Around the World in 80 Days

Chapter XIII

IN WHICH PASSEP­ARTOUT RE­CEIVES A NEW PROOF THAT FOR­TUNE FA­VORS THE BRAVE

The project was a bold one, full of dif­fi­cul­ty, per­haps im­prac­ti­ca­ble. 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 en­thu­si­as­tic al­ly.

As for Passep­artout, he was ready for any­thing that might be pro­posed. His mas­ter's idea charmed him; he per­ceived 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 wom­an 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 tak­en.”

“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 vic­tim, 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 pos­si­ble. 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 opi­um 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 Fran­cis 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 yield­ing 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 pago­da 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 par­ty 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 re­ply­ing 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 snatch her from her ex­ecu­tion­ers?

This would be ut­ter fol­ly, and it was hard to ad­mit that Fogg was such a fool. Sir Fran­cis con­sent­ed, how­ev­er, to re­main 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 firm­ly lodged in his brain.

He had com­menced by say­ing to him­self, “What fol­ly!” 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 de­scend­ed 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 dis­tance be­tween them, and ere long found them­selves be­yond the reach of the bul­lets and ar­rows.