-evening, Mister Fogg, my best regards to your valet, and I hope his leg is better soon."
As did Phileas. Nodding, he closed the door, and leaned his back up against it for one moment until Mary came hurrying back from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Your coat, sir, here, let me, you must be right famished. Mr. Passepartout's been anxious about your tea, sir, if you'd care to refresh yourself I'll set you up in the study straightaway, if that's all right, sir."
"Lovely, Mary, thank you, I'll be right down." He was tired. At this point he didn't know whether he was going to give Passepartout a rise in his wages immediately - or argue against it when the term came 'round on the grounds of all of the socialization Passepartout was clearly able to accomplish, on his errands. If anything the balance still came down on the side of the rise in wages, though.
He had his tea. Mary didn't know how to do it precisely as Passepartout did, but she was only a senior maid, it wasn't fair to expect a valet's level of expertise from her. His tea in terms of the food that accompanied the beverage was very satisfying, if a little heavier than he usually took; she was used to laying on the teas for the country folk and there would be all the more left for her own supper so Phileas could not grudge that either. After an hour or so of blissful quiet meditation in the study, with his tired feet stretched to the fire and his cup of tea balanced on his knee, Phileas took thought for the man upstairs and went up to report to Passepartout.
Mary was keeping Passepartout comfortable, Phileas was glad to see; the fire was warm and cheerful, and Passepartout had had his tea as well. His bed was covered with parcels from the mornings' errands, and as Phileas knocked and received permission to come in Passepartout struggled to sit up to a more conventionally seated position, his expression anxious. "You were gone for a very long time, master, I was worried about you. But you have got all of the right things. You are good shopper."
Feeling relaxed and pleasantly tired now that he was home Phileas lifted the cane-backed chair near the foot of the bed and asked leave to make himself comfortable with an uplifted eyebrow, which leave was granted with an emphatic nod on Passepartout's part. "Yes, it did take rather longer than I'd anticipated, but all to the good. I met the most fascinating man today, Passepartout."
Passepartout looked intrigued, but a little confused. "Collins, yes, he is very frustrating fellow. He wasn't rude, was he? Perhaps Iverson. Perhaps Sonders?" Naming off names as Phileas continued to shake his head Passepartout's expression became increasingly anxious and confused, which Phileas could not allow; it would spoil the joke, if it became serious.
"No, none of those people, Passepartout, interesting as they all were. And their wives, or their husbands. And their children. And their staffs. No, this fellow was called something like 'Passepartout's Mister.' A remarkable man, very interesting fellow, I was very pleased indeed to make his acquaintance."
Now the confusion on Passepartout's face was mingled and mixed with a little apprehension. "I am not quite sure I am understanding, master. Who would that be if not Mr. Phileas Fogg of London, England?"
A very good question, that, and Phileas was glad to answer it. "That's exactly what I would have thought, Passepartout, and been mistaken, because this gentleman was quite different from the one I know of. An absolute paragon. I only hope I did a good enough job of impersonating him to spare myself humiliation in the future."
Now Passepartout had caught the joke. He smiled broadly with that peculiar air he had of being embarrassed and delighted at once, shaking his head. "Oh, no, master. It is not true. I am swearing to it, that is the same man almost exactly mostly, I am the one who would know."
Passepartout might be the man who would know, but Phileas had had no idea of the generous care Passepartout had apparently taken to present him to the world in so positive a light. Kind-hearted. Warm-spirited. Intelligent, valiant, bold, kind to children and small animals who was so frequently unkind to his own valet; it was transcendent loyalty - loyalty that transcended the daily irritations of daily life, at any rate. Phileas knew better than to think that that was how all valets felt about their masters, let alone how they talked about their masters when their masters weren't there.
"Well." Passepartout had things to beguile himself with, the fruits of Phileas' shopping, and Phileas had to leave so that Passepartout could get on with whatever he had in mind for the lot. Phileas stood up and put the chair back in its place at the foot of the bed - very convenient for a man with a wrenched ankle who wished to get up and sneak around his room without being caught at it by a tyrannous master intent on enforcing the doctor's orders to the letter. For all his effort Phileas knew very well that Passepartout was not absolutely obedient to instruction; he himself never was, and what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the goose's valet. "I won't argue with you, Passepartout, I will only say that I hope to get better at being Passepartout's Mister as we go along together. Now you stay quiet and rest or you won't be permitted out of bed for a sennight."
"Yes, master," Passepartout said; and Phileas let himself out to go sit in the library and wait for dinner.
Passepartout's Mister.
There were worse things to be, and he had been many of them; it was remarkably pleasant to have a glimpse of himself through charitable eyes, for a change, and think that he might be a decent fellow all in all. For such a glimpse into a kind heart much inconvenience - even Mary's kidney pie - was not too heavy a price to pay; and still Phileas could not help hoping that he would never have to do the marketing again so long as he might live.