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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 northeast as far as Burhampoor, skirts the nearly

independent territory of Bundelcund, ascends to Allahabad,

turns thence eastwardly, 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 Calcutta.

 

Mr. Fogg, after bidding good-bye to his whist partners, 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 office.

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 hypogea,

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 destination 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

deliver 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 moment, 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 really 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, Persians 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 Zoroaster—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 religious 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 clanging 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 booby imaginable.

 

Unhappily for his master, as well as himself, his curiosity

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 interior. 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, rushing 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, shoeless,

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 robber 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 committed 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

 

The train had started punctually. Among the passengers were

a number of officers, Government officials, and opium 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 opposite 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 Sepoy 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 rational 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 satisfaction. 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 exterior,

and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of nature.

The brigadier-general was free to mentally confess 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 design 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 entered the defiles of the mountains,

with their basalt bases, and their summits crowned with thick

and verdant forests. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged

a few words from time to time, and now Sir Francis, reviving 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 mountains,

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 likelihood 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 Government 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 tributaries of the Godavery.

 

Passepartout, on waking and looking out,

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