บทที่ บทที่ 10 · IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS ONLY TOO GLAD TO GET OFF WITH THE LOSS OF HIS

IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS ONLY TOO GLAD TO GET OFF WITH THE LOSS OF HIS

SHOES

Everybody 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 larger 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 seven hundred

thousand square miles, and a population of from one hundred to one

hundred and ten millions of inhabitants. 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

celebrated 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 Company

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 palanquins or unwieldy 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, traverses 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 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.