Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne (best story books to read .txt) 📕

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.