The plan was extremely dangerous. If they failed, Mr. Fogg could lose his life—or at least his freedom—and with it, his chance of completing his journey around the world.
But Fogg did not hesitate.
Sir Francis Cromarty was ready to help him.
As for Passepartout, he was willing to do anything his master asked.
The plan had completely changed his opinion of Fogg. For the first time, he saw that beneath his master’s cold, emotionless exterior was a brave and compassionate man.
Passepartout had begun to love and respect him deeply.
There was only one problem left: the guide.
Would he really help them rescue the young woman? Or would he side with the Indians?
Sir Francis turned to him.
“Tell us honestly. Will you help us?”
“I am a Parsee,” the guide replied. “And so is the woman we are trying to save. Command me, and I will obey.”
“Excellent,” said Fogg.
The guide lowered his voice.
“But you must understand something. If we are caught, we will not only risk our lives. We may suffer terrible torture.”
“I know,” Fogg replied calmly. “That is why we must wait until night.”
“I agree,” said the guide.
The guide then told them more about the woman.
“Her name is Aouda. She is a famous beauty of the Parsee people and the daughter of a wealthy merchant from Bombay. She was educated in the English manner and speaks and behaves almost like a European.”
“She was orphaned when she was young,” he continued. “Then she was forced to marry the old Rajah of Bundelcund against her will.”
“After the rajah died, she knew she was expected to die with him.”
“She tried to escape, but she was captured. The rajah’s relatives wanted her dead because they had much to gain from her death. So they decided to sacrifice her on the funeral pyre.”
Fogg listened quietly.
Sir Francis’s expression hardened.
“We must save her,” he said.
“We will,” Fogg replied.
The guide directed the elephant toward the Pillaji pagoda.
About half an hour later, they stopped in a thick patch of trees about five hundred feet from the temple. They were hidden well enough, but they could still hear the groans and cries of the fakirs.
They now had to decide how to get inside.
The guide knew the temple well.
“There may be a way through one of the doors,” he whispered. “But we would have to wait until the Indians are completely drunk and asleep.”
“And if the doors are guarded?” asked Sir Francis.
“Then we may have to make a hole through the wall.”
They all understood that there was no time to waste.
Aouda had to be rescued that very night.
At dawn, she would be taken to the funeral pyre. Once the ceremony began, there would be almost no chance of saving her.
When darkness finally came, around six o’clock, they prepared to investigate the temple.
The cries of the fakirs were dying away. The Indians were drinking a mixture of opium and hemp, which would soon leave many of them unconscious.
The guide led the others silently through the forest.
Ten minutes later, they reached a small stream.
By the light of resin torches, they could see a huge pile of wood beside the water.
The dead rajah had already been placed on top of it.
Aouda was supposed to be burned there with him.
The Pillaji pagoda stood about a hundred steps away, its towers rising above the trees.
“Come,” whispered the guide.
They moved forward carefully.
The forest was almost completely silent except for the wind moving through the branches.
Then the guide stopped.
They had reached the edge of a clearing.
The torchlight revealed dozens of Indians lying on the ground in drunken sleep.
Men, women, and children were scattered everywhere.
They looked like soldiers who had been killed in battle.
Beyond them stood the pagoda.
But the guide immediately saw a problem.
Guards were stationed at every entrance.
They carried naked swords and walked back and forth beneath the torchlight.
“The priests are probably inside with Aouda,” the guide whispered.
He shook his head.
“We cannot get through the front.”
They quietly returned to the forest.
Fogg and Sir Francis agreed.
“There is still a chance,” Sir Francis whispered. “It is only eight o’clock. Perhaps the guards will fall asleep later.”
“That is possible,” said the guide.
They hid beneath a tree and waited.
Time passed slowly.
Every so often, the guide went to the edge of the forest to check on the guards.
But nothing changed.
The guards remained awake, and the light inside the temple continued to glow through the windows.
They waited until midnight.
Still nothing.
“We cannot depend on the guards falling asleep,” the guide finally said.
“Then we make our own entrance,” said Fogg.
They decided to approach the temple from the rear.
The guide led them through a longer route.
At about half past twelve, they reached the back wall without meeting anyone.
There were no guards there.
There were no windows.
There was not even a door.
The darkness was almost complete. The moon was low on the horizon and hidden behind thick clouds, while the tall trees blocked what little light remained.
The problem was that they had no proper tools.
All they had were their pocketknives.
Fortunately, the temple walls were made partly of brick and wood.
“If we remove one brick,” whispered the guide, “the others should come away easily.”
They began working silently.
The guide loosened the bricks from one side.
Passepartout worked from the other.
They were making good progress.
Then suddenly—
A cry came from inside the temple.
Another cry answered from outside.
Passepartout froze.
The guide stopped as well.
“Have they heard us?” Passepartout whispered.
“Perhaps,” said the guide.
They immediately withdrew into the forest.
A few moments later, guards appeared at the back of the temple.
They had discovered the danger and now took up positions there.
The rescue plan seemed to have failed.
Sir Francis clenched his fists.
Passepartout was furious.
The guide ground his teeth in frustration.
Only Fogg remained completely calm.
“We have no choice,” Sir Francis whispered. “We must leave.”
“We must,” agreed the guide.
“Wait,” said Fogg.
Sir Francis stared at him.
“I am not required to reach Allahabad until tomorrow before noon.”
“But what can we possibly do?” Sir Francis asked. “It will be daylight in a few hours.”
“The opportunity we need may appear at the very last moment.”
Sir Francis looked at Fogg carefully.
He wondered what the Englishman was planning.
Was Fogg seriously thinking of rushing onto the funeral pyre and stealing Aouda away in front of hundreds of people?
That would be madness.
Yet Sir Francis had learned enough about Fogg to know that the man might actually attempt it.
He agreed to stay.
The guide led them to the far side of the clearing, where they could watch the sleeping crowd without being seen.
Meanwhile, Passepartout had climbed into a low tree.
An idea had suddenly entered his mind.
At first he had thought:
“What a crazy idea!”
Then he thought again.
“Why not?”
It might be their only chance.
And with all these drunken fools around, perhaps it could work.
Passepartout slowly climbed down toward the lowest branches.
The branches bent almost to the ground.
He moved like a snake, silently and carefully.
The hours passed.
Then the darkness began to fade.
Dawn was approaching.
The sleeping crowd suddenly began to stir.
Tambourines started beating.
Songs and cries filled the air.
The moment of sacrifice had arrived.
The doors of the pagoda opened.
Bright light poured out.
Fogg and Sir Francis saw Aouda.
She had apparently recovered from her drunken stupor and was struggling against the men taking her toward the funeral pyre.
Sir Francis’s heart began pounding.
He grabbed Fogg’s hand.
There was an open knife in it.
Then the crowd began moving.
Aouda was overcome once again by the fumes of hemp.
She became unconscious as the fakirs surrounded her, shouting their wild religious cries.
Fogg, Sir Francis, and the guide followed the crowd from behind.
Within two minutes, they reached the stream.
The funeral pyre stood only fifty paces away.
Aouda was lying unconscious beside the dead rajah.
Then someone brought a torch.
The wood had been soaked heavily in oil.
It caught fire immediately.
Sir Francis grabbed Fogg.
The guide grabbed him too.
Fogg was about to rush onto the burning pyre.
“Wait!” Sir Francis shouted.
But then everything changed.
A terrible cry came from the crowd.
Every Indian threw himself onto the ground in terror.
The dead rajah had suddenly risen.
He stood like a ghost in the middle of the smoke.
He lifted Aouda into his arms and climbed down from the burning pyre.
The fakirs, soldiers, and priests were completely terrified.
None of them dared to raise their heads.
The woman appeared weightless in the arms of the strange figure carrying her.
Fogg and Sir Francis stood frozen.
The guide lowered his head in astonishment.
Then the mysterious figure walked toward them.
“Let us go!” he ordered.
Sir Francis stared at him.
So did Fogg.
Then they realized the truth.
It was Passepartout.
He had slipped onto the pyre through the smoke while the darkness still protected him.
He had rescued Aouda and disguised himself as the dead rajah.
Now he was carrying her away while everyone was too frightened to understand what was happening.
His crazy idea had worked.
The four companions disappeared into the forest.
The elephant was waiting.
They climbed aboard, and the animal immediately carried them away at full speed.
But their escape did not remain a secret for long.
Shouts and screams erupted behind them.
Then a bullet whizzed past Fogg’s head and tore through his hat.
The trick had been discovered.
The priests finally understood what had happened.
The real body of the old rajah was still lying on the burning pyre.
They rushed into the forest, followed by the soldiers.
The soldiers fired at the fugitives.
But the elephant was much faster.
Within minutes, Fogg, Sir Francis, Passepartout, Aouda, and the guide had put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers to escape the bullets and arrows.
They were safe—for the moment.