India was a vast country, stretching from the Himalayas in the north to the tip of the peninsula in the south. Much of it was under British rule, although some regions were still controlled by independent local rulers.
The British had greatly changed the country. Old methods of travel—horses, palanquins, and heavy coaches—were slowly being replaced by steamships and railways.
The Great Indian Peninsula Railway now crossed much of India, connecting Bombay with Calcutta. The journey was not completely straight, but the railway made it possible to cross the country in only a few days.
The passengers of the Mongolia arrived in Bombay at half past four in the afternoon.
Their train to Calcutta was scheduled to leave at exactly eight.
After saying goodbye to his whist partners, Mr. Fogg left the steamer.
“Passepartout, I have several errands for you,” he said. “Take care of them and be at the station before eight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And do not be late.”
“I certainly won’t, sir.”
Mr. Fogg then walked toward the passport office.
Bombay had many famous sights, but he had no interest in seeing them. The city hall, libraries, forts, docks, bazaars, mosques, temples, and ancient caves meant nothing to him.
He had come to travel around the world, not to admire it.
After finishing his business at the passport office, he went quietly to the railway station and ordered dinner.
The landlord proudly recommended a special local dish.
“My lord,” he said, “you really must try our native rabbit.”
Mr. Fogg tasted it.
A moment later, he put down his fork.
He rang the bell.
The landlord hurried over.
“Is this really rabbit?” Mr. Fogg asked.
“Yes, my lord. Rabbit from the jungle.”
Mr. Fogg looked at him calmly.
“And this rabbit did not mew when it was killed?”
“Mew? My lord! Rabbits don’t mew!”
“I see.”
Mr. Fogg paused.
“You need not swear about it. Just remember that cats were once considered sacred animals in India. Those were good times.”
“For the cats, my lord?”
“Perhaps for the travelers as well.”
With that, Mr. Fogg calmly returned to his dinner.
Meanwhile, Fix had gone ashore and headed straight for the Bombay police headquarters.
He introduced himself as a detective from London and explained why he had come to Bombay.
“I am looking for a man who is believed to have stolen a large amount of money in London,” he said. “A warrant should have been sent here. Has it arrived?”
The police director shook his head.
“No. We have received nothing.”
Fix was deeply disappointed.
“Could you issue an arrest order yourself?”
“I am afraid not. The matter belongs to the London authorities. Only they can issue the warrant.”
Fix had no choice but to wait.
But he was determined not to let Phileas Fogg out of his sight.
He was certain Fogg would remain in Bombay until the warrant arrived.
He was wrong.
As soon as Passepartout heard his master’s instructions after leaving the Mongolia, he understood what was happening.
They were leaving Bombay that very evening.
“We’re really going to Calcutta,” he muttered.
He began to wonder whether Mr. Fogg’s famous wager was actually serious.
“Could it be that I’m really going around the world in eighty days?”
The thought seemed almost unbelievable to a man who had hoped for a quiet and comfortable job.
After buying some shirts and a new pair of shoes, Passepartout decided to take a walk around Bombay.
The streets were crowded with people from many different parts of the world.
There were Europeans, Persians wearing pointed caps, merchants in colorful turbans, Parsees in black headgear, and Armenians dressed in long robes.
It was also the day of a Parsee festival.
The Parsees, followers of the ancient teachings of Zoroaster, were holding a great religious celebration.
Music filled the streets.
Processions moved through the crowds.
Indian dancers dressed in beautiful rose-colored clothing decorated with gold and silver danced gracefully to the sound of stringed instruments and tambourines.
Passepartout stared at everything with wide eyes.
“Good heavens!” he whispered. “What a sight!”
He was so fascinated that he completely forgot about the time.
The crowds carried him farther and farther from the railway station.
Eventually, the festival disappeared into the distance.
Passepartout turned back toward the station.
Then he saw something that immediately caught his attention.
It was the magnificent pagoda on Malabar Hill.
“Oh, I have to see that!”
He hurried toward it.
Passepartout did not know that Christians were forbidden to enter certain Indian temples.
He also did not know that visitors were required to leave their shoes outside.
He walked inside like an ordinary tourist.
The temple was filled with magnificent decorations.
Passepartout looked around in amazement.
“This is incredible!”
Suddenly—
He slipped and fell onto the sacred floor.
Before he could get up, three angry priests rushed toward him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Get out!”
“You have entered the temple with your shoes on!”
They grabbed him, tore off his shoes, and began beating him while shouting angrily.
Passepartout jumped to his feet.
“Hey! That’s enough!”
He swung his fists.
One priest went down.
Then Passepartout kicked another aside.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I really have to go!”
He dashed toward the entrance.
One of the priests chased him, but Passepartout ran into the crowded streets and quickly disappeared among the people.
By the time he reached the station, he was in terrible shape.
He had no hat.
He had no shoes.
And during the fight, he had also lost the package containing the shirts and shoes he had just bought.
It was five minutes before eight.
Passepartout came running onto the platform, completely out of breath.
Mr. Fogg was already there.
Fix was there too.
The detective had followed Fogg to the station and now knew for certain that he was leaving Bombay.
“I’ll follow him to Calcutta,” Fix thought. “And if necessary, I’ll follow him even farther.”
Passepartout did not notice the detective standing in a dark corner.
He hurried over to Mr. Fogg and quickly explained what had happened.
“I was only trying to see the temple, sir. Then these priests attacked me, and I had to fight my way out. I lost my shoes and my clothes, and—”
Mr. Fogg listened without changing his expression.
“I hope this will not happen again,” he said coldly.
Passepartout lowered his head.
“Yes, sir.”
He followed his master onto the train without saying another word.
Fix was about to enter another carriage when he suddenly stopped.
He had an idea.
“No,” he murmured. “I’ll stay here.”
He smiled to himself.
“An offence has been committed on Indian soil. Now I’ve got my man.”
At that moment, the locomotive gave a sharp whistle.
The train began to move.
Within moments, Bombay disappeared behind them, and the train carried Phileas Fogg, Passepartout, and Fix into the darkness of the Indian night.