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CHAPTER I
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER, THE ONE AS MASTER,
THE OTHER AS MAN
r. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house
in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable
members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid at- tracting attention; an
enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of
the world. People said that he resembled Byron—at least that his head was Byronic; but he was
a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.
Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful wheth- er Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He
was never seen on ‘Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the counting-rooms
of the
‘City”; no ships ever came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no
public employment; he had nev- er been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the
Temple, or Lincoln’s Inn, or Gray’s Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court
of Chancery, or in the Exche- quer, or the Queen’s Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts.
He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name
was strange to the scien- tific and learned societies, and he never was known to take
part in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London Institution, the
Artisan’s Association, or the Insti- tution of Arts and Sciences. He belonged, in fact,
to none of the numerous societies which swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic
to that of the Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects.
Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all.
The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple enough.
He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His cheques were regularly
paid at sight from his account current, which was always flush.
Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine how he
had made his for- tune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply for the information.
He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, av- aricious; for, whenever he knew that money
was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quiet- ly and sometimes
anonymously. He was, in short, the least
communicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his
taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but whatever he did was
so exactly the same thing that he had always done be- fore, that the wits of the curious
were fairly puzzled. Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one
seemed to know the world more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did
not appear to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear
words, the thou- sand conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and unheard-of
travellers, pointing out the true probabili- ties, and seeming as if gifted with a sort
of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions. He must have trav- elled
everywhere, at least in the spirit. It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg
had not absent- ed himself from London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better
acquaintance with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever seen
him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist. He often
won at this game, which, as a silent one, harmonised with his nature; but his winnings
never went into his purse, being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played,
not to win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle
with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, conge- nial to his tastes.
Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or chil- dren, which may happen to the
most honest people; either relatives or near friends, which is certainly more unusual.
He lived alone in his house in Saville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic
sufficed to serve him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically
fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members,
much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at
once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured
members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleep- ing or making
his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular step in the entrance hall
with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty
red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted
or dined all the resources of the club—its kitchens and pantries, its but- tery and dairy—aided
to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by the gravest waiters,
in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain,
and on the finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port,
and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled with ice,
brought at great cost from the American lakes. If to live in this style is to be eccentric,
it must be con- fessed that there is something good in eccentricity.
The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The habits of
its occupant were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required
him to be almost superhumanly
prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster, because that
luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahren- heit instead
of eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and
half-past. Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair,
his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees,
his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated clock which
indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly
half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and
repair to the Reform. A rap at this moment sounded on the door of
the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James For- ster, the dismissed
servant, appeared. ‘The new servant,’ said he.
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed. ‘You are a Frenchman, I believe,’ asked
Phileas Fogg, ‘and your name is John?’ ‘Jean, if monsieur pleases,’ replied the
newcomer, ‘Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural
aptness for going out of one business into another. I believe I’m honest, monsieur,
but, to be outspo- ken, I’ve had several trades. I’ve been an itinerant singer, a
circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got
to be a professor of gym- nastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I
was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big
fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic
life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that
Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gen- tleman in the United Kingdom,
I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even
the name of Passepartout.’ ‘Passepartout suits me,’ responded Mr.
Fogg. ‘You are well recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’ ‘Good! What time is it?’
‘Twenty-two minutes after eleven,’ returned Passepar- tout, drawing an enormous silver
watch from the depths of his pocket. ‘You are too slow,’ said Mr. Fogg.
‘Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible—‘ ‘You are four minutes too slow. No matter;
it’s enough to mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven,
a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my service.’
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic
motion, and went off with- out a word. Passepartout heard the street door shut once;
it was his new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his pre- decessor, James
Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone
in the house in Saville Row.
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL
aith,’ muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, ‘I’ve seen people at Madame Tussaud’s
as lively as my new master!’
Madame Tussaud’s ‘people,’ let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in
London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.
During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing
him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and
a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled,
his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree
what physiognomists call ‘repose in action,’ a quality of those who act rather than talk.
Calm and phleg-
matic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which
Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his
daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-bal- anced, as exactly regulated as a
Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was be- trayed
even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the
limbs themselves are ex- pressive of the passions. He was so exact that he was never in a hurry,
was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his mo- tions. He never took
one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no
superflu- ous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate
person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment.
He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that
in this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed
against anybody. As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian
of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for England, taking ser- vice as a valet,
he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no means
one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the
air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered
and serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see
on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund,
his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully
developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled;
for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eigh- teen methods of arranging
Minerva’s tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes
of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet. It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s
lively na- ture would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new
servant would turn out as absolutely me- thodical as his master required; experience alone could
solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and
now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served
in ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he found
his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or on
the look-out for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament,
after passing his nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the
morning on policemen’s shoulders. Passepartout, desir- ous of respecting the gentleman whom
he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which,
being ill-re- ceived, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant,
and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from
home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He presented himself,
and was accepted, as has been seen.
At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row.
He begun its inspection without delay, scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged,
solemn a mansion pleased him ; it seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lighted and warmed
by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout reached the second story
he recognised at once the room which he was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with
it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while
on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg’s bedchamber, both
beating the same second at the same instant. ‘That’s good, that’ll do,’ said Passepartout
to himself. He suddenly observed, hung over the clock,
a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house.
It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the morning, exactly
at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform
Club—all the details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight,
the shav- ing-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes
before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven
a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman re- tired.
Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers,
coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were
in turn to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was ap-
plied to the master’s shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must have been
a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was
cosiness, comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there books, which
would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general
lit- erature and the other of law and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe
stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout
found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and
peaceable habits. Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom,
he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, ‘This
is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic
and regu- lar gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind serving a machine.’
CHAPTER III
IN WHICH A CONVERSATION TAKES PLACE WHICH SEEMS LIKELY TO COST PHILEAS FOGG DEAR
hileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half- past eleven, and having put his right
foot before his left five hundred and seventy-five times, and his
left foot be- fore his right five hundred and seventy-six times, reached the Reform
Club, an imposing edifice in Pall Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions.
He repaired at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a tasteful
garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn colouring; and took his place
at the habit- ual table, the cover of which had already been laid for him. His breakfast
consisted of a side-dish, a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef
garnished with
mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel of Cheshire cheese, the whole
being washed down with several cups of tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at
thir- teen minutes to one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous
apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him an uncut Times, which
he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed familiarity with this delicate operation.
The perusal of this paper ab- sorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the
Standard, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner passed as breakfast
had done, and Mr. Fogg re-ap- peared in the reading-room and sat down to the Pall Mall
at twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several mem- bers of the Reform came
in and drew up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were Mr. Fogg’s
usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin,
bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of
England— all rich and highly respectable person- ages, even in a club which comprises
the princes of English trade and finance. ‘Well, Ralph,’ said Thomas Flanagan, ‘what
about that robbery?’ ‘Oh,’ replied Stuart, ‘the Bank will
lose the money.’ ‘On the contrary,’ broke in Ralph, ‘I
hope we may put our hands on the robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal
ports of America and the Continent, and he’ll be a clever fellow if he slips through their
fingers.’ ‘But have you got the robber’s description?’
asked Stuart.
‘In the first place, he is no robber at all,’ returned Ralph, positively.
‘What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no robber?’
‘No.’ ‘Perhaps he’s a manufacturer, then.’
‘The Daily Telegraph says that he is a gentleman.’ It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged
from be- hind his newspapers, who made this remark. He bowed to his friends, and entered
into the conversation. The affair which formed its subject, and which was town talk, had
oc- curred three days before at the Bank of England. A package of banknotes, to the value
of fifty-five thousand pounds, had been taken from the principal cashier’s table, that
function- ary being at the moment engaged in registering the receipt of three shillings
and sixpence. Of course, he could not have his eyes everywhere. Let it be observed that
the Bank of England reposes a touching confidence in the honesty of the public. There are neither
guards nor gratings to pro- tect its treasures; gold, silver, banknotes are freely exposed,
at the mercy of the first comer. A keen observer of English customs relates that, being in
one of the rooms of the Bank one day, he had the curiosity to examine a gold ingot weigh-
ing some seven or eight pounds. He took it up, scrutinised it, passed it to his neighbour,
he to the next man, and so on until the ingot, going from hand to hand, was transferred to
the end of a dark entry; nor did it return to its place for half an hour. Meanwhile,
the cashier had not so much as raised his head. But in the present instance things had
not
gone so smoothly. The package of notes not being found when five o’clock sounded from
the ponderous clock in the ‘drawing office,’ the amount was passed to the account of profit
and loss. As soon as the robbery was discovered, picked detectives hastened off to Liverpool,
Glasgow, Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York, and other ports, inspired by the proffered
reward of two thousand pounds, and five per cent. on the sum that might be recovered.
Detectives were also charged with narrowly watching those who arrived at or left London
by rail, and a judicial examination was at once en- tered upon.
There were real grounds for supposing, as the Daily Tele- graph said, that the thief
did not belong to a professional band. On the day of the robbery a well-dressed gentleman
of polished manners, and with a well-to-do air, had been observed going to and fro in
the paying room where the crime was committed. A description of him was easily pro- cured
and sent to the detectives; and some hopeful spirits, of whom Ralph was one, did not despair
of his apprehension. The papers and clubs were full of the affair, and everywhere people
were discussing the probabilities of a successful pur- suit; and the Reform Club was especially
agitated, several of its members being Bank officials.
Ralph would not concede that the work of the detectives was likely to be in vain, for he
thought that the prize offered would greatly stimulate their zeal and activity. But Stuart
was far from sharing this confidence; and, as they placed themselves at the whist-table,
they continued to argue the matter. Stuart and Flanagan played together, while Phileas
Fogg had Fallentin for his partner. As the game proceed- ed the conversation ceased,
excepting between the rubbers, when it revived again.
‘I maintain,’ said Stuart, ‘that the chances are in favour of the thief, who must
be a shrewd fellow.’ ‘Well, but where can he fly to?’ asked
Ralph. ‘No country is safe for him.’ ‘Pshaw!’
‘Where could he go, then?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know that. The world is big
enough.’ ‘It was once,’ said Phileas Fogg, in a
low tone. ‘Cut, sir,’ he added, handing the cards to Thomas Flanagan.
The discussion fell during the rubber, after which Stuart took up its thread.
‘What do you mean by ‘once’? Has the world grown smaller?’
‘Certainly,’ returned Ralph. ‘I agree with Mr. Fogg. The world has grown smaller,
since a man can now go round it ten times more quickly than a hundred years ago. And
that is why the search for this thief will be more likely to suc- ceed.’
‘And also why the thief can get away more easily.’
‘Be so good as to play, Mr. Stuart,’ said Phileas Fogg.
But the incredulous Stuart was not convinced, and when the hand was finished, said eagerly:
‘You have a strange way, Ralph, of proving that the world has grown smaller. So, be-
cause you can go round it in three months—‘ ‘In eighty days,’ interrupted Phileas
Fogg. ‘That is true, gentlemen,’ added John
Sullivan. ‘Only
eighty days, now that the section between Rothal and Al- lahabad, on the Great Indian
Peninsula Railway, has been opened. Here is the estimate made by the Daily Telegraph:
From London to Suez via Mont Cenis and Brindisi, by rail and steamboats ................. 7
days From Suez to Bombay, by steamer .................... 13 ‘ From Bombay to Calcutta, by rail ................... 3
‘ From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamer ............. 13
‘ From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamer ..... 6 ‘ From Yokohama to San Francisco,
by steamer ......... 22 ‘ From San Francisco to New York, by rail ............. 7 ‘
From New York to London, by steamer and rail ........ 9 ‘ Total ............................................ 80
days.’ ‘Yes, in eighty days!’ exclaimed Stuart,
who in his excite- ment made a false deal. ‘But that doesn’t take into account bad
weather, contrary winds, shipwrecks, railway accidents, and so on.’
‘All included,’ returned Phileas Fogg, continuing to play despite the discussion.
‘But suppose the Hindoos or Indians pull up the rails,’ replied Stuart; ‘suppose
they stop the trains, pillage the lug- gage-vans, and scalp the passengers!’
‘All included,’ calmly retorted Fogg; adding, as he threw down the cards, ‘Two
trumps.’ Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, gathered
them up, and went on: ‘You are right, theoretically, Mr. Fogg, but practi-
cally—‘ ‘Practically also, Mr. Stuart.’
‘I’d like to see you do it in eighty days.’ ‘It depends on you. Shall we go?’
‘Heaven preserve me! But I would wager four thousand pounds that such a journey, made
under these conditions, is impossible.’ ‘Quite possible, on the contrary,’ returned
Mr. Fogg. ‘Well, make it, then!’
‘The journey round the world in eighty days?’ ‘Yes.’
‘I should like nothing better.’ ‘When?’
‘At once. Only I warn you that I shall do it at your ex- pense.’
‘It’s absurd!’ cried Stuart, who was beginning to be an- noyed at the persistency
of his friend. ‘Come, let’s go on with the game.’
‘Deal over again, then,’ said Phileas Fogg. ‘There’s a false deal.’
Stuart took up the pack with a feverish hand; then sud- denly put them down again.
‘Well, Mr. Fogg,’ said he, ‘it shall be so: I will wager the four thousand on it.’
‘Calm yourself, my dear Stuart,’ said Fallentin. ‘It’s only a joke.’
‘When I say I’ll wager,’ returned Stuart, ‘I mean it.’ ‘All right,’ said Mr.
Fogg; and, turning to the others, he contin- ued: ‘I have a deposit of twenty thousand
at Baring’s which
I will willingly risk upon it.’ ‘Twenty thousand pounds!’ cried Sullivan.
‘Twenty thou- sand pounds, which you would lose by a single accidental delay!’
‘The unforeseen does not exist,’ quietly replied Phileas
Fogg. ‘But, Mr. Fogg, eighty days are only the
estimate of the least possible time in which the journey can be made.’
‘A well-used minimum suffices for everything.’ ‘But, in order not to exceed it, you must
jump mathe- matically from the trains upon the steamers, and from the steamers upon the
trains again.’ ‘I will jump—mathematically.’
‘You are joking.’ ‘A true Englishman doesn’t joke when he
is talking about so serious a thing as a wager,’ replied Phileas Fogg, solemn- ly. ‘I will
bet twenty thousand pounds against anyone who wishes that I will make the tour of the
world in eighty days or less; in nineteen hundred and twenty hours, or a hun- dred and
fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Do you accept?’
‘We accept,’ replied Messrs. Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and Ralph, after consulting
each other. ‘Good,’ said Mr. Fogg. ‘The train leaves
for Dover at a quarter before nine. I will take it.’
‘This very evening?’ asked Stuart. ‘This very evening,’ returned Phileas
Fogg. He took out and consulted a pocket almanac, and added, ‘As today is Wednesday, the 2nd
of October, I shall be due in London in
this very room of the Reform Club, on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before
nine p.m.; or else the twenty thousand pounds, now deposited in my name at Baring’s, will
belong to you, in fact and in right, gentlemen. Here is a cheque for the amount.’
A memorandum of the wager was at once drawn up and signed by the six parties, during which
Phileas Fogg pre- served a stoical composure. He certainly did not bet to win, and had only
staked the twenty thousand pounds, half of his fortune, because he foresaw that he might
have to ex- pend the other half to carry out this difficult, not to say unattainable, project.
As for his antagonists, they seemed much agitated; not so much by the value of their stake, as
because they had some scruples about betting under condi- tions so difficult to their friend.
The clock struck seven, and the party offered to suspend the game so that Mr. Fogg might
make his preparations for departure. ‘I am quite ready now,’ was his tranquil
response. ‘Dia- monds are trumps: be so good as to play, gentlemen.’
CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ASTOUNDS PASSEPARTOUT, HIS SERVANT
aving won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five
minutes past seven, left the Reform Club.
Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the pro- gramme of his duties, was more than
surprised to see his master guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unac- customed
hour; for, according to rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight.
Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out,
‘Passepartout!’ Passepartout did not reply. It could not be
he who was called; it was not the right hour. ‘Passepartout!’ repeated Mr. Fogg, without
raising his voice. Passepartout made his appearance.
‘I’ve called you twice,’ observed his master.
‘But it is not midnight,’ responded the other, showing his watch.
‘I know it; I don’t blame you. We start for Dover and Cal- ais in ten minutes.’
A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout’s round face;
clearly he had not comprehended his master. ‘Monsieur is going to leave home?’
‘Yes,’ returned Phileas Fogg. ‘We are going round the world.’
Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed
about to collapse, so over- come was he with stupefied astonishment.
‘Round the world!’ he murmured. ‘In eighty days,’ responded Mr. Fogg.
‘So we haven’t a moment to lose.’ ‘But the trunks?’ gasped Passepartout,
unconsciously swaying his head from right to left.
‘We’ll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings
for me, and the same for you. We’ll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackin-
tosh and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!’
Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell
into a chair, and muttered: ‘That’s good, that is! And I, who wanted
to remain quiet!’ He mechanically set about making the preparations
for departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this
a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout,
who
had been away from France five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil
again. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris
once more. But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt—
but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this so domestic person
hitherto! By eight o’clock Passepartout had packed
the modest carpet-bag, containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled
in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg.
Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of Bradshaw’s
Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, with its time- tables showing the arrival
and departure of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped
into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass wherever he might go.
‘You have forgotten nothing?’ asked he. ‘Nothing, monsieur.’
‘My mackintosh and cloak?’ ‘Here they are.’
‘Good! Take this carpet-bag,’ handing it to Passepartout.
‘Take good care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it.’
Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and
weighed him down. Master and man then descended, the street-door
was double-locked, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing
Cross. The cab stopped
before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box
and followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the sta- tion,
when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud,
her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders
shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms.
Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the
beggar, saying, ‘Here, my good woman. I’m glad that I met you;’ and passed on.
Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master’s action touched his susceptible
heart. Two first-class tickets for Paris having been
speedily pur- chased, Mr. Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived
his five friends of the Reform. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I’m off,
you see; and, if you will examine my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge
whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon.’
‘Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg,’ said Ralph politely. ‘We will trust
your word, as a gentleman of honour.’ ‘You do not forget when you are due in London
again?’ asked Stuart.
‘In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m.
Good-bye, gentlemen.’ Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves
in a first- class carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes
later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station.
The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was fall- ing. Phileas Fogg, snugly ensconced
in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout, not yet recovered from his stu- pefaction,
clung mechanically to the carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure.
Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passep- artout suddenly uttered a cry of despair.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mr. Fogg. ‘Alas! In my hurry—I—I forgot—‘
‘What?’ ‘To turn off the gas in my room!’
‘Very well, young man,’ returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; ‘it will burn— at your expense.’
CHAPTER V
IN WHICH A NEW SPECIES OF FUNDS, UNKNOWN TO THE MONEYED MEN, APPEARS ON ‘CHANGE
hileas Fogg rightly suspected that his departure from London would create a lively sensation
at the West End. The news of the bet spread through the Reform Club,
and afforded an exciting topic of conversation to its mem- bers. From the club it soon got
into the papers throughout England. The boasted ‘tour of the world’ was talked about,
disputed, argued with as much warmth as if the subject were another Alabama claim. Some
took sides with Phileas Fogg, but the large majority shook their heads and declared against
him; it was absurd, impossible, they declared, that the tour of the world could be made,
except theoretically and on paper, in this minimum of time, and with the ex- isting means
of travelling. The Times, Standard, Morning Post, and Daily News, and twenty other highly
respect-
able newspapers scouted Mr. Fogg’s project as madness; the Daily Telegraph alone hesitatingly
supported him. People in general thought him a lunatic, and blamed his Reform Club friends
for having accepted a wager which betrayed the mental aberration of its proposer.
Articles no less passionate than logical appeared on the question, for geography is one of the
pet subjects of the English; and the columns devoted to Phileas Fogg’s venture were eagerly
devoured by all classes of readers. At first some rash individuals, principally of the
gentler sex, espoused his cause, which became still more popular when the Illustrat- ed
London News came out with his portrait, copied from a photograph in the Reform Club. A few
readers of the Daily Telegraph even dared to say, ‘Why not, after all? Stranger things
have come to pass.’ At last a long article appeared, on the 7th
of October, in the bulletin of the Royal Geographical Society, which treat- ed the question from
every point of view, and demonstrated the utter folly of the enterprise.
Everything, it said, was against the travellers, every ob- stacle imposed alike by man and
by nature. A miraculous agreement of the times of departure and arrival, which was impossible,
was absolutely necessary to his success. He might, perhaps, reckon on the arrival of trains
at the desig- nated hours, in Europe, where the distances were relatively moderate; but
when he calculated upon crossing India in three days, and the United States in seven,
could he rely be- yond misgiving upon accomplishing his task? There were accidents to machinery,
the liability of trains to run off
the line, collisions, bad weather, the blocking up by snow— were not all these against Phileas
Fogg? Would he not find himself, when travelling by steamer in winter, at the mercy of the
winds and fogs? Is it uncommon for the best ocean steamers to be two or three days behind
time? But a single delay would suffice to fatally break the chain of communi- cation;
should Phileas Fogg once miss, even by an hour; a steamer, he would have to wait for
the next, and that would irrevocably render his attempt vain.
This article made a great deal of noise, and, being copied into all the papers, seriously
depressed the advocates of the rash tourist. Everybody knows that England is the world
of betting men, who are of a higher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English
temperament. Not only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made heavy wagers
for or against Phileas Fogg, who was set down in the betting books as if he were a race-horse.
Bonds were issued, and made their appearance on ‘Change; ‘Phileas Fogg bonds’ were
offered at par or at a premium, and a great business was done in them. But five days after
the article in the bul- letin of the Geographical Society appeared, the demand began to subside:
‘Phileas Fogg’ declined. They were offered by packages, at first of five, then of ten,
until at last nobody would take less than twenty, fifty, a hundred!
Lord Albemarle, an elderly paralytic gentleman, was now the only advocate of Phileas Fogg
left. This noble lord, who was fastened to his chair, would have given his fortune to
be able to make the tour of the world, if it took ten years;
and he bet five thousand pounds on Phileas Fogg. When the folly as well as the uselessness
of the adventure was pointed out to him, he contented himself with replying, ‘If the
thing is feasible, the first to do it ought to be an Englishman.’
The Fogg party dwindled more and more, everybody was going against him, and the bets stood
a hundred and fif- ty and two hundred to one; and a week after his departure an incident
occurred which deprived him of backers at any price.
The commissioner of police was sitting in his office at nine o’clock one evening,
when the following telegraphic dispatch was put into his hands:
Suez to London. Rowan, Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard:
I’ve found the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send with out delay warrant of arrest to Bombay.
Fix, Detective. The effect of this dispatch was instantaneous.
The pol- ished gentleman disappeared to give place to the bank robber. His photograph,
which was hung with those of the rest of the members at the Reform Club, was minutely ex-
amined, and it betrayed, feature by feature, the description of the robber which had been
provided to the police. The mysterious habits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary
ways, his sudden departure; and it seemed clear that, in un- dertaking a tour round
the world on the pretext of a wager, he had had no other end in view than to elude the
detectives, and throw them off his track.
CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, BETRAYS A VERY NATURAL IMPATIENCE
he circumstances under which this telegraphic dispatch about Phileas Fogg was sent were
as follows: The steamer Mongolia, belonging to the Peninsular
and Oriental Company, built of iron, of two thousand eight hundred tons burden, and five
hundred horse-power, was due at eleven o’clock a.m. on Wednesday, the 9th of Octo- ber, at
Suez. The Mongolia plied regularly between Brindisi and Bombay via the Suez Canal, and
was one of the fastest steamers belonging to the company, always making more than ten
knots an hour between Brindisi and Suez, and nine and a half between Suez and Bombay.
Two men were promenading up and down the wharves, among the crowd of natives and strangers who
were so- journing at this once straggling village— now, thanks to
the enterprise of M. Lesseps, a fast-growing town. One was the British consul at Suez,
who, despite the prophecies of the English Government, and the unfavourable predictions
of Stephenson, was in the habit of seeing, from his office window, English ships daily
passing to and fro on the great canal, by which the old roundabout route from England
to India by the Cape of Good Hope was abridged by at least a half. The other was a small,
slight-built personage, with a nervous, intelligent face, and bright eyes peering out from under
eyebrows which he was incessantly twitching. He was just now manifesting unmistakable signs
of impa- tience, nervously pacing up and down, and unable to stand still for a moment. This
was Fix, one of the detectives who had been dispatched from England in search of the bank
robber; it was his task to narrowly watch every passenger who arrived at Suez, and to
follow up all who seemed to be suspicious characters, or bore a resemblance to the descrip-
tion of the criminal, which he had received two days before from the police headquarters
at London. The detective was evidently inspired by the hope of obtaining the splendid re-
ward which would be the prize of success, and awaited with a feverish impatience, easy
to understand, the arrival of the steamer Mongolia.
‘So you say, consul,’ asked he for the twentieth time, ‘that this steamer is never
behind time?’ ‘No, Mr. Fix,’ replied the consul. ‘She
was bespoken yes- terday at Port Said, and the rest of the way is of no account to such
a craft. I repeat that the Mongolia has been in ad- vance of the time required by the company’s
regulations,
and gained the prize awarded for excess of speed.’
‘Does she come directly from Brindisi?’ ‘Directly from Brindisi; she takes on the
Indian mails there, and she left there Saturday at five p.m. Have patience, Mr. Fix; she will
not be late. But really, I don’t see how, from the description you have, you will be
able to recognise your man, even if he is on board the Mongolia.’
‘A man rather feels the presence of these fellows, consul, than recognises them. You
must have a scent for them, and a scent is like a sixth sense which combines hearing,
seeing, and smelling. I’ve arrested more than one
of these gentle- men in my time, and, if my thief is on board, I’ll answer for it; he’ll
not slip through my fingers.’ ‘I hope so, Mr. Fix, for it was a heavy
robbery.’ ‘A magnificent robbery, consul; fifty-five
thousand pounds! We don’t often have such windfalls. Burglars are getting to be so contemptible
nowadays! A fellow gets hung for a handful of shillings!’
‘Mr. Fix,’ said the consul, ‘I like your way of talking, and hope you’ll succeed;
but I fear you will find it far from easy. Don’t you see, the description which you
have there has a singular resemblance to an honest man?’
‘Consul,’ remarked the detective, dogmatically, ‘great robbers always resemble honest folks.
Fellows who have rascally faces have only one course to take, and that is to remain
honest; otherwise they would be arrested off-hand. The artistic thing is, to unmask honest countenances;
it’s no light task, I admit, but a real art.’
Mr. Fix evidently was not wanting in a tinge of self-con-
ceit. Little by little the scene on the quay became
more ani- mated; sailors of various nations, merchants, ship-brokers, porters, fellahs,
bustled to and fro as if the steamer were immediately expected. The weather was clear,
and slightly chilly. The minarets of the town loomed above the houses in the pale rays of
the sun. A jetty pier, some two thousand yards along, extended into the roadstead. A number
of fish- ing-smacks and coasting boats, some retaining the fantastic fashion of ancient
galleys, were discernible on the Red Sea. As he passed among the busy crowd, Fix, according
to habit, scrutinised the passers-by with a keen, rapid glance.
It was now half-past ten. ‘The steamer doesn’t come!’ he exclaimed,
as the port clock struck. ‘She can’t be far off now,’ returned
his companion. ‘How long will she stop at Suez?’
‘Four hours; long enough to get in her coal. It is thirteen hundred and ten miles from
Suez to Aden, at the other end of the Red Sea, and she has to take in a fresh coal supply.’
‘And does she go from Suez directly to Bombay?’ ‘Without putting in anywhere.’
‘Good!’ said Fix. ‘If the robber is on board he will no doubt get off at Suez,
so as to reach the Dutch or French col- onies in Asia by some other route. He ought to know
that he would not be safe an hour in India, which is English soil.’
‘Unless,’ objected the consul, ‘he is exceptionally shrewd. An English criminal,
you know, is always better concealed in London than anywhere else.’
This observation furnished the detective food for thought, and meanwhile the consul went
away to his office. Fix, left alone, was more impatient than ever, having a presentiment
that the robber was on board the Mongolia. If he had indeed left London intending to
reach the New World, he would naturally take the route via India, which was less watched
and more difficult to watch than that of the Atlantic. But Fix’s reflections were soon
interrupted by a succession of sharp whistles, which announced the arrival of the Mon- golia.
The porters and fellahs rushed down the quay, and a dozen boats pushed off from the shore
to go and meet the steamer. Soon her gigantic hull appeared passing along be- tween the
banks, and eleven o’clock struck as she anchored in the road. She brought an unusual
number of passengers, some of whom remained on deck to scan the picturesque panorama of
the town, while the greater part disembarked in the boats, and landed on the quay.
Fix took up a position, and carefully examined each face and figure which made its appearance.
Presently one of the passengers, after vigorously pushing his way through the importunate crowd
of porters, came up to him and polite- ly asked if he could point out the English consulate,
at the same time showing a passport which he wished to have vi- saed. Fix instinctively
took the passport, and with a rapid glance read the description of its bearer. An involuntary
motion of surprise nearly escaped him, for the description in the passport was identical
with that of the bank robber which he had received from Scotland Yard.
‘Is this your passport?’ asked he.
‘No, it’s my master’s.’ ‘And your master is—‘
‘He stayed on board.’ ‘But he must go to the consul’s in person,
so as to estab- lish his identity.’ ‘Oh, is that necessary?’
‘Quite indispensable.’ ‘And where is the consulate?’
‘There, on the corner of the square,’ said Fix, pointing to a house two hundred
steps off. ‘I’ll go and fetch my master, who won’t
be much pleased, however, to be disturbed.’ The passenger bowed to Fix, and returned to
the steam- er.
CHAPTER VII
WHICH ONCE MORE DEMONSTRATES THE USELESSNESS OF PASSPORTS AS AIDS TO DETECTIVES
he detective passed down the quay, and rapidly made his way to the consul’s office, where
he was at once ad- mitted to the presence of that official.
‘Consul,’ said he, without preamble, ‘I have strong reasons for believing that my
man is a passenger on the Mongolia.’ And he narrated what had just passed concerning
the pass- port. ‘Well, Mr. Fix,’ replied the consul, ‘I
shall not be sorry to see the rascal’s face; but perhaps he won’t come here— that is,
if he is the person you suppose him to be. A robber doesn’t quite like to leave traces
of his flight behind him; and, besides, he is not obliged to have his passport coun-
tersigned.’ ‘If he is as shrewd as I think he is, consul,
he will come.’
‘To have his passport visaed?’ ‘Yes. Passports are only good for annoying
honest folks, and aiding in the flight of rogues. I assure you it will be quite the
thing for him to do; but I hope you will not visa the passport.’
‘Why not? If the passport is genuine I have no right to refuse.’
‘Still, I must keep this man here until I can get a warrant to arrest him from London.’
‘Ah, that’s your look-out. But I cannot—‘ The consul did not finish his sentence, for
as he spoke a knock was heard at the door, and two strangers entered, one of whom was
the servant whom Fix had met on the quay. The other, who was his master, held out his
passport with the request that the consul would do him the favour to visa it. The consul
took the document and carefully read it, whilst Fix observed, or rather devoured, the stranger
with his eyes from a corner of the room. ‘You are Mr. Phileas Fogg?’ said the consul,
after reading the passport. ‘I am.’
‘And this man is your servant?’ ‘He is: a Frenchman, named Passepartout.’
‘You are from London?’ ‘Yes.’
‘And you are going—‘ ‘To Bombay.’
‘Very good, sir. You know that a visa is useless, and that no passport is required?’
‘I know it, sir,’ replied Phileas Fogg; ‘but I wish to prove, by your visa, that
I came by Suez.’ ‘Very well, sir.’
The consul proceeded to sign and date the passport, after which he added his official
seal. Mr. Fogg paid the cus- tomary fee, coldly bowed, and went out, followed by his servant.
‘Well?’ queried the detective. ‘Well, he looks and acts like a perfectly
honest man,’ re- plied the consul. ‘Possibly; but that is not the question.
Do you think, con- sul, that this phelgmatic gentleman resembles, feature by feature, the
robber whose description I have received?’ ‘I concede that; but then, you know, all
descriptions—‘ ‘I’ll make certain of it,’ interrupted
Fix. ‘The servant seems to me less mysterious than the master; besides, he’s a Frenchman,
and can’t help talking. Excuse me for a little while, consul.’
Fix started off in search of Passepartout. Meanwhile Mr. Fogg, after leaving the consulate,
re- paired to the quay, gave some orders to Passepartout, went off to the Mongolia in
a boat, and descended to his cabin. He took up his note-book, which contained the following
memoranda: ‘Left London, Wednesday, October 2nd, at
8.45 p.m. ‘Reached Paris, Thursday, October 3rd, at
7.20 a.m. ‘Left Paris, Thursday, at 8.40 a.m. ‘Reached Turin by Mont Cenis, Friday,
October 4th, at 6.35 a.m. ‘Left Turin, Friday, at 7.20 a.m. ‘Arrived at Brindisi, Saturday,
October 5th, at 4 p.m.
‘Sailed on the Mongolia, Saturday, at 5 p.m. ‘Reached Suez, Wednesday, October 9th,
at 11 a.m. ‘Total of hours spent, 158+; or, in days, six days and a half.’
These dates were inscribed in an itinerary divided into columns, indicating the month,
the day of the month, and the day for the stipulated and actual arrivals at each princi-
pal point Paris, Brindisi, Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco,
New York, and Lon- don—from the 2nd of October to the 21st of December; and giving a space
for setting down the gain made or the loss suffered on arrival at each locality. This
methodical record thus contained an account of everything needed, and Mr. Fogg always
knew whether he was behind-hand or in ad- vance of his time. On this Friday, October
9th, he noted his arrival at Suez, and observed that he had as yet neither gained nor lost.
He sat down quietly to breakfast in his cab- in, never once thinking of inspecting the
town, being one of those Englishmen who are wont to see foreign countries through the
eyes of their domestics.
CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TALKS RATHER MORE, PERHAPS, THAN
IS PRUDENT
ix soon rejoined Passepartout, who was lounging and looking about on the quay, as if he did
not feel that he, at least, was obliged not to see anything.
‘Well, my friend,’ said the detective, coming up with him,
‘is your passport visaed?’ ‘Ah, it’s you, is it, monsieur?’ responded
Passepartout. ‘Thanks, yes, the passport is all right.’
‘And you are looking about you?’ ‘Yes; but we travel so fast that I seem
to be journeying in a dream. So this is Suez?’ ‘Yes.’
‘In Egypt?’ ‘Certainly, in Egypt.’
‘And in Africa?’
‘In Africa.’ ‘In Africa!’ repeated Passepartout. ‘Just
think, monsieur, I had no idea that we should go farther than Paris; and all that I saw
of Paris was between twenty minutes past seven and twenty minutes before nine in the morning,
between the Northern and the Lyons stations, through the windows of a car, and in a driving
rain! How I regret not having seen once more Pere la Chaise and the circus in the Champs
Ely- sees!’ ‘You are in a great hurry, then?’
‘I am not, but my master is. By the way, I must buy some shoes and shirts. We came
away without trunks, only with a carpet-bag.’ ‘I will show you an excellent shop for getting
what you want.’ ‘Really, monsieur, you are very kind.’
And they walked off together, Passepartout chatting vol- ubly as they went along.
‘Above all,’ said he; ‘don’t let me lose the steamer.’
‘You have plenty of time; it’s only twelve o’clock.’ Passepartout pulled out his
big watch. ‘Twelve!’ he ex- claimed; ‘why, it’s only eight minutes
before ten.’ ‘Your watch is slow.’
‘My watch? A family watch, monsieur, which has come down from my great-grandfather! It
doesn’t vary five min- utes in the year. It’s a perfect chronometer, look you.’
‘I see how it is,’ said Fix. ‘You have kept London time, which is two hours behind
that of Suez. You ought to regu- late your watch at noon in each country.’
‘I regulate my watch? Never!’ ‘Well, then, it will not agree with the
sun.’ ‘So much the worse for the sun, monsieur.
The sun will be wrong, then!’ And the worthy fellow returned the watch to
its fob with a defiant gesture. After a few minutes silence, Fix resumed:
‘You left London hastily, then?’ ‘I rather think so! Last Friday at eight
o’clock in the evening, Monsieur Fogg came home from his club, and three-quarters of
an hour afterwards we were off.’ ‘But where is your master going?’
‘Always straight ahead. He is going round the world.’
‘Round the world?’ cried Fix. ‘Yes, and in eighty days! He says it is
on a wager; but, between us, I don’t believe a word of it. That wouldn’t be common sense.
There’s something else in the wind.’ ‘Ah! Mr. Fogg is a character, is he?’
‘I should say he was.’ ‘Is he rich?’
‘No doubt, for he is carrying an enormous sum in brand new banknotes with him. And he
doesn’t spare the mon- ey on the way, either: he has offered a large reward to the engineer
of the Mongolia if he gets us to Bombay well in advance of time.’
‘And you have known your master a long time?’ ‘Why, no; I entered his service the very
day we left Lon- don.’ The effect of these replies upon the already
suspicious and excited detective may be imagined. The hasty departure
from London soon after the robbery; the large sum carried by Mr. Fogg; his eagerness to
reach distant countries; the pretext of an eccentric and foolhardy bet—all confirmed
Fix in his theory. He continued to pump poor Passepartout, and learned that he really knew
little or nothing of his mas- ter, who lived a solitary existence in London, was said to
be rich, though no one knew whence came his riches, and was mysterious and impenetrable
in his affairs and habits. Fix felt sure that Phileas Fogg would not land at Suez, but was
really going on to Bombay. ‘Is Bombay far from here?’ asked Passepartout.
‘Pretty far. It is a ten days’ voyage by sea.’
‘And in what country is Bombay?’ ‘India.’
‘In Asia?’ ‘Certainly.’
‘The deuce! I was going to tell you there’s one thing that worries me— my burner!’
‘What burner?’ ‘My gas-burner, which I forgot to turn off,
and which is at this moment burning at my expense. I have calculated, monsieur, that
I lose two shillings every four and twenty hours, exactly sixpense more than I earn;
and you will un- derstand that the longer our journey—‘
Did Fix pay any attention to Passepartout’s trouble about the gas? It is not probable.
He was not listening, but was cogitating a project. Passepartout and he had now reached
the shop, where Fix left his companion to make his purchas- es, after recommending him
not to miss the steamer, and
hurried back to the consulate. Now that he was fully con- vinced, Fix had quite recovered
his equanimity. ‘Consul,’ said he, ‘I have no longer
any doubt. I have spot- ted my man. He passes himself off as an odd stick who is going round
the world in eighty days.’ ‘Then he’s a sharp fellow,’ returned
the consul, ‘and counts on returning to London after putting the police of the two
countries off his track.’ ‘We’ll see about that,’ replied Fix.
‘But are you not mistaken?’ ‘I am not mistaken.’
‘Why was this robber so anxious to prove, by the visa, that he had passed through Suez?’
‘Why? I have no idea; but listen to me.’ He reported in a few words the most important
parts of his conversation with Passepartout. ‘In short,’ said the consul, ‘appearances
are wholly against this man. And what are you going to do?’
‘Send a dispatch to London for a warrant of arrest to be dispatched instantly to Bombay,
take passage on board the Mongolia, follow my rogue to India, and there, on English ground,
arrest him politely, with my warrant in my hand, and my hand on his shoulder.’
Having uttered these words with a cool, careless air, the detective took leave of the consul,
and repaired to the tele- graph office, whence he sent the dispatch which we have seen to
the London police office. A quarter of an hour lat- er found Fix, with a small bag in
his hand, proceeding on board the Mongolia; and, ere many moments longer, the
noble steamer rode out at full steam upon
the waters of the Red Sea.
CHAPTER IX
IN WHICH THE RED SEA AND THE INDIAN OCEAN PROVE PROPITIOUS TO THE DESIGNS OF PHILEAS
FOGG
he distance between Suez and Aden is precisely thir- teen hundred and ten miles, and the
regulations of the company allow the steamers one hundred and
thirty-eight hours in which to traverse it. The Mongolia, thanks to the vigorous exertions
of the engineer, seemed likely, so rapid was her speed, to reach her destination considerably
within that time. The greater part of the passengers from Brindisi were bound for India
some for Bombay, others for Calcutta by way of Bombay, the nearest route thither, now
that a rail- way crosses the Indian peninsula. Among the passengers was a number of officials
and military officers of various grades, the latter being either attached to the regular
British forces or commanding the Sepoy troops, and receiving high salaries ever since the
central government has assumed the
powers of the East India Company: for the sub-lieutenants get 280 pounds, brigadiers,
2,400 pounds, and generals of divisions, 4,000 pounds. What with the military men, a number
of rich young Englishmen on their travels, and the hospitable efforts of the purser,
the time passed quickly on the Mongolia. The best of fare was spread upon the cabin tables
at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the eight o’clock sup- per, and the ladies scrupulously
changed their toilets twice a day; and the hours were whirled away, when
the sea was tranquil, with music, dancing, and games.
But the Red Sea is full of caprice, and often boisterous, like most long and narrow gulfs.
When the wind came from the African or Asian coast the Mongolia, with her long hull, rolled
fearfully. Then the ladies speedily disappeared below; the pianos were silent; singing and
dancing suddenly ceased. Yet the good ship ploughed straight on, unretarded by wind or
wave, towards the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. What was Phileas Fogg doing all this time?
It might be thought that, in his anxiety, he would be constantly watching the chang-
es of the wind, the disorderly raging of the billows—every chance, in short, which might
force the Mongolia to slacken her speed, and thus interrupt his journey. But, if he thought
of these possibilities, he did not betray the fact by any out- ward sign.
Always the same impassible member of the Reform Club, whom no incident could surprise, as
unvarying as the ship’s chronometers, and seldom having the curiosity even to go upon
the deck, he passed through the memorable scenes of the Red Sea with cold indifference;
did not care to recog-
nise the historic towns and villages which, along its borders, raised their picturesque
outlines against the sky; and be- trayed no fear of the dangers of the Arabic Gulf, which
the old historians always spoke of with horror, and upon which the ancient navigators never
ventured without propitiating the gods by ample sacrifices. How did this eccentric person-
age pass his time on the Mongolia? He made his four hearty meals every day, regardless
of the most persistent rolling and pitching on the part of the steamer; and he played
whist indefatigably, for he had found partners as enthusiastic in the game as himself. A
tax-collector, on the way to his post at Goa; the Rev. Decimus Smith, returning to his parish
at Bombay; and a brigadier-general of the English army, who was about to rejoin his
brigade at Benares, made up the par- ty, and, with Mr. Fogg, played whist by the hour together
in absorbing silence. As for Passepartout, he, too, had escaped
sea-sickness, and took his meals conscientiously in the forward cabin. He rather enjoyed the
voyage, for he was well fed and well lodged, took a great interest in the scenes through
which they were passing, and consoled himself with the delu- sion that his master’s whim
would end at Bombay. He was pleased, on the day after leaving Suez, to find on deck the
obliging person with whom he had walked and chatted on the quays.
‘If I am not mistaken,’ said he, approaching this person, with his most amiable smile,
‘you are the gentleman who so kindly volunteered to guide me at Suez?’
‘Ah! I quite recognise you. You are the servant of the
strange Englishman—‘ ‘Just so, monsieur—‘
‘Fix.’ ‘Monsieur Fix,’ resumed Passepartout,
‘I’m charmed to find you on board. Where are you bound?’
‘Like you, to Bombay.’ ‘That’s capital! Have you made this trip
before?’ ‘Several times. I am one of the agents of
the Peninsular Company.’
‘Then you know India?’ ‘Why yes,’ replied Fix, who spoke cautiously.
‘A curious place, this India?’ ‘Oh, very curious. Mosques, minarets, temples,
fakirs, pagodas, tigers, snakes, elephants! I hope you will have am- ple time to see the
sights.’ ‘I hope so, Monsieur Fix. You see, a man
of sound sense ought not to spend his life jumping from a steamer upon a railway train,
and from a railway train upon a steamer again, pretending to make the tour of the world in
eighty days! No; all these gymnastics, you may be sure, will cease at Bombay.’
‘And Mr. Fogg is getting on well?’ asked Fix, in the most natural tone in the world.
‘Quite well, and I too. I eat like a famished ogre; it’s the sea air.
‘But I never see your master on deck.’ ‘Never; he hasn’t the least curiosity.’
‘Do you know, Mr. Passepartout, that this pretended tour in eighty days may conceal
some secret errand—perhaps a
diplomatic mission?’ ‘Faith, Monsieur Fix, I assure you I know
nothing about it, nor would I give half a crown to find out.’
After this meeting, Passepartout and Fix got into the hab- it of chatting together, the
latter making it a point to gain the worthy man’s confidence. He frequently offered
him a glass of whiskey or pale ale in the steamer bar-room, which Passepartout never
failed to accept with graceful alacrity, mentally pronouncing Fix the best of good fellows.
Meanwhile the Mongolia was pushing forward rap- idly; on the 13th, Mocha, surrounded
by its ruined walls whereon date-trees were growing, was sighted, and on the mountains
beyond were espied vast coffee-fields. Passep- artout was ravished to behold this celebrated
place, and thought that, with its circular walls and dismantled fort, it looked like
an immense coffee-cup and saucer. The follow- ing night they passed through the Strait of
Bab-el-Mandeb, which means in Arabic The Bridge of Tears, and the next day they put in at
Steamer Point, north-west of Aden har- bour, to take in coal. This matter of fuelling steamers
is a serious one at such distances from the coal-mines; it costs the Peninsular Company
some eight hundred thousand pounds a year. In these distant seas, coal is worth three
or four pounds sterling a ton. The Mongolia had still sixteen hundred and
fifty miles to traverse before reaching Bombay, and was obliged to re- main four hours at
Steamer Point to coal up. But this delay, as it was foreseen, did not affect Phileas
Fogg’s programme; besides, the Mongolia, instead of reaching Aden on the
morning of the 15th, when she was due, arrived there on the evening of the 14th, a gain of
fifteen hours. Mr. Fogg and his servant went ashore at Aden
to have the passport again visaed; Fix, unobserved, followed them. The visa procured, Mr. Fogg
returned on board to resume his former habits; while Passepartout, according to custom, sauntered
about among the mixed population of Somanlis, Banyans, Parsees, Jews, Arabs, and Europeans
who com- prise the twenty-five thousand inhabitants of Aden. He gazed with wonder upon the fortifications
which make this place the Gibraltar of the Indian Ocean, and the vast cis- terns where
the English engineers were still at work, two thousand years after the engineers of
Solomon. ‘Very curious, very curious,’ said Passepartout
to himself, on returning to the steamer. ‘I see that it is by no means useless to travel,
if a man wants to see something new.’ At six p.m. the Mongolia slowly moved out of
the roadstead, and was soon once more on the Indian Ocean. She had a hundred and sixty-eight
hours in which to reach Bombay, and the sea was favourable, the wind being in the north-
west, and all sails aiding the engine. The steamer rolled but little, the ladies, in
fresh toilets, reappeared on deck, and the singing and dancing were resumed. The trip
was being accomplished most successfully, and Passepartout was en- chanted with the
congenial companion which chance had secured him in the person of the delightful Fix. On
Sunday, October 20th, towards noon, they came in sight of the In- dian coast: two hours
later the pilot came on board. A range of hills lay against the sky in the horizon,
and soon the rows
of palms which adorn Bombay came distinctly into view. The steamer entered the road formed
by the islands in the bay, and at half-past four she hauled up at the quays of Bom- bay.
Phileas Fogg was in the act of finishing the thirty-third rubber of the voyage, and his
partner and himself having, by a bold stroke, captured all thirteen of the tricks, conclud-
ed this fine campaign with a brilliant victory. The Mongolia was due at Bombay on the 22nd;
she ar- rived on the 20th. This was a gain to Phileas Fogg of two days since his departure
from London, and he calmly en- tered the fact in the itinerary, in the column of gains.
CHAPTER X
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS ONLY TOO GLAD TO GET OFF WITH THE LOSS OF HIS SHOES
verybody knows that the great reversed triangle of land, with its base in the north and its
apex in the south, which is called India, embraces fourteen hundred thousand square
miles, upon which is spread unequally a population of one hundred and eighty millions of souls.
The British Crown exercises a real and despotic dominion over the larg- er portion of this
vast country, and has a governor-general stationed at Calcutta, governors at Madras, Bombay,
and in Bengal, and a lieutenant-governor at Agra.
But British India, properly so called, only embraces sev- en hundred thousand square miles,
and a population of from one hundred to one hundred and ten millions of in- habitants.
A considerable portion of India is still free from British authority; and there are certain
ferocious rajahs in
the interior who are absolutely independent. The celebrat- ed East India Company was all-powerful
from 1756, when the English first gained a foothold on the spot where now stands the
city of Madras, down to the time of the great Sepoy insurrection. It gradually annexed province
after province, purchasing them of the native chiefs, whom it seldom paid, and appointed
the governor-general and his subordinates, civil and military. But the East India Com-
pany has now passed away, leaving the British possessions in India directly under the control
of the Crown. The aspect of the country, as well as the manners and distinctions of race,
is daily changing. Formerly one was obliged to travel in India
by the old cumbrous methods of going on foot or on horseback, in pa- lanquins or unwieldly
coaches; now fast steamboats ply on the Indus and the Ganges, and a great railway, with
branch lines joining the main line at many points on its route, tra- verses the peninsula
from Bombay to Calcutta in three days. This railway does not run in a direct line across
India. The distance between Bombay and Calcutta, as the bird flies, is only from one thousand
to eleven hundred miles; but the deflections of the road increase this distance by more
than a third.
The general route of the Great Indian Peninsula Railway is as follows: Leaving Bombay, it
passes through Salcette, crossing to the continent opposite Tannah, goes over the chain of the
Western Ghauts, runs thence north-east as far as Burhampoor, skirts the nearly independent
territory of Bundelcund, ascends to Allahabad, turns thence eastward-
ly, meeting the Ganges at Benares, then departs from the river a little, and, descending south-eastward
by Burdivan and the French town of Chandernagor, has its terminus at Calcutta.
The passengers of the Mongolia went ashore at half-past four p.m.; at exactly eight the
train would start for Calcut- ta. Mr. Fogg, after bidding good-bye to his whist
part- ners, left the steamer, gave his servant several errands to do, urged it upon him to
be at the station promptly at eight, and, with his regular step, which beat to the second,
like an astronomical clock, directed his steps to the passport of- fice. As for the wonders
of Bombay its famous city hall, its splendid library, its forts and docks, its bazaars,
mosques, synagogues, its Armenian churches, and the noble pagoda on Malabar Hill, with
its two polygonal towers— he cared not a straw to see them. He would not deign to examine
even the masterpieces of Elephanta, or the mysterious hy- pogea, concealed south-east
from the docks, or those fine remains of Buddhist architecture, the Kanherian grottoes of the
island of Salcette. Having transacted his business at the passport
office, Phileas Fogg repaired quietly to the railway station, where he ordered dinner.
Among the dishes served up to him, the landlord especially recommended a certain giblet of
‘native rabbit,’ on which he prided himself. Mr. Fogg accordingly tasted the dish, but,
despite its spiced sauce, found it far from palatable. He rang for the landlord, and,
on his appearance, said, fixing his clear eyes
upon him, ‘Is this rabbit, sir?’ ‘Yes, my lord,’ the rogue boldly replied,
‘rabbit from the jungles.’ ‘And this rabbit did not mew when he was
killed?’ ‘Mew, my lord! What, a rabbit mew! I swear
to you—‘ ‘Be so good, landlord, as not to swear,
but remember this: cats were formerly considered, in India, as sacred animals. That was a good
time.’ ‘For the cats, my lord?’
‘Perhaps for the travellers as well!’ After which Mr. Fogg quietly continued his
dinner. Fix had gone on shore shortly after Mr. Fogg, and his first desti- nation was
the headquarters of the Bombay police. He made himself known as a London detective,
told his business at Bombay, and the position of affairs relative to the supposed robber,
and nervously asked if a warrant had arrived from London. It had not reached the office;
indeed, there had not yet been time for it to arrive. Fix was sorely disappointed, and
tried to obtain an order of arrest from the director of the Bombay police. This the director
refused, as the matter concerned the London office, which alone could legally de- liver
the warrant. Fix did not insist, and was fain to resign himself to await the arrival of
the important document; but he was determined not to lose sight of the mysterious rogue
as long as he stayed in Bombay. He did not doubt for a mo- ment, any more than Passepartout,
that Phileas Fogg would remain there, at least until it was time for the warrant to arrive.
Passepartout, however, had no sooner heard his master’s
orders on leaving the Mongolia than he saw at once that they were to leave Bombay as
they had done Suez and Paris, and that the journey would be extended at least as far
as Calcutta, and perhaps beyond that place. He began to ask himself if this bet that Mr.
Fogg talked about was not re- ally in good earnest, and whether his fate was not in truth
forcing him, despite his love of repose, around the world in eighty days!
Having purchased the usual quota of shirts and shoes, he took a leisurely promenade about
the streets, where crowds of people of many nationalities—Europeans, Per- sians with
pointed caps, Banyas with round turbans, Sindes with square bonnets, Parsees with black mitres,
and long- robed Armenians—were collected. It happened to be the day of a Parsee festival.
These descendants of the sect of Zo- roaster—the most thrifty, civilised, intelligent, and
austere of the East Indians, among whom are counted the richest native merchants of Bombay—were
celebrating a sort of re- ligious carnival, with processions and shows, in the midst of
which Indian dancing-girls, clothed in rose-coloured gauze, looped up with gold and silver, danced
airily, but with perfect modesty, to the sound of viols and the clang- ing of tambourines.
It is needless to say that Passepartout watched these curious ceremonies with staring eyes
and gaping mouth, and that his countenance was that of the greenest *** imaginable.
Unhappily for his master, as well as himself, his curios- ity drew him unconsciously farther
off than he intended to go. At last, having seen the Parsee carnival wind away in
the distance, he was turning his steps towards the station, when he happened to espy the
splendid pagoda on Malabar Hill, and was seized with an irresistible desire to see its inte-
rior. He was quite ignorant that it is forbidden to Christians to enter certain Indian temples,
and that even the faithful must not go in without first leaving their shoes outside
the door. It may be said here that the wise policy of the British Government severely
punishes a disregard of the practices of the native religions.
Passepartout, however, thinking no harm, went in like a simple tourist, and was soon lost
in admiration of the splendid Brahmin ornamentation which everywhere met his eyes, when of a sudden
he found himself sprawling on the sacred flagging. He looked up to behold three enraged priests,
who forthwith fell upon him; tore off his shoes, and began to beat him with loud, savage
exclamations. The agile Frenchman was soon upon his feet again, and lost no time in knocking
down two of his long-gowned adversaries with his fists and a vigorous application of his
toes; then, rush- ing out of the pagoda as fast as his legs could carry him, he soon
escaped the third priest by mingling with the crowd in the streets.
At five minutes before eight, Passepartout, hatless, shoe- less, and having in the squabble
lost his package of shirts and shoes, rushed breathlessly into the station.
Fix, who had followed Mr. Fogg to the station, and saw that he was really going to leave
Bombay, was there, upon the platform. He had resolved to follow the supposed rob- ber to
Calcutta, and farther, if necessary. Passepartout did
not observe the detective, who stood in an obscure corner; but Fix heard him relate his
adventures in a few words to Mr. Fogg. ‘I hope that this will not happen again,’
said Phileas Fogg coldly, as he got into the train. Poor Passepartout, quite crestfallen,
followed his master without a word. Fix was on the point of entering another carriage,
when an idea struck him which induced him to alter his plan.
‘No, I’ll stay,’ muttered he. ‘An offence has been commit- ted on Indian soil.
I’ve got my man.’ Just then the locomotive gave a sharp screech,
and the train passed out into the darkness of the night.
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SECURES A CURIOUS MEANS OF CONVEYANCE AT A FABULOUS PRICE
he train had started punctually. Among the passengers were a number of officers, Government
officials, and *** and indigo merchants, whose business called them to the eastern
coast. Passepartout rode in the same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied
a seat op- posite to them. This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr. Fogg’s whist partners
on the Mongolia, now on his way to join his corps at Benares. Sir Francis was a tall,
fair man of fifty, who had greatly distinguished himself in the last Se-
poy revolt. He made India his home, only paying brief visits to England at rare intervals;
and was almost as familiar as a native with the customs, history, and character of India
and its people. But Phileas Fogg, who was not travelling, but only describing a circumference,
took no pains to inquire
into these subjects; he was a solid body, traversing an orbit around the terrestrial
globe, according to the laws of ratio- nal mechanics. He was at this moment calculating
in his mind the number of hours spent since his departure from London, and, had it been
in his nature to make a useless demonstration, would have rubbed his hands for satisfac-
tion. Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling companion—although
the only opportunity he had for studying him had been while he was dealing the cards, and
between two rubbers—and questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath
this cold exte- rior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of nature.
The brigadier-general was free to mentally con- fess that, of all the eccentric persons
he had ever met, none was comparable to this product of the exact sciences.
Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his de- sign of going round the world, nor
the circumstances under which he set out; and the general only saw in the wager a useless
eccentricity and a lack of sound common sense. In the way this strange gentleman was going
on, he would leave the world without having done any good to himself or anybody else.
An hour after leaving Bombay the train had passed the viaducts and the Island of Salcette,
and had got into the open country. At Callyan they reached the junction of the branch line
which descends towards south-eastern India by Kandallah and Pounah; and, passing Pauwell,
they en- tered the defiles of the mountains, with their basalt bases, and their summits
crowned with thick and verdant for-
ests. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time, and
now Sir Francis, reviv- ing the conversation, observed, ‘Some years ago, Mr. Fogg, you
would have met with a delay at this point which would probably have lost you your wager.’
‘How so, Sir Francis?’ ‘Because the railway stopped at the base
of these moun- tains, which the passengers were obliged to cross in palanquins or on
ponies to Kandallah, on the other side.’ ‘Such a delay would not have deranged my
plans in the least,’ said Mr. Fogg. ‘I have constantly foreseen the likeli- hood
of certain obstacles.’ ‘But, Mr. Fogg,’ pursued Sir Francis,
‘you run the risk of having some difficulty about this worthy fellow’s adventure at
the pagoda.’ Passepartout, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling-blanket, was sound
asleep and did not dream that anybody was talking about him. ‘The Gov- ernment is
very severe upon that kind of offence. It takes particular care that the religious customs
of the Indians should be respected, and if your servant were caught—‘
‘Very well, Sir Francis,’ replied Mr. Fogg; ‘if he had been caught he would have
been condemned and punished, and then would have quietly returned to Europe. I don’t
see how this affair could have delayed his master.’
The conversation fell again. During the night the train left the mountains behind, and passed
Nassik, and the next day proceeded over the flat, well-cultivated country of the Khandeish,
with its straggling villages, above which rose the minarets of the pagodas. This fertile
territory is watered
by numerous small rivers and limpid streams, mostly tribu- taries of the Godavery.
Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not re- alise that he was actually crossing
India in a railway train. The locomotive, guided by an English engineer and fed with
English coal, threw out its smoke upon cotton, cof- fee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations,
while the steam curled in spirals around groups of palm-trees, in the midst of which were
seen picturesque bungalows, viharis (sort of abandoned monasteries), and marvellous
temples enriched by the exhaustless ornamentation of Indian architecture. Then they came upon
vast tracts extending to the horizon, with jungles inhabited by snakes and tigers, which
fled at the noise of the train; succeeded by forests penetrated by the railway, and
still haunted by elephants which, with pensive eyes, gazed at the train as it passed. The
travellers crossed, beyond Milligaum, the fatal country so often stained with blood
by the sectaries of the goddess Kali. Not far off rose El- lora, with its graceful pagodas,
and the famous Aurungabad, capital of the ferocious Aureng-Zeb, now the chief town of
one of the detached provinces of the kingdom of the Nizam. It was thereabouts that Feringhea,
the Thuggee chief, king of the stranglers, held his sway. These ruffians, united by a
secret bond, strangled victims of every age in honour of the goddess Death, without ever
shedding blood; there was a period when this part of the country could scarcely be trav-
elled over without corpses being found in every direction. The English Government has
succeeded in greatly dimin- ishing these murders, though the Thuggees still exist, and
pursue the exercise of their horrible rites. At half-past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor
where Passepartout was able to purchase some Indian slip- pers, ornamented with false pearls,
in which, with evident vanity, he proceeded to encase his feet. The travellers made
a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur, after skirt- ing for a little the banks of
the small river Tapty, which empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat.
Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing rever- ie. Up to his arrival at Bombay, he
had entertained hopes that their journey would end there; but, now that they were plainly
whirling across India at full speed, a sudden change had come over the spirit of his dreams.
His old vagabond nature returned to him; the fantastic ideas of his youth once more took
possession of him. He came to regard his master’s project as intended in good earnest, believed
in the reality of the bet, and therefore in the tour of the world and the necessity of
making it without fail within the designat- ed period. Already he began to worry about
possible delays, and accidents which might happen on the way. He recog- nised himself
as being personally interested in the wager, and trembled at the thought that he might
have been the means of losing it by his unpardonable folly of the night before. Being much less
cool-headed than Mr. Fogg, he was much more restless, counting and recounting the days
passed over, uttering maledictions when the train stopped, and accusing it of sluggishness,
and mentally blaming Mr. Fogg for not having bribed the engineer. The worthy fel- low was
ignorant that, while it was possible by such means
to hasten the rate of a steamer, it could not be done on the railway.
The train entered the defiles of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate the Khandeish from
Bundelcund, towards evening. The next day Sir Francis Cromarty asked Passep- artout
what time it was; to which, on consulting his watch, he replied that it was three in
the morning. This famous timepiece, always regulated on the Greenwich meridi- an, which
was now some seventy-seven degrees westward, was at least four hours slow. Sir Francis
corrected Passep- artout’s time, whereupon the latter made the same remark that he had
done to Fix; and upon the general insisting that the watch should be regulated in each
new meridian, since he was constantly going eastward, that is in the face of the sun,
and therefore the days were shorter by four minutes for each degree gone over, Passepartout
obstinately refused to alter his watch, which he kept at London time. It was an in- nocent
delusion which could harm no one. The train stopped, at eight o’clock, in
the midst of a glade some fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows,
and workmen’s cabins. The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted, ‘Passengers
will get out here!’ Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an ex- planation;
but the general could not tell what meant a halt
in the midst of this forest of dates and acacias. Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out
and speedily returned, crying: ‘Monsieur, no more railway!’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sir Francis. ‘I mean to say that the train isn’t going
on.’
The general at once stepped out, while Phileas Fogg calmly followed him, and they proceeded
together to the conductor. ‘Where are we?’ asked Sir Francis.
‘At the hamlet of Kholby.’ ‘Do we stop here?’
‘Certainly. The railway isn’t finished.’ ‘What! not finished?’
‘No. There’s still a matter of fifty miles to be laid from here to Allahabad, where the
line begins again.’ ‘But the papers announced the opening of
the railway throughout.’ ‘What would you have, officer? The papers
were mistak- en.’ ‘Yet you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta,’
retorted Sir Francis, who was growing warm.
‘No doubt,’ replied the conductor; ‘but the passengers know that they must provide
means of transportation for themselves from Kholby to Allahabad.’
Sir Francis was furious. Passepartout would willingly have knocked the conductor down,
and did not dare to look at his master. ‘Sir Francis,’ said Mr. Fogg quietly,
‘we will, if you please, look about for some means of conveyance to Allahabad.’
‘Mr. Fogg, this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage.’
‘No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen.’ ‘What! You knew that the way—‘
‘Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or later arise on my
route. Nothing, therefore, is lost.
I have two days, which I have already gained, to sacrifice. A steamer leaves Calcutta for
Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th. This is the 22nd, and we shall reach Calcutta in time.’
There was nothing to say to so confident a response.
It was but too true that the railway came to a termination at this point. The papers
were like some watches, which have a way of getting too fast, and had been premature in
their announcement of the completion of the line. The greater part of the travellers were
aware of this interruption, and, leaving the train, they began to engage such vehicles
as the village could provide four-wheeled palkigharis, waggons drawn by zebus, carriages
that looked like perambulating pagodas, palanquins, ponies, and what not.
Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after searching the village from end to end, came back without
having found anything. ‘I shall go afoot,’ said Phileas Fogg.
Passepartout, who had now rejoined his master, made a wry grimace, as he thought of his magnificent,
but too frail Indian shoes. Happily he too had been looking about him, and, after a moment’s
hesitation, said, ‘Monsieur, I think I have found a means of conveyance.’
‘What?’ ‘An elephant! An elephant that belongs to
an Indian who lives but a hundred steps from here.’
‘Let’s go and see the elephant,’ replied Mr. Fogg.
They soon reached a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high palings, was the
animal in question. An Indian came out of the hut, and, at their request, con-
ducted them within the enclosure. The elephant, which its owner had reared, not for a beast
of burden, but for warlike purposes, was half domesticated. The Indian had begun al- ready,
by often irritating him, and feeding him every three months on sugar and butter, to impart
to him a ferocity not in his nature, this method being often employed by those who train
the Indian elephants for battle. Happily, however, for Mr. Fogg, the animal’s instruction
in this direction had not gone far, and the elephant still preserved his natural gentleness.
Kiouni—this was the name of the beast—could doubtless travel rapidly for a long time,
and, in default of any other means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him. But elephants
are far from cheap in India, where they are becoming scarce, the males, which alone are
suitable for circus shows, are much sought, especially as but few of them are domesticated.
When therefore Mr. Fogg proposed to the Indian to hire Kiouni, he refused point-blank. Mr.
Fogg persisted, offering the excessive sum of ten pounds an hour for the loan of the
beast to Allahabad. Refused. Twenty pounds? Refused also. Forty pounds? Still refused.
Passep- artout jumped at each advance; but the Indian declined to be tempted. Yet the
offer was an alluring one, for, suppos- ing it took the elephant fifteen hours to reach
Allahabad, his owner would receive no less than six hundred pounds sterling.
Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to purchase the animal
outright, and at first of- fered a thousand pounds for him. The Indian, perhaps thinking
he was going to make a great bargain, still re-
fused. Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside,
and begged him to reflect before he went any further; to which that gen- tleman replied
that he was not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds was at
stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and that he would secure him if he
had to pay twenty times his value. Return- ing to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes,
glistening with avarice, betrayed that with him it was only a question of how great a
price he could obtain. Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then fifteen hundred, eighteen
hundred, two thousand pounds. Passepartout, usually so rubicund, was fairly white with
suspense. At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded.
‘What a price, good heavens!’ cried Passepartout, ‘for an elephant.
It only remained now to find a guide, which was com- paratively easy. A young Parsee,
with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr. Fogg accepted, promising so generous
a reward as to materially stimulate his zeal. The elephant was led out and equipped. The
Parsee, who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with a sort of saddle-cloth,
and attached to each of his flanks some curiously uncomfortable howdahs. Phileas Fogg paid the
Indian with some banknotes which he extracted from the famous carpet-bag, a proceeding that
seemed to deprive poor Passepartout of his vitals. Then he offered to carry Sir Francis
to Allahabad, which the brigadier gratefully accept- ed, as one traveller the more would
not be likely to fatigue
the gigantic beast. Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and, while Sir Francis and Mr.
Fogg took the howdahs on either side, Passepartout got astride the saddle-cloth be- tween them.
The Parsee perched himself on the elephant’s neck, and at nine o’clock they set out from
the village, the animal marching off through the dense forest of palms by the shortest
cut.
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND HIS COMPANIONS VENTURE ACROSS THE INDIAN FORESTS, AND WHAT ENSUED
n order to shorten the journey, the guide passed to the left of the line where the railway
was still in process of be- ing built. This line, owing to the capricious
turnings of the Vindhia Mountains, did not pursue a straight course. The Parsee, who
was quite familiar with the roads and paths in the district, declared that they would
gain twenty miles by striking directly through the forest.
Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, plunged to the neck in the peculiar howdahs provided
for them, were hor- ribly jostled by the swift trotting of the elephant, spurred on as he
was by the skilful Parsee; but they endured the discomfort with true British phlegm, talking
little, and
scarcely able to catch a glimpse of each other. As for Passep- artout, who was mounted on
the beast’s back, and received the direct force of each concussion as he trod along,
he was very careful, in accordance with his master’s advice, to keep his tongue from
between his teeth, as it would otherwise have been bitten off short. The worthy fellow bounced
from the elephant’s neck to his rump, and vaulted like a clown on
a spring-board; yet he laughed in the midst of his bounc- ing, and from time to time took
a piece of sugar out of his pocket, and inserted it in Kiouni’s trunk, who received it without
in the least slackening his regular trot. After two hours the guide stopped the elephant,
and gave him an hour for rest, during which Kiouni, after quench- ing his thirst at a
neighbouring spring, set to devouring the branches and shrubs round about him. Neither
Sir Francis nor Mr. Fogg regretted the delay, and both descended with
a feeling of relief. ‘Why, he’s made of iron!’ exclaimed the general, gazing admiringly
on Kiouni. ‘Of forged iron,’ replied Passepartout,
as he set about pre- paring a hasty breakfast. At noon the Parsee gave the signal of departure.
The country soon presented a very savage aspect. Copses of dates and dwarf-palms succeeded
the dense forests; then vast, dry plains, dotted with scanty shrubs, and sown with great
blocks of syenite. All this portion of Bundelcund, which is little frequented by travellers,
is inhabited by a fanatical population, hardened in the most horrible practices of the Hindoo
faith. The English have not been able to secure com- plete dominion over this territory, which
is subjected to the
influence of rajahs, whom it is almost impossible to reach in their inaccessible mountain fastnesses.
The travellers sev- eral times saw bands of ferocious Indians, who, when they perceived
the elephant striding across-country, made an- gry arid threatening motions. The Parsee
avoided them as much as possible. Few animals were observed on the route; even the monkeys
hurried from their path with contortions and grimaces which convulsed Passepartout with
laughter. In the midst of his gaiety, however, one thought
trou- bled the worthy servant. What would Mr. Fogg do with the elephant when he got
to Allahabad? Would he carry him on with him? Impossible! The cost of transporting him would
make him ruinously expensive. Would he sell him, or set him free? The estimable beast
certainly deserved some consideration. Should Mr. Fogg choose to make him, Passepartout,
a present of Kiouni, he would be very much embarrassed; and these thoughts did not cease
worrying him for a long time. The principal chain of the Vindhias was crossed
by eight in the evening, and another halt was made on the northern slope, in a ruined
bungalow. They had gone nearly twen- ty-five miles that day, and an equal distance still
separated them from the station of Allahabad. The night was cold. The Parsee lit a fire
in the bungalow with a few dry branches, and the warmth was very grate- ful, provisions
purchased at Kholby sufficed for supper, and the travellers ate ravenously. The conversation,
beginning with a few disconnected phrases, soon gave place to loud and steady snores.
The guide watched Kiouni, who slept
standing, bolstering himself against the trunk of a large tree. Nothing occurred during the
night to disturb the slumberers, although occasional growls front panthers and chatterings
of monkeys broke the silence; the more formi- dable beasts made no cries or hostile demonstration
against the occupants of the bungalow. Sir Francis slept heavily, like an honest soldier
overcome with fatigue. Passepartout was wrapped in uneasy dreams of the bouncing of the day
before. As for Mr. Fogg, he slumbered as peacefully as if he had been in his serene mansion in
Saville Row. The journey was resumed at six in the morning;
the guide hoped to reach Allahabad by evening. In that case, Mr. Fogg would only lose a part
of the forty-eight hours saved since the beginning of the tour. Kiouni, resuming his rapid gait,
soon descended the lower spurs of the Vindhias, and towards noon they passed by the village
of Kallenger, on the Cani, one of the branches of the Ganges. The guide avoided inhabited
places, thinking it safer to keep the open country, which lies along the first depressions
of the basin of the great river. Allahabad was now only twelve miles to the north-east.
They stopped under a clump of bananas, the fruit of which, as healthy as bread and as
succulent as cream, was amply partaken of and appreciated.
At two o’clock the guide entered a thick forest which extended several miles; he preferred
to travel under cov- er of the woods. They had not as yet had any unpleasant encounters,
and the journey seemed on the point of being successfully accomplished, when the elephant,
becoming restless, suddenly stopped.
It was then four o’clock. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sir Francis,
putting out his head. ‘I don’t know, officer,’ replied the
Parsee, listening atten- tively to a confused murmur which came through the thick branches.
The murmur soon became more distinct; it now seemed like a distant concert of human voices
accompanied by brass instruments. Passepartout was all eyes and ears. Mr. Fogg patiently
waited without a word. The Parsee jumped to the ground, fastened the elephant to a tree,
and plunged into the thicket. He soon returned, saying:
‘A procession of Brahmins is coming this way. We must prevent their seeing us, if possible.’
The guide unloosed the elephant and led him into a thicket, at the same time asking the
travellers not to stir. He held himself ready to bestride the animal at a moment’s notice,
should flight become necessary; but he evidently thought that the procession of the faithful
would pass with- out perceiving them amid the thick foliage, in which they were wholly
concealed. The discordant tones of the voices and instruments
drew nearer, and now droning songs mingled with the sound of the tambourines and cymbals.
The head of the procession soon appeared beneath the trees, a hundred paces away; and the strange
figures who performed the religious cere- mony were easily distinguished through the
branches. First came the priests, with mitres on their heads, and clothed in long lace robes.
They were surrounded by men, women, and
children, who sang a kind of lugubrious psalm, interrupt- ed at regular intervals by the
tambourines and cymbals; while behind them was drawn a car with large wheels, the spokes
of which represented serpents entwined with each other. Upon the car, which was drawn
by four richly ca- parisoned zebus, stood a hideous statue with four arms, the body
coloured a dull red, with haggard eyes, dishevelled hair, protruding tongue, and lips tinted with
betel. It stood upright upon the figure of a prostrate and headless giant.
Sir Francis, recognising the statue, whispered, ‘The god- dess Kali; the goddess of love
and death.’ ‘Of death, perhaps,’ muttered back Passepartout,
‘but of love— that ugly old hag? Never!’ The Parsee made a motion to keep silence.
A group of old fakirs were capering and making a wild ado round the statue; these were striped
with ochre, and covered with cuts whence their blood issued drop by drop— stupid fanatics,
who, in the great Indian ceremonies, still throw themselves under the wheels of Juggernaut.
Some Brahmins, clad in all the sumptuousness of Oriental appar- el, and leading a woman
who faltered at every step, followed. This woman was young, and as fair as a European.
Her head and neck, shoulders, ears, arms, hands, and toes were load- ed down with jewels
and gems with bracelets, earrings, and rings; while a tunic bordered with gold, and covered
with a light muslin robe, betrayed the outline of her form.
The guards who followed the young woman presented a violent contrast to her, armed as they were
with naked sabres hung at their waists, and long damascened pistols,
and bearing a corpse on a palanquin. It was the body of an old man, gorgeously arrayed
in the habiliments of a ra- jah, wearing, as in life, a turban embroidered with pearls,
a robe of tissue of silk and gold, a scarf of cashmere sewed with diamonds, and the magnificent
weapons of a Hindoo prince. Next came the musicians and a rearguard of caper- ing fakirs,
whose cries sometimes drowned the noise of the instruments; these closed the procession.
Sir Francis watched the procession with a sad counte- nance, and, turning to the guide,
said, ‘A suttee.’ The Parsee nodded, and put his finger to his
lips. The procession slowly wound under the trees, and soon its last ranks disappeared
in the depths of the wood. The songs gradually died away; occasionally cries were heard in
the distance, until at last all was silence again.
Phileas Fogg had heard what Sir Francis said, and, as soon as the procession had disappeared,
asked: ‘What is a suttee?’ ‘A suttee,’ returned the general, ‘is
a human sacrifice, but a voluntary one. The woman you have just seen will be burned to-morrow
at the dawn of day.’ ‘Oh, the scoundrels!’ cried Passepartout,
who could not repress his indignation. ‘And the corpse?’ asked Mr. Fogg.
‘Is that of the prince, her husband,’ said the guide; ‘an in- dependent rajah
of Bundelcund.’ ‘Is it possible,’ resumed Phileas Fogg,
his voice betraying not the least emotion, ‘that these barbarous customs still exist
in India, and that the English have been unable to put
a stop to them?’ ‘These sacrifices do not occur in the larger
portion of In- dia,’ replied Sir Francis; ‘but we have no power over these savage
territories, and especially here in Bundelcund. The whole district north of the Vindhias is
the theatre of inces- sant murders and pillage.’ ‘The poor wretch!’ exclaimed Passepartout,
‘to be burned alive!’ ‘Yes,’ returned Sir Francis, ‘burned
alive. And, if she were not, you cannot conceive what treatment she would be obliged to submit
to from her relatives. They would shave off her hair, feed her on a scanty allowance of
rice, treat her with contempt; she would be looked upon as an un- clean creature, and
would die in some corner, like a scurvy dog. The prospect of so frightful an existence
drives these poor creatures to the sacrifice much more than love or reli- gious fanaticism.
Sometimes, however, the sacrifice is really voluntary, and it requires the active interference
of the Gov- ernment to prevent it. Several years ago, when I was living at Bombay, a
young widow asked permission of the gover- nor to be burned along with her husband’s
body; but, as you may imagine, he refused. The woman left the town, took refuge with
an independent rajah, and there carried out her self-devoted purpose.’
While Sir Francis was speaking, the guide shook his head several times, and now said:
‘The sacrifice which will take place to-morrow at dawn is not a voluntary one.’
‘How do you know?’ ‘Everybody knows about this affair in Bundelcund.’
‘But the wretched creature did not seem to be making any resistance,’ observed Sir
Francis. ‘That was because they had intoxicated her
with fumes of hemp and ***.’ ‘But where are they taking her?’
‘To the pagoda of Pillaji, two miles from here; she will pass the night there.’
‘And the sacrifice will take place—‘ ‘To-morrow, at the first light of dawn.’
The guide now led the elephant out of the thicket, and leaped upon his neck. Just at
the moment that he was about to urge Kiouni forward with a peculiar whistle, Mr. Fogg
stopped him, and, turning to Sir Francis Cromarty, said,
‘Suppose we save this woman.’ ‘Save the woman, Mr. Fogg!’
‘I have yet twelve hours to spare; I can devote them to that.’
‘Why, you are a man of heart!’ ‘Sometimes,’ replied Phileas Fogg, quietly;
‘when I have the time.’
CHAPTER XIII
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT RECEIVES A NEW PROOF THAT FORTUNE FAVORS THE BRAVE
he project was a bold one, full of difficulty, perhaps im- practicable. Mr. Fogg was going
to risk life, or at least liberty, and therefore the success of his tour. But he did not hesitate,
and he found in Sir Francis Cromarty an enthusi- astic ally.
As for Passepartout, he was ready for anything that might be proposed. His master’s idea
charmed him; he per- ceived a heart, a soul, under that icy exterior. He began to love
Phileas Fogg. There remained the guide: what course would
he adopt? Would he not take part with the Indians? In default of his assistance, it
was necessary to be assured of his neutrality. Sir Francis frankly put the question to him.
‘Officers,’ replied the guide, ‘I am a Parsee, and this wom-
an is a Parsee. Command me as you will.’ ‘Excellent!’ said Mr. Fogg.
‘However,’ resumed the guide, ‘it is certain, not only that we shall risk our lives,
but horrible tortures, if we are tak- en.’ ‘That is foreseen,’ replied Mr. Fogg.
‘I think we must wait till night before acting.’
‘I think so,’ said the guide. The worthy Indian then gave some account of
the vic- tim, who, he said, was a celebrated beauty of the Parsee race, and the daughter
of a wealthy Bombay merchant. She had received a thoroughly English education in that city,
and, from her manners and intelligence, would be thought an European. Her name was Aouda.
Left an orphan, she was married against her will to the old rajah of Bundelcund; and,
knowing the fate that awaited her, she escaped, was retaken, and devoted by the rajah’s
relatives, who had an interest in her death, to the sacrifice from which it seemed she
could not escape. The Parsee’s narrative only confirmed Mr.
Fogg and his companions in their generous design. It was decided that the guide should
direct the elephant towards the pagoda of Pillaji, which he accordingly approached as
quickly as pos- sible. They halted, half an hour afterwards, in a copse, some five hundred
feet from the pagoda, where they were well concealed; but they could hear the groans
and cries of the fakirs distinctly. They then discussed the means of getting at
the victim. The guide was familiar with the pagoda of Pillaji, in which,
as he declared, the young woman was imprisoned. Could they enter any of its doors while the
whole party of Indians was plunged in a drunken sleep, or was it safer to attempt to make
a hole in the walls? This could only be determined at the moment and the place themselves; but
it was certain that the abduction must be made that night, and not when, at break of
day, the victim was led to her funeral pyre. Then no human intervention could save her.
As soon as night fell, about six o’clock, they decided to make a reconnaissance around
the pagoda. The cries of the fakirs were just ceasing; the Indians were in the act of plunging
themselves into the drunkenness caused by liquid *** mingled with hemp, and it might
be possible to slip between them to the temple itself.
The Parsee, leading the others, noiselessly crept through the wood, and in ten minutes
they found themselves on the banks of a small stream, whence, by the light of the rosin
torches, they perceived a pyre of wood, on the top of which lay the embalmed body of
the rajah, which was to be burned with his wife. The pagoda, whose minarets loomed above
the trees in the deepening dusk, stood a hundred steps away.
‘Come!’ whispered the guide. He slipped more cautiously than ever through
the brush, followed by his companions; the silence around was only broken by the low
murmuring of the wind among the branches. Soon the Parsee stopped on the borders of
the glade, which was lit up by the torches. The ground was covered by
groups of the Indians, motionless in their drunken sleep; it seemed a battlefield strewn
with the dead. Men, women, and children lay together.
In the background, among the trees, the pagoda of Pillaji loomed distinctly. Much to the
guide’s disappointment, the guards of the rajah, lighted by torches, were watching at
the doors and marching to and fro with naked sabres; probably the priests, too, were watching
within. The Parsee, now convinced that it was impossible
to force an entrance to the temple, advanced no farther, but led his companions back again.
Phileas Fogg and Sir Fran- cis Cromarty also saw that nothing could be attempted in that
direction. They stopped, and engaged in a whispered colloquy.
‘It is only eight now,’ said the brigadier, ‘and these guards may also go to sleep.’
‘It is not impossible,’ returned the Parsee. They lay down at the foot of a tree, and waited.
The time seemed long; the guide ever and anon left them to take an observation on the edge
of the wood, but the guards watched steadily by the glare of the torches, and a dim light
crept through the windows of the pagoda. They waited till midnight; but no change took
place among the guards, and it became apparent that their yield- ing to sleep could not be
counted on. The other plan must be carried out; an opening in the walls of the pagoda
must be made. It remained to ascertain whether the priests were watching by the side of their
victim as assiduously as were the soldiers at the door.
After a last consultation, the guide announced that he was ready for the attempt, and advanced,
followed by the others. They took a roundabout way, so as to get at the pago- da on the rear.
They reached the walls about half-past twelve, without having met anyone; here there was
no guard, nor were there either windows or doors.
The night was dark. The moon, on the wane, scarcely left the horizon, and was covered
with heavy clouds; the height of the trees deepened the darkness.
It was not enough to reach the walls; an opening in them must be accomplished, and to attain
this purpose the par- ty only had their pocket-knives. Happily the temple walls were built of brick
and wood, which could be penetrated with little difficulty; after one brick had been taken
out, the rest would yield easily. They set noiselessly to work, and the Parsee
on one side and Passepartout on the other began to loosen the bricks so as to make an
aperture two feet wide. They were getting on rapidly, when suddenly a cry was heard
in the interior of the temple, followed almost instantly by other cries reply- ing from the
outside. Passepartout and the guide stopped. Had they been heard? Was the alarm being given?
Common prudence urged them to retire, and they did so, followed by Phileas Fogg and
Sir Francis. They again hid themselves in the wood, and waited till the disturbance,
whatever it might be, ceased, holding themselves ready to resume their attempt without delay.
But, awkwardly enough, the guards now appeared at the rear of the temple, and there installed
themselves, in readiness to prevent a surprise.
It would be difficult to describe the disappointment of the party, thus interrupted in their work.
They could not now reach the victim; how, then, could they save her? Sir Francis shook
his fists, Passepartout was beside himself, and the guide gnashed his teeth with rage.
The tranquil Fogg waited, without betraying any emotion.
‘We have nothing to do but to go away,’ whispered Sir
Francis. ‘Nothing but to go away,’ echoed the guide.
‘Stop,’ said Fogg. ‘I am only due at Allahabad tomorrow before noon.’
‘But what can you hope to do?’ asked Sir Francis. ‘In a few hours it will be daylight,
and—‘ ‘The chance which now seems lost may present
itself at the last moment.’ Sir Francis would have liked to read Phileas
Fogg’s eyes. What was this cool Englishman thinking of? Was he planning to make a rush
for the young woman at the very moment of the sacrifice, and boldly *** her from
her ex- ecutioners? This would be utter folly, and it was hard
to admit that Fogg was such a fool. Sir Francis consented, however, to re- main to the end
of this terrible drama. The guide led them to the rear of the glade, where they were
able to observe the sleeping groups. Meanwhile Passepartout, who had perched himself
on the lower branches of a tree, was resolving an idea which had at first struck him like
a flash, and which was now firm- ly lodged in his brain.
He had commenced by saying to himself, ‘What fol- ly!’ and then he repeated, ‘Why not,
after all? It’s a chance perhaps the only one; and with such sots!’ Thinking thus,
he slipped, with the suppleness of a serpent, to the lowest branches, the ends of which
bent almost to the ground. The hours passed, and the lighter shades now
announced the approach of day, though it was not yet light. This was the moment. The slumbering
multitude became animated, the tambourines sounded, songs and cries arose; the hour of
the sacrifice had come. The doors of the pagoda swung open, and a bright light escaped from
its interior, in the midst of which Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis espied the victim. She seemed,
having shaken off the stupor of intoxication, to be striving to escape from her executioner.
Sir Francis’s heart throbbed; and, convulsively seizing Mr. Fogg’s hand, found in it an
open knife. Just at this moment the crowd began to move. The young woman had again fallen
into a stupor caused by the fumes of hemp, and passed among the fakirs, who escorted
her with their wild, religious cries. Phileas Fogg and his companions, mingling
in the rear ranks of the crowd, followed; and in two minutes they reached the banks
of the stream, and stopped fifty paces from the pyre, upon which still lay the rajah’s
corpse. In the semi-obscurity they saw the victim, quite senseless, stretched out beside
her husband’s body. Then a torch was brought, and the wood, heavily soaked with oil, instantly
took fire. At this moment Sir Francis and the guide seized
Phileas Fogg, who, in an instant of mad generosity,
was about to
rush upon the pyre. But he had quickly pushed them aside, when the whole scene suddenly
changed. A cry of terror arose. The whole multitude prostrated themselves, terror- stricken,
on the ground. The old rajah was not dead, then, since he
rose of a sudden, like a spectre, took up his wife in his arms, and de- scended from
the pyre in the midst of the clouds of smoke, which only heightened his ghostly appearance.
Fakirs and soldiers and priests, seized with instant terror, lay there, with their faces
on the ground, not daring to lift their eyes and behold such a prodigy.
The inanimate victim was borne along by the vigorous arms which supported her, and which
she did not seem in the least to burden. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis stood erect, the Parsee
bowed his head, and Passepartout was, no doubt, scarcely less stupefied.
The resuscitated rajah approached Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg, and, in an abrupt tone, said,
‘Let us be off!’ It was Passepartout himself, who had slipped
upon the pyre in the midst of the smoke and, profiting by the still overhanging darkness,
had delivered the young woman from death! It was Passepartout who, playing his part
with a happy audacity, had passed through the crowd amid the general terror.
A moment after all four of the party had disappeared in the woods, and the elephant was bearing
them away at a rapid pace. But the cries and noise, and a ball which whizzed through Phileas
Fogg’s hat, apprised them that the trick had been discovered.
The old rajah’s body, indeed, now appeared upon the burning pyre; and the priests, recovered
from their terror, perceived that an abduction had taken place. They hastened into the forest,
followed by the soldiers, who fired a volley after the fugitives; but the latter rapidly
increased the dis- tance between them, and ere long found themselves beyond the reach
of the bullets and arrows.