Have you ever read Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne? I’ve only ever read the beginning and end (ha!) but know the general idea. In 1872, Phileas Fogg of London bets his fortune on a wager that he can travel around the world in 80 days — and with his valet, Passepartout, by his side, he does.
Along the way, he saves a woman’s life, and she accompanies them back to London where, well, I won’t spoil the ending. Just kidding.
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.
Phileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the world in eighty days. To do this he had employed every means of conveyance–steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading vessels, sledges, elephants. The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed all his marvelous qualities of coolness and exactitude. But what then? What had he really gained by all his troubles? What had he brought back from this long and weary journey?
Nothing, say you? Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who, strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men!
Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world?
