11 In which Phileas Fogg pays a phenomenal price for a means of transport The train had left at the scheduled time. It was carrying a fair number of passengers, including some officers, civil servants and traders in opium and indigo who were travelling to the eastern part of the subcontinent on business. Passepartout was in the same carriage as his master. A third traveller had taken his seat in the opposite corner. It was Brigadier-General Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr Fogg’s whist partners during the crossing from Suez to Bombay, who was rejoining his troops stationed near Benares. Sir Francis Cromarty was a tall, fair-haired man aged about fifty who had distinguished himself in action during the last sepoy revolt and could justifiably be considered a native. He had lived in India since his youth and had made only occasional visits to the country of his birth. He was a well-educated man, who would have been pleased to give information about the customs, history and administration of India, if Phileas Fogg had been the sort who would have asked for it. But the English gentleman asked nothing. He was not travelling, he was tracing a circle. He was matter in orbit around the globe, following the laws of physics. At this moment in time he was working out in his head the number of hours spent since leaving London, and he would have rubbed his hands had it been in his nature to make an unnecessary movement. Sir Francis Cromarty was perfectly aware of the eccentricity of his travelling companion, even though he had only had time to study him while playing cards, between two rubbers. He was quite justified, therefore, in wondering whether a human heart did lie beneath this cold exterior, whether Phileas Fogg had any conception of the beauty of nature or any moral aspirations. There had to be some doubt about that. Of all the odd sorts the brigadier-general had met, none of them could stand comparison with this product of the exact sciences. Phileas Fogg had made no effort to conceal from Sir Francis Cromarty his plan of travelling around the world, nor how he intended to carry it out. The brigadier-general considered this bet to be just another example of pointless eccentricity, inevitably lacking in the principle of transire benefaciendo1 that should guide the actions of all reasonable people. At the rate this odd gentleman was going, he was likely to pass through life without doing anything positive, either for himself or for others. One hour after leaving Bombay, the train had crossed the island of Salsette over a series of viaducts and was speeding along the mainland. At Kalyan station it left behind to its right the branch line that went down via Khandala and Poona to the south-east of India and reached Panwell station. At this point it entered the extensive mountain range of the Western Ghats, a formation of trap rock and basalt, whose highest summits are densely wooded. From time to time Sir Francis Cromarty and Phileas Fogg exchanged a few words, and at one point the brigadier-general attempted to revive the flagging conversation: ‘A few years ago, Mr Fogg, you would have suffered a delay at this stage that would probably have jeopardized your whole journey.’ ‘And why is that, Sir Francis?’ ‘Because the railway stopped at the foot of these mountains and they had to be crossed in a palanquin or by pony as far as Khandala station on the other side of the mountains.’ ‘This delay would not have disrupted in the least the organization of my timetable,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘I have been careful to take into account the possibility of encountering certain obstacles.’ ‘Nevertheless, Mr Fogg,’ continued the brigadier-general, ‘you could have had a serious problem on your hands with the business involving this man of yours.’ Passepartout, whose feet were tangled up in his travel rug, was fast asleep, oblivious of the fact that they were talking about him. ‘The British government takes a very serious view, and rightly so, of this kind of offence,’ Sir Francis Cromarty went on. ‘It is particularly anxious to respect the religious practices of India and if your servant had been caught –’ ‘Well, if he’d been caught, Sir Francis,’ replied Mr Fogg, ‘he would have been convicted, he would have served his sentence and then would have returned quietly to Europe. I fail to see how this business could have delayed his master!’ With that the conversation came to an end. During the night the train crossed the Ghats, went through Nasik and the following day, 21 October, sped across the relatively flat landscape of Khandesh. The countryside was well cultivated and dotted with small towns, in which the towers of temples2 replaced the steeples of European churches. Numerous small rivers, most of them tributaries or subtributaries of the Godavari, irrigated this fertile land. When he awoke, Passepartout saw to his amazement that he was crossing the Indian subcontinent in a train belonging to the Great Peninsular Railway. He couldn’t believe it. And yet it really was true. The locomotive, driven by an English engineman and fuelled by English coal, poured out its smoke over plantations of cotton, coffee, nutmeg, cloves and red pepper. The steam spiralled up over clumps of palm trees, between which could be seen picturesque bungalows, a few viharas or monasteries, now in ruins, and some wonderful temples decorated with the inexhaustible richness of detail of Indian architecture. Then there were huge expanses of land stretching as far as the eye could see, jungles teeming with snakes and tigers frightened by the rushing of the train, and finally forests that the route of the railway had sliced through but were still the haunt of elephants, which looked on thoughtfully as the convoy swept breathlessly by. That morning, beyond the station at Malegaon, the travellers went through the forbidding area that was so often the scene of bloody crimes committed by the votaries of the goddess Kali. Not far away they could see Ellora and its wonderful temples and also the famous city of Aurungabad, once the fearsome Aurungzeb’s capital city3 but now merely an administrative town in one of the isolated provinces of the Nizam of Hyderabad’s dominions. This was the area that used to be controlled by Feringheea, the chief of the Thugs, the king of the Stranglers.4 These assassins, who had banded together in an organization that lay beyond the reach of the law, strangled their victims, whatever their age, in honour of the goddess of death without ever shedding blood, and there was a time when it was impossible to dig below the surface of the soil without finding a dead body. The British government has, it is true, succeeded in reducing the number of murders, but this terrifying organization still exists and continues to operate. At half past midday the train stopped in the station at Burhanpur and Passepartout was able to buy, though at considerable expense, a pair of oriental slippers decorated with imitation pearls, which he put on with no attempt to disguise his vanity. The travellers had a quick lunch and set off again for Assurghur station after following for a short time the course of the Tapti, a small river that enters the Gulf of Kambay near Surat. It is worth explaining at this point the thoughts that were going through Passepartout’s mind. Up until his arrival in Bombay, he had believed quite reasonably that that was as far as things would go. But now, since he had been speeding across India, he had undergone a change of mind. His natural instincts had returned with a vengeance. He rediscovered all the fanciful ideas of his younger days; he took his master’s plans seriously; he believed that the bet was for real, as were the journey around the world and the maximum number of days that they mustn’t exceed. Already even he was worrying about possible delays and accidents that might occur on the way. He felt caught up in this bet and trembled at the thought that he might have jeopardized it the previous day by the unforgivable way he had wandered off sightseeing. Therefore, being much less phlegmatic than Mr Fogg, he was much more anxious. He counted over and over the days that had gone, cursing the train every time it halted, accusing it of being too slow, and inwardly criticizing Mr Fogg, for not having offered the driver a reward. The dear fellow did not realize that what was possible on a steamboat was not possible on a railway where the speed is regulated. Towards the evening the train entered the passes through the Satpura Hills, which separate the territory of Khandesh from that of Bundelkhand. The next day, 22 October, in reply to a question from Sir Francis Cromarty, Passepartout had looked at his watch and answered that it was three o’clock in the morning. And, it is true, this famous watch, still set to the Greenwich meridian, which was almost seventy-seven degrees to the west, should have been, and in fact was, four hours slow. Sir Francis therefore corrected the time Passepartout had given him and made the same comment to him as Fix had done. He tried to explain to him that he should set his watch according to each new meridian and that as he was going eastwards, that is towards the sun, the days became shorter by four minutes with each degree passed. It was futile. Whether the stubborn fellow understood or not the brigadier-general’s remark, he solemnly refused to put his watch forward, leaving it permanently on London time. In any case, it was an innocent fixation, which couldn’t harm anyone. At eight o’clock in the morning and fifteen miles from the station at Rothal, the train stopped in the middle of a vast clearing, around which were a few bungalows and workers’ huts. The guard of the train went along the carriages saying, ‘Passengers should alight here.’ Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty, who seemed puzzled by this stop in the middle of a forest of tamarisks and cajuput trees. Passepartout was no less surprised and rushed out along the track, but came back almost immediately, shouting, ‘Sir, the railway’s come to an end.’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked Sir Francis Cromarty. ‘I mean, the train can’t go any further!’ The brigadier-general immediately got out of the carriage. Phileas Fogg followed him but in no hurry. Both of them turned to the guard. ‘Where are we?’ said Sir Francis Cromarty. ‘In the hamlet of Kholby,’ replied the guard. ‘Are we stopping here?’ ‘I assume so. The railway line isn’t finished.’ ‘What? It isn’t finished?’ ‘No. There’s still a section of about fifty miles to complete between here and Allahabad, where the line continues.’ ‘But the newspapers said the railway had been completed!’ ‘What can I say, sir? The newspapers are wrong.’ ‘And yet you still make out the tickets from Bombay to Calcutta?’ continued Sir Francis, who was beginning to get angry. ‘Certainly,’ replied the guard, ‘but passengers are fully aware that they need to find another means of transport from Kholby to Allahabad.’ Sir Francis Cromarty was furious. Passepartout would have cheerfully assaulted the guard, though it really wasn’t his fault. He didn’t dare look at his master. ‘Sir Francis,’ Mr Fogg said simply, ‘we shall, if you agree, decide upon a way of getting to Allahabad.’ ‘Mr Fogg, this is a delay that is extremely prejudicial to your interests, is it not?’ ‘No, Sir Francis. This had been taken into account.’ ‘What? You knew that the line –’ ‘Not at all, but I did know that some obstacle or other would crop up sooner or later on my route. In fact, nothing is in jeopardy. I have two days spare that I can use. There’s a steamer that leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong on the 25th at midday. Today is only the 22nd and we shall get to Calcutta on time.’ There was nothing that could be said in reply to such a categorical statement. It was only too true that the building of the railway had stopped at this point. Newspapers are like certain watches that insist on being fast, and they had prematurely announced the completion of the line. Most of the passengers knew that the line was not finished and when they got out of the train they had taken possession of every type of vehicle available in this small town, four-wheeled palki-gharis,5 carts pulled by zebus, a sort of buffalo with a hump, carriages that looked like mobile temples, palanquins, ponies, etc. The result was that Mr Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after scouring the whole town, returned empty-handed. ‘I shall go on foot,’ said Phileas Fogg. Passepartout, who at this point met up with his master, winced knowingly as he looked down at his magnificent but impractical slippers. Very fortunately he had also been casting around for a solution and he said rather hesitantly, ‘Sir, I think I’ve found a means of transport.’ ‘What sort?’ ‘An elephant! An elephant belonging to an Indian who lives only a hundred yards from here.’ ‘Let’s go and see the elephant,’ replied Mr Fogg. Five minutes later Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty and Passepartout arrived at a hut adjoining an enclosure surrounded by a high fence. In the hut was an Indian and in the enclosure an elephant. As requested, the Indian let Mr Fogg and his two companions into the enclosure. There they came upon an animal that was half tamed, which his master was rearing not as a beast of burden but for combat. With this aim in mind he had begun to change the animal’s naturally gentle temperament, in order to arouse him gradually to a state of excitement and frenzy, which the Indians call ‘musth’, and to do this he fed him for three months with sugar and butter. This treatment may seem inappropriate for the intended result, but it was none the less employed successfully by elephant trainers. Very fortunately for Mr Fogg, the elephant in question had only just been put on to this diet and had not yet reached a state of ‘musth’. Kiouni – this was the animal’s name – was capable, like all members of its species, of walking long distances at considerable speed, and in the absence of another means of transport Phileas Fogg decided to use him. Elephants are, however, expensive in India, as they are becoming rare. The males, the only ones that can be used in circus acts, are highly sought after. These animals rarely reproduce in captivity, with the result that they can only be obtained by being captured in the wild. They are therefore looked after with great care, and when Mr Fogg asked the Indian if he could hire his elephant, the Indian refused categorically. Fogg persisted and offered too high a price for the beast, £10 per hour. No. £20? No again. £40? Still no. Passepartout was more and more horrified as the price offered went up, but the Indian would not give in. It was a considerable amount of money, though. Assuming that it would take fifteen hours for the animal to get to Allahabad, that was £600 that it would make for its owner. Without betraying the least sign of emotion, Phileas Fogg then made the Indian a proposal to buy his beast, offering him first of all £1,000. The Indian didn’t want to sell. Perhaps the cunning fellow had sensed he could make a very good deal. Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr Fogg aside and urged him to think carefully before going any further. Phileas Fogg replied to his companion that it was not in his habit to act without careful thought, that what was at stake was a bet of £20,000, that this elephant was vital for him, and that, even if he had to pay twenty times its value, he would have the animal. Mr Fogg went back to the Indian, whose little eyes had lit up with greed, proof that for him all that mattered was the price. Phileas Fogg offered successively £1,200, then £1,500, then £1,800 and finally £2,000. Passepartout, who had such a ruddy complexion normally, was white as a sheet. At £2,000 the Indian gave in. ‘Bless my slippers!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘That’s an expensive price for a piece of elephant meat.’ The deal was done and all that was left was to find a guide. This proved easier. A young, intelligent-looking Parsee offered his services. Mr Fogg agreed and promised him a considerable sum of money in return, a sure way of stimulating his intelligence even further. The elephant was led in and got ready without delay. The Parsee knew the job of mahout, or elephant driver, inside out. He covered the elephant’s back with a sort of saddle-cloth and set up, one on each side of the animal’s flanks, two rather uncomfortable-looking baskets. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian in banknotes, which came out of his famous bag. It really looked as if they were being surgically removed from Passepartout’s insides! Then Mr Fogg offered to take Sir Francis to the station at Allahabad. The brigadiergeneral accepted. One extra traveller would not make any difference for this enormous animal. They purchased provisions at Kholby. Sir Francis Cromarty took up his place in one of the baskets and Phileas Fogg in the other. Passepartout sat astride the saddle-cloth between his master and the brigadier-general. The Parsee perched himself on the elephant’s neck and at nine o’clock the animal left the small town and, taking the shortest route, plunged straight into the dense forest of fan palms. 12 Where Phileas Fogg and his companions venture into the Indian jungle, and what this leads to The guide, in order to shorten the distance to be travelled, veered away left from the intended route of the railway, which was still under construction. Because of the severe difficulties posed by the terrain of the Vindhya Mountains, this intended route was far from being the most direct, the one which would have best suited Phileas Fogg. The Parsee, who was very well acquainted with the roads and paths of the area, claimed that he could gain twenty miles by cutting across the forest, and they relied on his judgement. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, their heads barely visible above their baskets, were severely shaken about by the stiff way in which the elephant moved, urged on as fast as possible by his mahout. But they put up with the situation with typically British composure, though they spoke rarely and could hardly see each other. Passepartout, for his part, perched on the beast’s back, felt all the ups and downs of its movement and was careful, as his master had told him, not to put his tongue between his teeth so as not to accidentally bite it off. The dear fellow was sometimes hurled forward on to the elephant’s neck and at other times thrown backward on to its rump, as if he was doing acrobatics like a clown on a trampoline. But he was joking and laughing while leaping up in the air, and from time to time he pulled out of his bag a lump of sugar, which the clever Kiouni took with the end of his trunk, without for a moment breaking his steady trot. After travelling for two hours the guide stopped the elephant and gave him an hour’s rest. The animal devoured branches and small bushes, having first quenched its thirst in a nearby pool. Sir Francis Cromarty was not sorry for the halt. He was exhausted. Mr Fogg seemed as fresh as if he had just got out of bed. ‘He must be a man of iron!’ said the brigadier-general, looking at him admiringly. ‘A man of steel,’ replied Passepartout, who was busy preparing a simple lunch. At midday the guide gave the signal to move on. The countryside became very wild. The great forests gave way to thickets of tamarinds and dwarf palms, then to vast arid plains, bristling with stunted shrubs and dotted with huge blocks of syenite.1 This whole, littlevisited part of Upper Bundelkhand is inhabited by religious fanatics who practise the most extreme form of Hinduism. The British have not been able to assert their authority properly over the area, which is still ruled by rajahs protected by the inaccessibility of their mountain fastnesses. Several times they caught sight of groups of fierce-looking Indians, who made angry gestures when they saw the speedy quadruped. In any case, the Parsee avoided them as far as possible, considering them unsavoury individuals. They saw few animals that day, except for the occasional monkey that ran off gesticulating wildly and making funny faces, much to Passepartout’s amusement. One thing particularly concerned the dear fellow. What would Mr Fogg do with the elephant once they had reached Allahabad? Would he take it with them? That was impossible! The cost of transporting it on top of the cost of buying it would be a financial disaster. Would it be sold, or allowed back into the wild? This admirable beast really did deserve special consideration. If by any chance Mr Fogg gave it to him as a present, he, Passepartout, would be in a very awkward position. This problem preyed on his mind constantly. By eight o’clock in the evening the travellers had got across the main chain of the Vindhyas and halted on the northern side, at a ruined bungalow. They had travelled that day a distance of about twenty-five miles, and they had about the same distance left before reaching the station at Allahabad. The night was chilly. Inside the bungalow, the Parsee made a fire with dead branches and its warmth was very welcome. Supper consisted of the provisions bought in Kholby. The travellers were almost too exhausted and shaken about to eat. What began as a desultory conversation soon gave way to loud snoring. The guide kept watch over Kiouni, who slept on his feet, resting against the trunk of a large tree. Nothing happened during the night. The roaring of the occasional cheetah and panther sometimes disturbed the silence, along with the high-pitched chattering of monkeys. But the flesh-eating animals did no more than howl and made no attempt to attack the temporary residents of the bungalow. Sir Francis Cromarty slept soundly like a good soldier worn out by combat. Passepartout, sleeping restlessly, relived all the jolts and bumps he had experienced the previous day. As for Mr Fogg, he slept as peacefully as if he was back in the quiet of his home in Savile Row. At six o’clock in the morning they set off again. The guide hoped to arrive at the station in Allahabad that very evening. This way Mr Fogg would only lose some of the forty-eight hours that he had saved since the beginning of the journey. They went down the final slopes of the Vindhyas. Kiouni was advancing swiftly again. Towards midday, the guide skirted around the small town of Kalinjar, situated on the Cani, one of the minor tributaries of the Ganges. He always avoided places that were inhabited, feeling more secure in the deserted countryside, the lowlying area where the catchment basin of the great river begins. The station at Allahabad was less than twelve miles to the north-east. They halted beneath a clump of banana trees. Their fruit, as wholesome as bread and ‘as succulent as cream’, according to travellers’ reports, was greatly appreciated. At two o’clock the guide entered the cover of a dense forest, across which he had to travel for several miles. He preferred going this way, sheltered by the woods. In any case, so far there had been no untoward event and it looked as if the journey would be completed without incident when suddenly the elephant showed signs of nervousness and stopped in its tracks. It was then four o’clock. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sir Francis Cromarty, raising his head above the basket. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ said the Parsee, trying to make out a strange noise that was coming through the thick foliage. A few minutes later, the noise became easier to identify. It sounded like a concert, still a long way off, with human voices and brass musical instruments. Passepartout was all eyes and ears. Mr Fogg waited patiently, without saying a word. The Parsee jumped to the ground, tied the elephant to a tree and went into the depths of the undergrowth. A few minutes later he came back, saying: ‘It’s a procession of Hindu priests, heading towards us. Let’s try to avoid being seen.’ The guide untied the elephant and led it to a copse, urging the travellers not to get down. He himself stood ready to jump quickly back on to the animal if it became necessary to make a hasty retreat. But he thought that the group of worshippers would go past without noticing him, because he was completely hidden by the thick foliage. The grating noise of the voices and instruments was getting nearer. Monotonous chanting mingled with the sound of drums and cymbals. Soon the head of the procession appeared beneath the trees about fifty yards from Mr Fogg and his companions. They could easily make out through the branches the strange celebrants of this religious ceremony. At the front came the priests, wearing mitres and long, brightly decorated robes. They were surrounded by men, women and children, who were chanting a sort of funeral hymn, interrupted at regular intervals by the playing of gongs and cymbals. Behind them, on a cart with large wheels, the spokes and rims of which represented intertwined snakes, there appeared a hideous statue pulled by two pairs of zebus richly decked out. The statue had four arms. Its body was dark red, its eyes wild and staring, its hair tangled, its tongue lolling and its lips dyed with henna and betel juice. Around its neck was draped a garland of death’s heads and around its waist a girdle of severed hands. It was standing over a felled giant, whose head had been cut off. Sir Francis Cromarty recognized the statue. ‘The goddess Kali,’ he murmured, ‘the goddess of love and death.’ ‘The goddess of death, I agree, but the goddess of love, never!’ said Passepartout. ‘What an ugly-looking woman.’ The Parsee motioned to him to be quiet. Around the statue a group of elderly fakirs were working themselves up into a furious frenzy. Their bodies were streaked with bright yellow markings and covered with cross-shaped incisions from which blood was oozing. These are the same mindless fanatics who in the great Hindu ceremonies still throw themselves under the wheels of the Car of Juggernaut.2 Behind them a few Hindu priests, in the full splendour of their oriental costumes, were dragging along a woman who could barely stay on her feet. The woman was young and with a skin as white as a European’s. Her head, neck, shoulders, ears, arms, hands and toes were laden with jewels, necklaces, bracelets, earrings and rings. A tunic spangled with gold and covered with a thin muslin veil revealed the beauty of her figure. Behind this young woman, in stark contrast, guards armed with bare sabres sticking out of their belts and long inlaid pistols carried a body on a litter. It was the body of an elderly man, dressed in the sumptuous clothes of a rajah, wearing as in life a turban embroidered with pearls, a flowing robe woven with silk and gold, a sash of diamond-studded cashmere and the magnificent weapons of an Indian prince. The procession ended with a group of musicians and a rearguard of fanatics, whose shouts sometimes drowned out the deafening din of the instruments. Sir Francis watched all this pomp and ceremony with a particularly sad expression and, as he turned towards his guide, he said, ‘It’s a suttee!’3 The Parsee nodded in agreement and put a finger to his lips. The long procession wound its way slowly among the trees and soon its last members disappeared into the depths of the forest. Gradually the singing died away. There were still some occasional distant shouts, but finally all this commotion gave way to a deep silence. Phileas Fogg had heard what Sir Francis Cromarty had said and, as soon as the procession had disappeared, he asked, ‘What is a suttee?’ ‘A suttee, Mr Fogg,’ replied the brigadier-general, ‘is a human sacrifice, but a voluntary sacrifice. The woman you have just seen will be burnt tomorrow at first light.’ ‘Oh, the wretches!’ exclaimed Passepartout, unable to hold back this cry of indignation. ‘And what about the corpse?’ asked Mr Fogg. ‘It’s her husband, the prince,’ replied the guide, ‘an independent rajah from Bundelkhand.’ ‘What!’ continued Phileas Fogg, without letting the slightest sign of emotion show in his voice. ‘Are these barbaric customs still practised in India without the British being able to stamp them out?’ ‘In most of India,’ replied Sir Francis Cromarty, ‘these sacrifices are no longer carried out, but we have no influence in these savage parts and especially in this region of Bundelkhand. The whole of the area to the north of the Vindhyas is the scene of constant acts of murder and plunder.’ ‘The poor woman!’ murmured Passepartout. ‘Burnt alive!’ ‘Yes,’ continued the brigadier-general, ‘and if she wasn’t, you wouldn’t believe what a terrible fate would await her at the hands of her relatives. She would have her head shaved, be given only a few handfuls of rice to eat, be disowned, considered unclean and left to die in some corner like a mangy dog. So it’s the prospect of such an appalling existence that often drives these unfortunate women to sacrifice themselves, rather than love or religious fanaticism. Sometimes, however, the sacrifice really is voluntary and it takes the energetic intervention of the governor to prevent it. For example, a few years ago, when I was living in Bombay, a young widow came to ask the governor permission to be burnt along with the body of her husband. As you might imagine, the governor said no. So the widow went away and sought refuge with an independent rajah and there she went through with her sacrifice.’ While the brigadier-general was telling this story the guide shook his head, and after it was finished, he said, ‘The sacrifice taking place tomorrow is not voluntary.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Everybody in Bundelkhand knows about this business,’ replied the guide. ‘Nevertheless, the poor woman didn’t seem to be putting up any resistance,’ remarked Sir Francis Cromarty. ‘That’s because they’ve drugged her by making her inhale hashish and opium fumes.’ ‘But where is she being taken to?’ ‘To the temple at Pillagi, two miles from here. She’ll spend the night there, waiting until the time comes for the sacrifice.’ ‘Which will be … ?’ ‘Tomorrow, at first light.’ After this reply the guide led the elephant out from the thick undergrowth and hoisted himself on to the elephant’s neck. But just when he was about to get the animal going by making a particular whistling sound, Mr Fogg stopped him and, turning to Sir Francis Cromarty, said, ‘What if we rescued this woman?’ ‘Rescued this woman, Mr Fogg!’ exclaimed the brigadiergeneral. ‘I still have twelve hours spare. I can certainly devote them to this.’ ‘Well, well! So you do have feelings after all!’ said Sir Francis Cromarty. ‘Sometimes,’ replied Phileas Fogg simply. ‘When I have the time.’ 13 In which Passepartout proves once again that fortune favours the bold The plan was daring, fraught with difficulty and perhaps impossible. Mr Fogg was going to risk his life, or at least his freedom, and thereby the success of his project, but he had no hesitation. In any case he had in Sir Francis Cromarty a staunch ally. Passepartout, for his part, was ready for action and he was at their command. His master’s idea filled him with enthusiasm. He realized there was a heart and a soul beneath this cold exterior. He was beginning to take to Phileas Fogg. There remained the guide. Whose side would he take in this business? Wouldn’t he be for the Indians? Even if he wouldn’t help them, they needed to make sure he remained neutral. Sir Francis Cromarty asked the question point blank. ‘Sir,’ replied the guide, ‘I’m a Parsee and this woman is a Parsee. I’m at your command.’ ‘Good,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘Nevertheless, you must realize,’ continued the Parsee, ‘that we’re in danger not only of losing our lives, but also of being horribly tortured if we’re captured. So think about it.’ ‘We have,’ answered Mr Fogg. ‘I feel we must wait until nightfall before taking action.’ ‘So do I,’ said the guide. The worthy Indian then gave some details about the victim. She was an Indian lady famous for her beauty, a Parsee by race and the daughter of a wealthy family of Bombay merchants. She had received a thoroughly English upbringing in the city and from her manners and her schooling she could have been taken for a European. Her name was Aouda.1 After being orphaned she had been married against her will to this elderly rajah from Bundelkhand. Three months later she was widowed. Knowing the fate that awaited her, she ran away but was immediately caught, and the relatives of the rajah, who would benefit from her death, condemned her to this punishment, from which she seemed to have no escape. This story could only strengthen Mr Fogg and his companions in their generous resolve. It was decided that the guide would lead the elephant towards the temple of Pillagi, which he would get as near to as possible. Half an hour later they came to a halt in a thicket, 500 yards from the temple, which they could not see, but the howling of the fanatics could be clearly heard. They then discussed how to reach the victim. The guide knew this temple, in which he said the young woman was being held prisoner. Would it be possible to get in through one of the doors while the group were deep in a drugged stupor, or would they have to make a hole in the wall? It was not possible to come to a decision there and then. But what was beyond doubt was that the rescue would have to take place that night, and not the next day when the victim was being taken to her death. By that time no human intervention would be able to save her. Mr Fogg and his companions waited for night to fall. As soon as the light began to fade, towards six in the evening, they decided to reconnoitre the area around the temple. The final shouts of the fakirs were dying away as they did so. As was their habit, the Indians must have been in a drug-induced stupor, the result of taking bhang, liquid opium mixed with an infusion of hashish. It would perhaps therefore be possible to slip past them to get to the temple. Guiding Mr Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty and Passepartout, the Parsee advanced through the forest without making a sound. After crawling for about ten minutes through the thick undergrowth, they reached the edge of a small river and there by the light of iron torches tipped with burning resin, they glimpsed a carefully constructed wood pile. It was the funeral pyre, made from precious sandalwood, and already soaked in sweet-smelling oils. On the upper part rested the embalmed body of the rajah, which was to be burnt at the same time as his widow. A hundred yards from the pyre stood the temple, whose towers reached up into the darkened treetops. ‘Come on,’ whispered the guide. Then, taking even more care and with his companions following him, he crept silently through the tall grass. The silence was now broken only by the soughing of the wind in the branches. Soon the guide stopped at the edge of a clearing. A few torches lit up the area. The ground was strewn with groups of people asleep, sunk in a drug-induced stupor. It looked like a battlefield covered with corpses. Men, women and children were all lying together. Here and there a few drunken bodies let out groans. In the background, between the mass of trees, the temple of Pillagi could be dimly seen. But to the great disappointment of the guide, the rajah’s guards, illuminated by the smoke-blackened torches, were keeping watch at the doors and were walking around with their sabres drawn. It could safely be assumed that inside the priests were also keeping watch. The Parsee did not move any further forward. He had realized the impossibility of forcing their way into the temple, and he made his companions move back. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty had understood, like him, that they couldn’t attempt anything on that side. They stopped and spoke to one another in a whisper. ‘Let’s wait,’ said the brigadier-general, ‘it’s still only eight o’clock and it’s possible that the guards will also fall asleep.’ ‘Yes, that’s quite possible,’ replied the Parsee. So Phileas Fogg and his companions lay down at the foot of a tree and waited. To them time seemed to go by very slowly. The guide left them from time to time and went to look at the edge of the wood. The rajah’s guards were still keeping watch by the glare of the torches, and a faint trickle of light was coming through the windows of the temple. They waited like this until midnight. There was no change in the situation and the guards remained outside. It was obvious that the guards couldn’t be relied on to succumb to drowsiness. They had probably been spared the effects of the bhang. So there would have to be another solution, getting in through an opening that would have to be made in the temple walls. There remained the problem of knowing whether the priests were keeping as careful a watch over their victim as were the soldiers at the gate of the temple. After a final conversation, the guide said he was ready to move. Mr Fogg, Sir Francis and Passepartout followed him. They made quite a long detour in order to reach the temple by the back of the building. At about half past midnight they arrived at the foot of the walls without encountering anyone. No attempt had been made to guard this side, but it must be said that there were absolutely no windows or doors. The night was dark. The moon, then in its final quarter, was hardly above the horizon and was obscured by heavy clouds. The height of the trees further increased the darkness. But getting to the foot of the walls wasn’t the end of it. They still had to make an opening in them. For this operation Phileas Fogg and his companions had absolutely nothing except their pocket knives. Very fortunately the temple walls were made of a mixture of brick and wood that couldn’t be difficult to get through. As soon as one brick had been removed the others would come away easily. They got down to work, making as little noise as possible. The Parsee on one side and Passepartout on the other set about dislodging the bricks, in order to make an opening two feet wide. The work was progressing when suddenly a shout rang out inside the temple and almost immediately there was more shouting in reply from outside. Passepartout and the guide broke off what they were doing. Had they been spotted? Had someone raised the alarm? The most basic common sense dictated that they should move away, which is what they did, at the same time as Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty. They crouched back down under the cover of the wood, waiting for the alarm, if that is what it was, to be over, and ready in that case to resume their work. But by an unfortunate turn of events some guards showed up at the back of the temple and took up position there in order to prevent anyone getting near. It would be hard to describe the disappointment of the four men, stopped before their task was complete. Now that they couldn’t reach the victim how could they rescue her? Sir Francis Cromarty was fuming. Passepartout was beside himself with anger, and the guide had difficulty restraining him. The impassive Fogg waited without showing his feelings. ‘All we can do is go away, isn’t it?’ whispered the brigadiergeneral. ‘All we can do is go away,’ replied the guide. ‘Wait,’ said Fogg. ‘All I need is to be in Allahabad by midday.’ ‘But what are you hoping for?’ asked Sir Francis. ‘In a few hours it will be daylight, and–’ ‘Our luck may change at the vital moment.’ The brigadier-general would have liked to have been able to read the expression on Phileas Fogg’s face. So what was this cold Englishman counting on? Did he want, just as the young woman was to be sacrificed, to rush towards her and snatch her from the grasp of her executioners in full view of everyone? It would have been an act of madness, and how could anyone think him as mad as that? Nevertheless, Sir Francis Cromarty agreed to wait until the final act of this horrible drama. However, the guide did not allow his companions to stay in the place where they had sought refuge and he led them back to another part of the clearing. From there, under the shelter of a clump of trees, they would be able to observe the groups of people asleep. Meanwhile Passepartout, perched on the lowest branches of a tree, was turning over in his mind an idea that had first occurred to him in a flash and that had now taken a firm hold. He had said to himself at first, ‘This is madness,’ and now he kept on repeating to himself, ‘Why not, after all? It’s a possibility, perhaps the only one, and with maniacs like these around …’ In any case, Passepartout spent no more time organizing his thoughts, but instead, with the agility of a snake, he slithered along the lower branches of the tree, which reached almost down to the ground. Time was passing and soon a few hints of light suggested that dawn was on its way. However, it was still quite dark. Now was the moment. The sleeping crowd showed signs of coming back to life. People were stirring. The striking of gongs could be heard. Chanting and shouting burst out again. The time had come for the unfortunate woman to die. At that very moment the doors of the temple opened. The light coming from inside became brighter. Mr Fogg and Sir Francis were able to see the victim, now clearly illuminated, being dragged out by two priests. They even thought that by a supreme effort of selfpreservation, the unfortunate woman was shaking off the effects of her drug-induced drowsiness and attempting to escape from her executioners. Sir Francis Cromarty’s heart leapt and, impulsively seizing Phileas Fogg’s hand, he realized that the latter was holding an open knife. At that point the crowd began to move forward. The young woman had relapsed into the torpor induced by the hashish fumes. She went past the fakirs, who were accompanying her with their religious incantations. Phileas Fogg and his companions, merging with those at the back of the crowd, followed her. Two minutes later they reached the edge of the river and stopped less than fifty yards from the funeral pyre, where the rajah’s body was laid out. In the semi-darkness they could see the victim looking absolutely lifeless, lying next to her husband’s corpse. Then a torch was brought forward and the wood, which had been soaked with oil, caught fire immediately. At that moment, Sir Francis Cromarty and the guide attempted to restrain Phileas Fogg, who in a moment of generous insanity began to rush towards the pyre. But Phileas Fogg had already pushed them back when the scene suddenly changed. A cry of terror rang out. The whole crowd flung themselves to the ground in fear. So the old rajah was not dead after all? Suddenly he rose to his feet like a ghost, lifted the young woman up in his arms and stepped down from the pyre amid the swirling smoke, looking like a ghostly apparition. The fakirs, guards and priests were overcome with a sudden terror and remained prostrate, not daring to raise their eyes to behold this supernatural event. The unconscious victim was taken up and carried away by a pair of strong arms as if she were as light as a feather. Mr Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty had remained standing. The Parsee had bowed his head and no doubt Passepartout was equally amazed. So it was that the ghostly apparition got near to where Mr Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty were standing and there it said curtly, ‘Let’s get out of here!’ It was Passepartout himself who had crept towards the pyre in the midst of the thick smoke! It was Passepartout who, taking advantage of the fact that it was still pitch dark, had snatched the young woman from her death. It was Passepartout who, playing his role with consummate daring, had walked through the terror-struck crowd! A moment later the four disappeared into the wood and the elephant carried them swiftly away. But shouting and screaming and even a bullet, which went through Phileas Fogg’s hat, were proof that their ruse had been discovered. The body of the old rajah could now be clearly seen on the burning pyre. The priests had recovered from their fright and now realized that a rescue had just taken place. Immediately they rushed into the forest, followed by the guards. A volley of shots rang out, but the rescuers fled rapidly and within a few moments they were beyond the range of the bullets and arrows. 14 In which Phileas Fogg travels the whole length of the wonderful valley of the Ganges without thinking it worth a look The bold rescue plan had come off. An hour later Passepartout was still revelling in his success. Sir Francis Cromarty had shaken the intrepid fellow’s hand. His master had said to him ‘well done’, which, coming from the gentleman in question, was the equivalent of the highest praise, to which Passepartout had replied that all the credit lay with his master. All that he had done was to have a ‘daft’ idea and he was still amused by the thought that for a few moments he, Passepartout, the former gymnast and ex-fireman, had been this charming lady’s widower, an elderly embalmed rajah. As for the young Indian lady, she had not been aware of what had happened. Wrapped in travel rugs, she was resting in one of the baskets. Meanwhile the elephant, under the expert guidance of the Parsee, was advancing rapidly through the forest, where it was still dark. An hour after leaving the temple of Pillagi the elephant began to cross an immense plain. At seven o’clock they made a halt. The young woman was still completely prostrate. The guide gave her a few drops of water and brandy to drink, but her drugged state would last some time longer. Sir Francis Cromarty, who was well aware of the effects of inhaling the hashish fumes, had no worries on her score. However, if the young Indian woman’s recovery was not in doubt, her safety was, in the brigadier-general’s mind, quite another matter. He was not afraid to say to Mr Fogg that if she remained in India she would inevitably fall into the hands of her would-be executioners. These fanatics were to be found over the whole of the subcontinent, and it was certain that despite the best efforts of the British police they would succeed in recapturing their victim, whether it be in Madras, Bombay or Calcutta. To back up his argument Sir Francis quoted a similar recent case. In his opinion the young woman would only really be safe once she had left India. Phileas Fogg replied that he would take account of these remarks and would then make up his mind accordingly. At about ten o’clock the guide announced that they had arrived at the station in Allahabad. This was where the railway line picked up again and from where trains took less than a day and a night to cover the distance between Allahabad and Calcutta. Phileas Fogg should therefore arrive in time to catch a steamer that didn’t leave for Hong Kong until midday the following day, 25 October. They installed the young woman in a waiting-room at the station. Passepartout was given the task of going out to buy her various items of clothing, a dress, a shawl, furs, etc., whatever he could find. His master set no limit on how much he could spend. Passepartout left immediately and went all around the town. Allahabad is the city of God, one of the holiest cities in India, because it is built where two sacred rivers meet, the Ganges and the Jumna, whose waters attract pilgrims from the whole subcontinent. In addition, it is well known that, according to the legends of the Ramayana,1 the Ganges has its source in the heavens from where, thanks to Brahma, it comes down to this earth. As he made his purchases it didn’t take Passepartout long to see the whole of the town, which in the past had been defended by a magnificent fort that is now a state prison. There were no longer any businesses or industries in what had previously been an important commercial and industrial centre. Passepartout searched in vain for a department store as if he was in Oxford Street, but he had to go to a second-hand shop run by a pernickety old Jew to find the items he needed, a tartan dress, a large cloak and a magnificent fur coat made out of otter’s skin, which he had no hesitation in paying £75 for. Then he returned in triumph to the station. Mrs Aouda was beginning to come round. The effect of the drug administered by the priests of Pillagi was gradually wearing off, and her beautiful eyes were recovering all their gentle Indian charm. Celebrating the beauty of the queen of Ahmadnagar, the poet-king Yusuf Adil2 wrote as follows: Her glistening hair, carefully parted, frames the gently flowing outline of her delicate white cheeks that gleam with a smooth sheen. Her eyebrows, dark as ebony, have the shape and strength of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her silky long eyelashes, in the dark pupils of her large clear eyes, there shimmer, as in the sacred lakes of the Himalayas, the purest reflections of celestial light. Her delicate, perfect white teeth shine out between smiling lips, like dewdrops in the half-closed cups of a pomegranate flower. Her dainty, perfectly shaped ears, her rose-red hands, her tiny feet, rounded and delicate like lotus buds, sparkle like the finest Ceylon pearls and the most dazzling Golconda diamonds. Her slender, supple waist, which a single hand could enclasp, sets off the elegant curve of her back and the fulsomeness of her bosom, in which the flowering of youth spreads forth its most perfect treasures, and, beneath the silken folds of her garments, she seems as if crafted in pure silver by the divine hand of Viswakarma,3 the sculptor of the gods. Putting aside these rhetorical flourishes, it is enough to say that Mrs Aouda, the widow of the rajah of Bundelkhand, was a charming woman, in the full European sense of the word. She spoke perfect English and the guide had certainly not been exaggerating when he said that this young Parsee woman had been transformed by her education. Meanwhile the train was about to leave Allahabad station. The Parsee was waiting. Mr Fogg paid him his wages at the agreed rate, and not a penny extra. Passepartout was surprised at this because he realized how much his master owed to the guide’s devotion to duty. After all the Parsee had willingly risked his life in the Pillagi business, and if he was later caught by the Hindus, he was unlikely to escape their vengeance. There remained the question of Kiouni. What was to be done with an elephant that had cost so much? But Phileas Fogg had already made up his mind about this matter. ‘Parsee,’ he said to the guide, ‘you have been helpful and devoted. I have paid for your help but not for your devotion. Would you like this elephant? If so, he is yours.’ The guide’s eyes lit up. ‘Your honour is giving me a fortune!’ he exclaimed. ‘Take it, guide,’ replied Mr Fogg, ‘but even then I shall still be in your debt.’ ‘Well done!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘Take it, my friend! Kiouni is a trusty and courageous animal!’ Then he went up to the beast and gave him a few lumps of sugar, saying: ‘Here, Kiouni. Here.’ The elephant gave out a few grunts of satisfaction. Then he took Passepartout by the waist and, wrapping his trunk around him, lifted him as high as his head. Passepartout showed no sign of fear and stroked the animal, which put him gently back on the ground. So, having received from the faithful Kiouni an elephant handshake, the dear fellow returned the compliment by taking the animal by the trunk and giving him a hearty human one. A few minutes later Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty and Passepartout were installed in a comfortable carriage, in which Mrs Aouda had the best seat, and were speeding towards Benares. It is only eighty miles at the outside between the latter and Allahabad and it took just two hours to cover them. During the journey the young woman came round completely. The effects of the hashish fumes had fully worn off. It is easy to imagine her surprise at finding herself on a railway, in this compartment, wearing European clothes and surrounded by travellers who were total strangers! First of all her companions showed her every care and attention and revived her with a few drops of spirits. Then the brigadier-general recounted what had befallen her. He stressed the devotion of Phileas Fogg, how he had not hesitated to put his own life at risk to rescue her, and the final outcome of the adventure, thanks to Passepartout’s bold stroke. Mr Fogg added nothing to the account. Passepartout looked very embarrassed and kept saying, ‘It was nothing.’ Mrs Aouda thanked her rescuers profusely, by her tears more than by her words. More than her lips it was her beautiful eyes that expressed her gratitude. Then, as her thoughts returned to the scene of the suttee and as she looked out again on the land of India, where so many dangers still awaited her, she suddenly shuddered with fear. Phileas Fogg realized what was going through Mrs Aouda’s mind and to reassure her he offered, albeit without showing any sign of emotion, to accompany her to Hong Kong, where she would stay until this whole business died down. Mrs Aouda gratefully accepted the offer. It was in Hong Kong in fact that one of her relatives lived, a Parsee like her, and one of the most important merchants in this city, which is thoroughly English, even though it is off the coast of China. At half past midday, the train stopped in the station at Benares. Hindu legend has it that the present city stands on the site of the ancient Kasi, which was formerly suspended in space between the zenith and the nadir, like Mohammed’s tomb.4 But in these more prosaic times Benares, the Athens of India according to orientalists, had come back down to earth with a jolt, and for a moment Passepartout was able to glimpse its brick houses and its wattle huts, which give it an absolutely desolate appearance, devoid of all local colour. This is where Sir Francis Cromarty was due to end his journey. The troops he was returning to were encamped a few miles to the north of the town. The brigadier-general therefore said his farewells to Phileas Fogg, wished him every success, and expressed the hope that he would continue his journey in a less eccentric but more profitable way. Mr Fogg lightly shook his companion’s hand. Mrs Aouda’s leavetaking showed far more affection. She would never forget what she owed Sir Francis Cromarty. As for Passepartout, he was given the honour of a real handshake by the brigadier-general. Visibly moved, he wondered where and when and how he might be able to be of service to him. Then they went their separate ways. After Benares the railway went through part of the valley of the Ganges. When the weather was clear they could see, out of the windows of the carriage, the varied landscape of Bihar, then greenclad mountains, fields of barley, maize and wheat, rivers and pools infested with greenish alligators, well-kept villages and luxuriant forests. Some elephants and zebus with big humps went down to bathe in the waters of the sacred river, as did, despite the late time of year and the already low temperature, groups of Hindus of both sexes, who were ritually purifying themselves. These believers, sworn enemies of Buddhism, are faithful followers of the religion of Brahma, who is incarnated in three forms: Vishnu, the sun-god, Shiva, the divine personification of the forces of nature, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and law-givers. But what could Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu be thinking of the now ‘Britannicized’ India that they looked on from above as a steamboat shrilly chugged past, disturbing the holy waters of the Ganges and scaring away the gulls that flew over its surface, the tortoises swarming along the riverbank and the faithful lying along its shores! This whole panorama went past in a flash, and often its details were hidden by a cloud of smoke. The travellers scarcely managed a glimpse of the fort at Chunar, twenty miles southwest of Benares, the former stronghold of the rajahs of Bihar, Ghazipur and its large rosewater factories, the tomb of Lord Cornwallis,5 erected on the left bank of the Ganges, the fortified town of Buxar, the large manufacturing and trading centre of Patna, with the largest opium market in India, and Monghyr, a town that is not merely European but as English as Manchester or Birmingham,6 famous for its iron foundries, its hardware and arms factories, and whose tall chimneys belch out black smoke into Brahma’s heavens – an affront to this idyllic landscape. Then night came, and amid the howling of the tigers, bears and wolves that fled from the locomotive, the train went along at full speed, and nothing more could be seen of the beauties of Bengal, such as Golconda, the ruins of Gour, Murshidabad, its former capital, Burdwan, Hoogli or Chandernagore, a French outpost on Indian soil, over which Passepartout would have been proud to see the flag of his native land flying. Finally at seven o’clock in the morning they reached Calcutta. The steamer bound for Hong Kong was not due to sail until midday. Phileas Fogg therefore had five hours in front of him. According to his travel plan the gentleman had been due to arrive in the Indian capital on 25 October, twenty-three days after leaving London, and he had arrived on the appointed day. So he was neither behind nor ahead of schedule. Unfortunately the two days he had gained between London and Bombay had been lost, as has been seen, during the crossing of the Indian subcontinent. However, it can be safely assumed that Phileas Fogg did not regret them. 15 Where the bag of banknotes becomes another several thousand pounds lighter The train had stopped at the station. Passepartout was the first to get out of the carriage, followed by Mr Fogg, who helped his young female companion to step down on to the platform. Phileas Fogg was intending to go straight to the steamer for Hong Kong, in order to see that Mrs Aouda was comfortably settled in, as he did not want to leave her on her own as long as she remained in this country where her safety was in danger. Just as Mr Fogg was about to leave the station, a policeman came up to him and said, ‘Mr Phileas Fogg?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Is this man your servant?’ added the policeman, pointing to Passepartout. ‘Yes.’ ‘Would both of you please follow me.’ Mr Fogg did not betray the least sign of surprise. The officer was a representative of the law and for any Englishman the law is sacrosanct. Passepartout, reacting like a Frenchman, wanted to argue, but the policeman tapped him with his truncheon and Phileas Fogg motioned to him to obey. ‘May this young lady come with us?’ asked Mr Fogg. ‘She may,’ replied the policeman. The policeman led Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and Passepartout towards a palki-ghari, a sort of four-wheeled, four-seater carriage, drawn by two horses. They set off. No one spoke during the journey, which lasted about twenty minutes. The carriage first of all went through the Indian quarter, with its narrow streets, on either side of which stood huts swarming with a cosmopolitan, dirty and ragged population, then it entered the European quarter, with its attractive brick houses, shaded by coconut trees and bristling with ship masts. There, although it was still early in the morning, elegant riders and magnificent horse-drawn carriages were out and about. The palki-ghari stopped in front of a plain-looking building, one that could not have been a private house. The policeman made his prisoners – there was no other word for them – get out and he led them into a room with bars on the windows, saying to them, ‘At half past eight you will appear before Judge Obadiah.’ Then he withdrew and closed the door. ‘That’s it. We’ve been caught!’ exclaimed Passepartout, collapsing on to a chair. Mrs Aouda turned towards Mr Fogg and said to him in a voice that could not disguise her emotion: ‘Sir, you must leave me behind. It’s because of me that you’re being prosecuted. It’s because you came to my rescue.’ Phileas Fogg replied only that it was not possible. To be prosecuted for the business of the suttee! That was unacceptable. How could the plaintiffs dare to show themselves? There must be a mistake. Mr Fogg added that in any case he would not leave the young woman behind and would take her to Hong Kong. ‘But the boat leaves at midday!’ Passepartout pointed out. ‘We’ll be on board before twelve,’ was all the impassive gentleman said in reply. The statement was so categorical that Passepartout couldn’t help saying to himself: ‘Goodness me! There’s no doubt about it. By midday we’ll be on board!’ But in fact he was far from convinced. At half past eight the door in the room opened. The policeman reappeared and showed the prisoners into the adjoining room. It was a courtroom and a fairly large public, made up of Europeans and natives, was already inside. Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and Passepartout sat down on a bench opposite the seats reserved for the magistrate and the clerk to the court. The magistrate, Judge Obadiah, came in almost immediately, followed by the clerk of the court. He was a stout man with a roundish face. He took his wig down from a peg and put it on his head briskly. ‘Call the first case,’ he said. Then, putting his hand, on his head, he exclaimed, ‘Wait a minute. This isn’t my wig!’ ‘Quite right, Mr Obadiah. It’s mine,’ replied the clerk. ‘My dear Mr Oysterpuf, how do you expect a judge to pass judgment properly if he’s wearing a clerk’s wig?’ An exchange of wigs duly took place. During these preliminaries Passepartout could scarcely contain his impatience, because the hand on the large courtroom clock seemed to be moving extremely quickly. ‘The first case,’ repeated Judge Obadiah. ‘Phileas Fogg?’ said the clerk. ‘Here I am,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘Passepartout?’ ‘Present,’ replied Passepartout. ‘Good,’ said the judge. ‘Prisoners at the bar, for two days the police have been looking out for you on every train from Bombay.’ ‘But what are we accused of?’ Passepartout cried out impatiently. ‘You will soon find out,’ replied the judge. ‘Your Honour,’ Mr Fogg then said, ‘I am a British citizen and I have the right to –’ ‘Have you been treated disrespectfully?’ asked Judge Obadiah. ‘Not in the least.’ ‘Good! Bring in the plaintiffs.’ On the judge’s orders a door opened and three Hindu priests were shown in by a doorman. ‘Just as I thought,’ mumbled Passepartout. ‘These are the scoundrels who wanted to burn our young lady.’ The priests stood before the judge, and the clerk read out aloud the charge of sacrilege, brought against Phileas Fogg, Esq., and his servant, both accused of having violated a place sacred to the Hindu religion. ‘Have you heard the charge?’ the judge asked Phileas Fogg. ‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Mr Fogg, looking at his watch, ‘and I plead guilty.’ ‘Ah, you plead guilty …’ ‘I plead guilty to the charge and I expect these three priests to plead guilty in turn to what they attempted to do at the temple of Pillagi.’ The priests looked at one another. They didn’t seem to understand a word of what the accused was talking about. ‘Certainly,’ exclaimed Passepartout impetuously, ‘at the temple of Pillagi, in front of which they were about to burn their victim!’ The priests looked even more mystified and the judge extremely surprised. ‘What victim?’ he asked. ‘Burning who? In the middle of Bombay?’ ‘Bombay?’ cried out Passepartout. ‘Certainly. It’s got nothing to do with the temple at Pillagi but the temple at Malabar Hill, in Bombay.’ ‘And as evidence of his guilt here are the shoes used by the perpetrator of that act of desecration,’ added the clerk, placing a pair of shoes on his desk. ‘My shoes!’ shouted out Passepartout, who was surprised beyond belief and unable to prevent himself from coming out with this exclamation. It is easy to understand the confusion in the minds of both master and servant. They had forgotten about the incident in the temple at Bombay, but this was what had brought them to court in Calcutta. What had happened was that Fix had realized the advantage he could gain from this unfortunate business. Delaying his departure by two hours, he had given legal advice to the priests of Malabar Hill and had promised them a large sum in damages, knowing full well that the British government was very severe on this type of offence. Then he had sent them off by the next train hot in pursuit of the perpetrator of the sacrilege. However, as a result of the time it had taken to rescue the young widow, Fix and the Hindus arrived in Calcutta before Phileas Fogg and his servant, who were supposed to be arrested as soon as they stepped off the train after the magistrates had been alerted by telegram. It is easy to imagine Fix’s disappointment when he discovered that Phileas Fogg had not yet arrived in the Indian capital. He must have thought that his thief had stopped off at one of the stations along the Peninsular Railway and taken refuge in the northern provinces. For twenty-four hours Fix had watched out for him at the station, beset with anxiety. Imagine, then, his joy when that very morning he saw him get out of the carriage, accompanied, it is true, by a young woman whose presence was a mystery to him. He immediately sent a policeman off to follow him and this is how Mr Fogg, Passepartout and the widow of the rajah from Bundelkhand were brought before Judge Obadiah. What is more, if Passepartout had not been so taken up by his own situation he would have noticed in the corner of the courtroom the presence of the detective, who was following the proceedings with understandable interest, since here in Calcutta, as in Bombay and Suez, he was still without his arrest warrant. However, Judge Obadiah had taken note of the admission of guilt that Passepartout had blurted out, though the latter would have given all he possessed to take back his reckless words. ‘Are the facts admitted?’ said the judge. ‘Admitted,’ Mr Fogg replied coldly. ‘In so far as,’ continued the judge, ‘in so far as English law seeks to protect equally and strenuously all the religions of the peoples of India, the offence having been admitted by Master Passepartout, here convicted of having violated with his shoes the sanctity of the precincts of the temple of Malabar Hill during the day of 20 October, the court hereby condemns the aforesaid Passepartout to fifteen days’ prison and a fine of £300.’ ‘£300!’ exclaimed Passepartout, who was only really concerned about the fine. ‘Silence,’ barked the usher. ‘And,’ added Judge Obadiah, ‘in so far as it has not been materially proven that there was no complicity between the servant and his master and in that in any case the latter must be held responsible for the deeds and actions of a servant in his employ, the court hereby detains the aforesaid Phileas Fogg and condemns him to eight days’ prison and a fine of £150. Clerk, call the next case!’ Fix, in his corner, felt an inexpressible sense of satisfaction. Detaining Phileas Fogg for eight days in Calcutta gave more than enough time for the warrant to reach him. Passepartout was dumbfounded. This sentence meant that his master was ruined. A £20,000 bet had been lost, all because he had casually wandered into that wretched temple! Phileas Fogg, as firmly in control of himself as if the sentence concerned someone else, didn’t raise an eyebrow. But just at the moment when the clerk was calling the next case, he rose to his feet and said, ‘I wish to put up bail.’ ‘You are quite entitled to do so,’ replied the judge. Fix felt a shiver run down his spine, but he regained his composure when he heard the judge say that ‘in so far as Phileas Fogg and his servant had the status of foreigners’ he was fixing bail for each of them at the enormous sum of £1,000. It would cost Mr Fogg £2,000 if he failed to serve his sentence. ‘I shall pay,’ the gentleman said. With that he took from the bag that Passepartout was carrying a wad of banknotes and put them down on the clerk’s desk. ‘This sum of money will be returned to you when you leave prison,’ said the judge. ‘In the meantime you are free on bail.’ ‘Come on,’ said Phileas Fogg to his servant. ‘Let me at least have my shoes back!’ exclaimed Passepartout angrily. His shoes were given back to him. ‘They’re an expensive pair of shoes,’ he muttered. ‘More than a £1,000 each. Not to mention the fact that they’re killing me!’ Passepartout was absolutely crestfallen as he followed Mr Fogg, who had offered Mrs Aouda his arm. Fix was still hoping that the thief would never be prepared to write off this sum of £2,000 and that he would do his eight days in prison. He therefore set off, following in Fogg’s footsteps. Mr Fogg called for a carriage, which Mrs Aouda, Passepartout and he got into straightaway. Fix ran behind the carriage, which soon came to a stop at one of the quaysides in the town. Moored in the harbour half a mile offshore stood the Rangoon, ready to sail. Eleven o’clock struck. Mr Fogg was an hour early. Fix saw him get out of the carriage and into a small boat along with Mrs Aouda and his servant. The detective kicked the ground with his foot. ‘The wretch!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s off. £2,000 down the drain. A money-waster as well as a thief. Well, I shall follow him to the ends of the earth if necessary, but at this rate all the money stolen will have gone by then!’ The police inspector was justified in thinking this. It was certainly true that since leaving London, between the cost of travel, the money spent on rewards, buying an elephant and paying the bail and the fines, Phileas Fogg had already used up more than £5,000 to get this far, and the proportion of the amount recovered, which would go to the detectives, was getting smaller all the time. 16 Where Fix appears to have no knowledge at all of what he’s being told The Rangoon, one of the steamers that the Peninsular and Oriental Company uses on its service over the China Seas and the Sea of Japan, was an iron-hulled, propeller-driven ship, weighing 1,770 tons unloaded with a nominal 400 horsepower. It was as fast as the Mongolia but not as comfortable. Mrs Aouda’s needs were not therefore as well catered for as Phileas Fogg would have liked. It was, though, only a crossing of 3,500 miles, in other words eleven or twelve days, and the young woman did not prove to be a very demanding passenger. Over the first few days of the crossing Mrs Aouda got to know Phileas Fogg better. At every opportunity she showed him the warmest gratitude. The phlegmatic gentleman listened to her with total detachment, or so it seemed, without betraying in his tone of voice or his reactions the slightest emotion. He saw to it that the young woman had everything she wanted. He would regularly come, at set times, if not to talk to her then at least to listen to her. He treated her with a scrupulous respect for the rules of politeness, but his method had all the charm and spontaneity of an automaton whose movements had been specifically designed for this purpose. Mrs Aouda didn’t know exactly what to make of it, but Passepartout had explained to her a bit about his master’s eccentric behaviour. He had told her about the bet, which was the reason for the gentleman’s journey around the world. Mrs Aouda found this amusing, but after all she owed him her life, and this gratitude to her saviour could only further endear him to her. Mrs Aouda confirmed the Hindu guide’s account of her touching story. She did indeed belong to the highest social class in Indian society. Several Parsee traders have made huge fortunes in India in the cotton trade. One of them, Sir James Jejeebhoy had been knighted by the British government and Mrs Aouda was related to this wealthy individual, who lived in Bombay. It was a cousin of this very Sir James, the Honourable Jejeeh, that she was expecting to meet up with in Hong Kong. Would he offer to take her in and help her? She couldn’t say for sure. To which Mr Fogg replied that she shouldn’t worry and that everything would turn out mathematically! That was the very word he used. Did the young woman understand this appalling adverb? It is impossible to say. However, she looked at him with those great eyes of hers, eyes ‘as clear as the sacred lakes of the Himalayas’. But the unyielding Mr Fogg, more buttoned up than ever, did not seem to be the sort of man who would plunge into such waters. The first part of the crossing on board the Rangoon went perfectly. The weather was kind to them. All this part of the immense bay that sailors call ‘the fathoms of Bengal’ favoured the progress of the steamer. The Rangoon was soon within sight of Grand Andaman, the main island in the group, easily recognizable to navigators thanks to the picturesque mountain of Saddle Peak, 2,400 feet high. They stayed quite close to the coast. The savage inhabitants of the island were nowhere to be seen. They stand at the very bottom of the human scale, but it is wrong to call them cannibals. The panoramic view of the islands was magnificent. Immense forests of fan palms, areca palms, bamboo, nutmeg, teaks, giant mimosas and tree-ferns made up the landscape to the foreground and behind it stood the majestic backdrop of the mountains. The coastline was swarming with thousands of these precious sea-swallows whose edible nests provide the Chinese with one of their most sought after delicacies. But the whole of this diverse spectacle offered by the view of the Andaman Islands soon came to an end and the Rangoon headed swiftly for the Strait of Malacca, which led on to the China Seas. Meanwhile, what had become of Inspector Fix, who had been so unfortunately caught up in this journey of circumnavigation? As he was leaving Calcutta he gave orders for the arrest warrant, if it eventually arrived, to be sent to him in Hong Kong. He had been able to get on board the Rangoon without being noticed by Passepartout and he hoped to remain undiscovered until the steamer arrived. It would indeed have been difficult for him to explain his presence on board without arousing Passepartout’s suspicions, since the latter must have thought he was in Bombay. But, as it turned out, he was destined to meet up with the dear fellow once again in circumstances that will soon be explained. All the police inspector’s hopes and desires were now concentrated on one single spot, Hong Kong, since the steamer did not stop in Singapore long enough for him to be able to do anything there. So it was in Hong Kong that the thief’s arrest had to take place. Otherwise the thief would escape him for good, so to speak. Hong Kong was, it must be remembered, another British possession, but it was the last one on the journey. After that, China, Japan and America offered a more or less safe haven to this man Fogg. In Hong Kong, if he finally got hold of the arrest warrant that must surely be on its way, Fix could arrest Fogg and hand him over to the local police. There was no problem about that. But after Hong Kong a straightforward arrest warrant would no longer be enough. Extradition papers would be needed. That would lead to further delay, lengthy procedures and obstacles of all sorts, which the scoundrel would take advantage of to get away once and for all. If the operation failed in Hong Kong, it would be, if not downright impossible, at least very difficult to repeat it with any real chance of success. ‘So,’ Fix kept saying to himself during the long hours he spent in his cabin, ‘so, either the warrant is in Hong Kong and I can arrest my man, or it isn’t and in that case I’ll have to delay his departure at all costs. I failed in Bombay and I failed in Calcutta. If things don’t work out in Hong Kong my reputation will be ruined. Whatever happens I must succeed. But what’s the best way of delaying, if necessary, the departure of this wretched man Fogg?’ As a last resort Fix was quite determined to reveal everything to Passepartout, to make him realize the truth about the master he served, even though he definitely wasn’t his accomplice. After being enlightened by these revelations, Passepartout would fear being implicated and would certainly side with him, Fix. Nevertheless, this was a risky tactic and one only to be used when all else had failed. One word from Passepartout to his master would be enough to completely wreck the whole plan. The police inspector was therefore in a very awkward position, until the presence of Mrs Aouda on board the Rangoon opened up some new possibilities for him. Who exactly was this woman? What was the combination of circumstances that had made her Fogg’s companion? The meeting must obviously have taken place between Bombay and Calcutta. But where exactly on the Indian subcontinent? Was it chance that had brought together Phileas Fogg and the young woman traveller? Or on the contrary had the gentleman undertaken his trip to India in order to meet up with this delightful person? And delightful she certainly was. Fix had realized this well enough in the courtroom in Calcutta. It is easy to understand how intriguing all this must have been for the detective. He wondered if there might not be an element of criminal abduction about this business. Yes! That must be it! This idea took a firm hold in Fix’s mind and he realized all the advantage he could derive from the situation. Whether the young woman was married or not, it was still an abduction, and in Hong Kong it was possible to stir up enough trouble for the abductor for him not simply to buy his way out. But something had to be done before the Rangoon reached Hong Kong. This man Fogg had the unpleasant habit of hopping from one boat to another, and before the operation got going he might already be far away. So the main thing was to alert the British authorities, and to inform them that the Rangoon was on its way before it actually arrived. In fact, nothing could be simpler, since the steamer was due to put in at Singapore and Singapore is linked to the Chinese mainland by telegraph. However, before doing anything, and just to be on the safe side, Fix made up his mind to question Passepartout. He knew that it wasn’t very difficult to get this chap to talk, and so he decided to drop his disguise. There was therefore no time to lose. It was 30 October and the following day the Rangoon was due to put in at Singapore. Accordingly, that very day Fix left his cabin and went up on deck with the intention of going up to Passepartout and making great play of how surprised he was to see him. Passepartout was walking around the fore of the ship when the detective inspector rushed towards him, exclaiming, ‘Fancy seeing you on the Rangoon.’ ‘Mr Fix on board!’ replied Passepartout, completely taken by surprise, recognizing his companion from the crossing on the Mongolia. ‘Amazing! I left you in Bombay and I meet up with you again on the way to Hong Kong! Are you going around the world, too?’ ‘No, no. I’m intending to stop in Hong Kong – at least for a few days.’ ‘Oh,’ said Passepartout who seemed taken aback for a moment. ‘But how come I haven’t seen you on board since we left Calcutta?’ ‘Well, I didn’t feel too good … seasickness … I was lying down in my cabin … the Bay of Bengal didn’t suit me as much as the Indian Ocean. What about your master, Mr Phileas Fogg?’ ‘In perfect health, and as punctual as his travel plan. Not a day late! Oh, Mr Fix, you won’t know this, but we have a young lady with us.’ ‘A young lady?’ replied the detective, giving a perfect imitation of someone who didn’t understand what he was being told. But Passepartout had soon put him in the picture. He recounted the incident at the temple in Bombay, the purchase of an elephant for £2,000, the business of the suttee, the rescue of Mrs Aouda, the conviction at the court in Calcutta and the release on bail. Fix, who knew the last part of the story, pretended not to know any of it and Passepartout let himself get carried away, relishing the opportunity to relate his adventures to a listener who showed so much interest in what he had to say. ‘But, when it comes down to it,’ asked Fix, ‘does your master intend to take this young lady to Europe?’ ‘Certainly not, Mr Fix. Certainly not. We simply intend to hand her over safely to one of her relatives, a wealthy businessman in Hong Kong.’ ‘Nothing doing,’ the detective said to himself, disguising his disappointment. ‘How about a glass of gin, Mr Passepartout?’ ‘Delighted, Mr Fix. The least we can do is drink to our meeting on board the Rangoon.’