To save time, their guide led the elephant away from the unfinished railway and into the forest.
“The railway takes a long, winding route around the Vindhya Mountains,” the Parsee explained. “If we go straight through the forest, we can cut off about twenty miles.”
Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty sat deep inside their uncomfortable howdahs. Every step the elephant took threw them violently from side to side.
Passepartout had it even worse. Sitting directly on the elephant’s back, he was bounced around so badly that he had to keep his mouth tightly shut.
“My master was right,” he thought. “If I bite my tongue, I may lose it!”
He was thrown from the elephant’s neck to its back and back again, like a clown on a springboard. Yet somehow he found the whole thing amusing.
Every now and then, he pulled a piece of sugar from his pocket and fed it to Kiouni.
“Here you are, my friend.”
The elephant happily took the sugar without slowing down.
After two hours, the Parsee stopped the elephant.
“He needs an hour’s rest.”
Kiouni drank deeply from a nearby spring and then began eating the branches and bushes around him.
Fogg and Sir Francis climbed down with obvious relief.
“That animal is made of iron!” Sir Francis said admiringly.
“Forged iron,” Passepartout replied as he prepared a quick breakfast.
At noon, they set off again.
The scenery soon became wild and lonely. Dense forests gave way to groves of date palms and dwarf palms, then to enormous dry plains scattered with small bushes and huge blocks of stone.
Very few travelers came through this part of Bundelcund. The region was controlled by powerful local rajahs, and the British had never managed to establish complete authority there.
As they crossed the wilderness, they occasionally saw groups of hostile-looking Indians.
Whenever these men noticed the elephant, they shouted angrily and made threatening gestures.
The Parsee did his best to avoid them.
There were few animals in the area. Even the monkeys ran away when they saw the travelers, making such ridiculous faces that Passepartout could not stop laughing.
But while he laughed, another thought kept bothering him.
“What will Mr. Fogg do with Kiouni when we reach Allahabad?”
He imagined the possibilities.
“Take him on the train? Impossible.”
“Sell him?”
“That would be rather sad.”
“Set him free?”
Passepartout looked affectionately at the elephant.
“After everything he has done for us, he certainly deserves better than that.”
Then another thought crossed his mind.
“What if Mr. Fogg gives Kiouni to me?”
Passepartout sighed.
“That would put me in a terrible position.”
By eight in the evening, they had crossed the main range of the Vindhyas.
They stopped for the night in a ruined bungalow on the northern slope.
“We covered nearly twenty-five miles today,” Sir Francis said.
“And Allahabad is still about twenty-five miles away,” the Parsee replied.
The night was cold.
The guide built a fire from some dry branches, and everyone gathered around it gratefully. They ate the food they had bought at Kholby until they were completely satisfied.
Their conversation soon faded.
One by one, they fell asleep.
The Parsee stayed awake long enough to make sure Kiouni was safe. The elephant slept standing up, leaning against the trunk of a large tree.
During the night, panthers growled somewhere in the distance, and monkeys occasionally cried out.
But nothing came near the bungalow.
Sir Francis slept heavily after the exhausting journey.
Passepartout tossed and turned, dreaming that he was still being thrown around on the elephant.
Phileas Fogg slept as peacefully as though he were resting in his own house on Saville Row.
At six the next morning, they continued their journey.
“If everything goes well, we should reach Allahabad tonight,” the Parsee said.
Fogg nodded.
“That would still leave us with most of the forty-eight hours we gained earlier.”
Kiouni quickly carried them down the lower slopes of the Vindhyas.
Around noon, they passed the village of Kallenger, near the Cani River, one of the branches of the Ganges.
The guide avoided the villages and kept to the open country.
“We are safer away from populated areas,” he explained.
Allahabad was now only about twelve miles away.
They stopped beneath a group of banana trees and ate the fruit.
“These are excellent,” Passepartout said.
They were sweet, soft, and filling, and everyone ate their share.
At two o’clock, the guide led Kiouni into a thick forest.
“We can travel under the cover of the trees,” he said.
So far, everything had gone well.
They seemed certain to reach Allahabad without trouble.
Then, suddenly, Kiouni stopped.
The elephant had become restless.
It was four o’clock.
“What’s wrong?” Sir Francis asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t know,” the Parsee replied.
He listened carefully.
A strange sound was coming through the trees.
At first it was only a distant murmur.
Then it grew louder.
It sounded like many human voices mixed with the noise of brass instruments.
Passepartout immediately became alert.
“What is that?”
The Parsee jumped down and listened again.
Then he disappeared into the bushes.
A few minutes later, he returned.
“A procession of Brahmins is coming this way.”
“What should we do?” Sir Francis asked.
“We must make sure they do not see us.”
The Parsee quickly led Kiouni deeper into the trees and tied him behind the thick foliage.
“Stay absolutely still,” he whispered.
The strange music grew louder.
Tambourines and cymbals joined the chanting voices.
Soon the procession appeared beneath the trees.
At its front came several priests wearing tall ceremonial hats and long robes.
Behind them were men, women, and children, all singing a gloomy religious song.
Then came a huge cart with wheels decorated with intertwined snakes.
Four richly decorated oxen pulled it.
On the cart stood a terrifying statue.
It had four arms, a red body, wild hair, frightening eyes, and a tongue sticking out of its mouth.
The figure stood on the body of a headless giant.
Sir Francis recognized it immediately.
“The goddess Kali,” he whispered. “The goddess of love and death.”
Passepartout stared at the statue.
“Death, perhaps. But love? Not a chance. That ugly old woman?”
The Parsee urgently motioned for him to be quiet.
Around the statue danced a group of old fakirs.
Their bodies were covered with ochre markings and cuts. Blood slowly dripped from their wounds.
Behind them came several richly dressed Brahmins.
They were leading a young woman.
She looked terrified and could barely walk.
Passepartout stared at her.
She was young and extraordinarily beautiful, with features that reminded him of a European woman.
She was covered in jewelry.
Bracelets, earrings, necklaces, rings, and precious stones covered her body. A gold-trimmed tunic and a thin muslin robe revealed her delicate figure.
But the men guarding her looked completely different.
They carried naked swords and long pistols.
Behind them, several men carried a palanquin.
On it lay the body of an old man dressed like a prince.
He wore a pearl-covered turban, silk and gold clothing, a diamond-studded cashmere shawl, and the weapons of a Hindu ruler.
Musicians followed them.
A group of dancing fakirs brought up the rear, shouting so loudly that their voices sometimes drowned out the music.
Sir Francis watched in silence.
Then he turned to the Parsee.
“A suttee.”
The Parsee nodded and raised a finger to his lips.
The procession slowly disappeared into the forest.
The chanting became quieter.
The cries faded into the distance.
Finally, there was silence.
Fogg had heard Sir Francis.
As soon as the procession disappeared, he asked calmly,
“What is a suttee?”
“It is a human sacrifice,” Sir Francis replied. “The widow is burned alive with her dead husband. It is supposed to be voluntary.”
He paused.
“The young woman we just saw will be burned tomorrow at sunrise.”
“The monsters!” Passepartout cried.
He could barely control his anger.
“And the dead man?” Fogg asked.
“That was her husband,” the Parsee explained. “He was a rajah of Bundelcund.”
Fogg remained calm.
“Do such barbaric customs still exist in India?”
“They do not occur in most parts of India,” Sir Francis answered. “But the British have little control over these remote territories. This region is ruled by independent rajahs, and murders and violence are common.”
“The poor woman,” Passepartout said. “They are going to burn her alive.”
“Yes,” Sir Francis said.
“And if she refuses?”
Sir Francis looked grim.
“Her life would still be terrible. Her family would shave her head, give her very little food, treat her as an outcast, and consider her impure. She could spend the rest of her life suffering in disgrace.”
“So she chooses death because life would be unbearable?”
“Often, yes. Sometimes religious belief plays a part. Sometimes the woman truly believes she wants to die with her husband.”
Sir Francis sighed.
“I remember a case from my time in Bombay. A young widow asked the governor for permission to die with her husband. He refused. She escaped the city, found protection with an independent rajah, and eventually carried out the sacrifice anyway.”
The Parsee shook his head.
“But tomorrow’s sacrifice is different.”
“How so?” Sir Francis asked.
“The woman does not want to die.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Everyone in Bundelcund knows what happened.”
“But she did not seem to resist,” Sir Francis said.
“She could not. They drugged her with hemp and opium.”
Passepartout clenched his fists.
“Where are they taking her now?”
“To the temple of Pillaji, about two miles from here. She will spend the night there.”
“And the sacrifice?”
“At dawn tomorrow.”
The Parsee released Kiouni from the trees and climbed onto his neck.
He was about to move forward when Fogg suddenly stopped him.
“Wait.”
The guide turned around.
Fogg looked at Sir Francis.
“Suppose we save this woman.”
Sir Francis stared at him.
“Save her?”
“Yes.”
“But Mr. Fogg, we are racing around the world.”
“I still have twelve hours to spare.”
He looked toward the forest where the procession had disappeared.
“I can use those twelve hours.”
Sir Francis smiled in surprise.
“You really are a man of heart.”
Fogg calmly replied,
“Sometimes.”
He paused.
“When I have the time.”