Where the bag of banknotes becomes another several thousand pounds lighter

The train had stopped at the station. Passepartout was the first to get out of the carriage, followed by Mr Fogg, who helped his young female companion to step down on to the platform. Phileas Fogg was intending to go straight to the steamer for Hong Kong, in order to see that Mrs Aouda was comfortably settled in, as he did not want to leave her on her own as long as she remained in this country where her safety was in danger.

Just as Mr Fogg was about to leave the station, a policeman came up to him and said, ‘Mr Phileas Fogg?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this man your servant?’ added the policeman, pointing to Passepartout.

‘Yes.’

‘Would both of you please follow me.’

Mr Fogg did not betray the least sign of surprise. The officer was a representative of the law and for any Englishman the law is sacrosanct. Passepartout, reacting like a Frenchman, wanted to argue, but the policeman tapped him with his truncheon and Phileas Fogg motioned to him to obey.

‘May this young lady come with us?’ asked Mr Fogg.

‘She may,’ replied the policeman.

The policeman led Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and Passepartout towards a palki-ghari, a sort of four-wheeled, four-seater carriage, drawn by two horses. They set off. No one spoke during the journey, which lasted about twenty minutes.

The carriage first of all went through the Indian quarter, with its narrow streets, on either side of which stood huts swarming with a cosmopolitan, dirty and ragged population, then it entered the European quarter, with its attractive brick houses, shaded by coconut trees and bristling with ship masts. There, although it was still early in the morning, elegant riders and magnificent horse-drawn carriages were out and about.

The palki-ghari stopped in front of a plain-looking building, one that could not have been a private house. The policeman made his prisoners – there was no other word for them – get out and he led them into a room with bars on the windows, saying to them, ‘At half past eight you will appear before Judge Obadiah.’

Then he withdrew and closed the door.

‘That’s it. We’ve been caught!’ exclaimed Passepartout, collapsing on to a chair.

Mrs Aouda turned towards Mr Fogg and said to him in a voice that could not disguise her emotion:

‘Sir, you must leave me behind. It’s because of me that you’re being prosecuted. It’s because you came to my rescue.’

Phileas Fogg replied only that it was not possible. To be prosecuted for the business of the suttee! That was unacceptable. How could the plaintiffs dare to show themselves? There must be a mistake. Mr Fogg added that in any case he would not leave the young woman behind and would take her to Hong Kong.

‘But the boat leaves at midday!’ Passepartout pointed out.

‘We’ll be on board before twelve,’ was all the impassive gentleman said in reply.

The statement was so categorical that Passepartout couldn’t help saying to himself: ‘Goodness me! There’s no doubt about it. By midday we’ll be on board!’ But in fact he was far from convinced.

At half past eight the door in the room opened. The policeman reappeared and showed the prisoners into the adjoining room. It was a courtroom and a fairly large public, made up of Europeans and natives, was already inside.

Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and Passepartout sat down on a bench opposite the seats reserved for the magistrate and the clerk to the court.

The magistrate, Judge Obadiah, came in almost immediately, followed by the clerk of the court. He was a stout man with a roundish face. He took his wig down from a peg and put it on his head briskly.

‘Call the first case,’ he said.

Then, putting his hand, on his head, he exclaimed, ‘Wait a minute. This isn’t my wig!’

‘Quite right, Mr Obadiah. It’s mine,’ replied the clerk.

‘My dear Mr Oysterpuf, how do you expect a judge to pass judgment properly if he’s wearing a clerk’s wig?’

An exchange of wigs duly took place. During these preliminaries Passepartout could scarcely contain his impatience, because the hand on the large courtroom clock seemed to be moving extremely quickly.

‘The first case,’ repeated Judge Obadiah.

‘Phileas Fogg?’ said the clerk.

‘Here I am,’ replied Mr Fogg.

‘Passepartout?’

‘Present,’ replied Passepartout.

‘Good,’ said the judge. ‘Prisoners at the bar, for two days the police have been looking out for you on every train from Bombay.’

‘But what are we accused of?’ Passepartout cried out impatiently.

‘You will soon find out,’ replied the judge.

‘Your Honour,’ Mr Fogg then said, ‘I am a British citizen and I have the right to –’

‘Have you been treated disrespectfully?’ asked Judge Obadiah.

‘Not in the least.’

‘Good! Bring in the plaintiffs.’

On the judge’s orders a door opened and three Hindu priests were shown in by a doorman.

‘Just as I thought,’ mumbled Passepartout. ‘These are the scoundrels who wanted to burn our young lady.’

The priests stood before the judge, and the clerk read out aloud the charge of sacrilege, brought against Phileas Fogg, Esq., and his servant, both accused of having violated a place sacred to the Hindu religion.

‘Have you heard the charge?’ the judge asked Phileas Fogg.

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Mr Fogg, looking at his watch, ‘and I plead guilty.’

‘Ah, you plead guilty …’

‘I plead guilty to the charge and I expect these three priests to plead guilty in turn to what they attempted to do at the temple of Pillagi.’

The priests looked at one another. They didn’t seem to understand a word of what the accused was talking about.

‘Certainly,’ exclaimed Passepartout impetuously, ‘at the temple of Pillagi, in front of which they were about to burn their victim!’

The priests looked even more mystified and the judge extremely surprised.

‘What victim?’ he asked. ‘Burning who? In the middle of Bombay?’

‘Bombay?’ cried out Passepartout.

‘Certainly. It’s got nothing to do with the temple at Pillagi but the temple at Malabar Hill, in Bombay.’

‘And as evidence of his guilt here are the shoes used by the perpetrator of that act of desecration,’ added the clerk, placing a pair of shoes on his desk.

‘My shoes!’ shouted out Passepartout, who was surprised beyond belief and unable to prevent himself from coming out with this exclamation.

It is easy to understand the confusion in the minds of both master and servant. They had forgotten about the incident in the temple at Bombay, but this was what had brought them to court in Calcutta.

What had happened was that Fix had realized the advantage he could gain from this unfortunate business. Delaying his departure by two hours, he had given legal advice to the priests of Malabar Hill and had promised them a large sum in damages, knowing full well that the British government was very severe on this type of offence. Then he had sent them off by the next train hot in pursuit of the perpetrator of the sacrilege. However, as a result of the time it had taken to rescue the young widow, Fix and the Hindus arrived in Calcutta before Phileas Fogg and his servant, who were supposed to be arrested as soon as they stepped off the train after the magistrates had been alerted by telegram. It is easy to imagine Fix’s disappointment when he discovered that Phileas Fogg had not yet arrived in the Indian capital. He must have thought that his thief had stopped off at one of the stations along the Peninsular Railway and taken refuge in the northern provinces. For twenty-four hours Fix had watched out for him at the station, beset with anxiety. Imagine, then, his joy when that very morning he saw him get out of the carriage, accompanied, it is true, by a young woman whose presence was a mystery to him. He immediately sent a policeman off to follow him and this is how Mr Fogg, Passepartout and the widow of the rajah from Bundelkhand were brought before Judge Obadiah.

What is more, if Passepartout had not been so taken up by his own situation he would have noticed in the corner of the courtroom the presence of the detective, who was following the proceedings with understandable interest, since here in Calcutta, as in Bombay and Suez, he was still without his arrest warrant.

However, Judge Obadiah had taken note of the admission of guilt that Passepartout had blurted out, though the latter would have given all he possessed to take back his reckless words.

‘Are the facts admitted?’ said the judge.

‘Admitted,’ Mr Fogg replied coldly.

‘In so far as,’ continued the judge, ‘in so far as English law seeks to protect equally and strenuously all the religions of the peoples of India, the offence having been admitted by Master Passepartout, here convicted of having violated with his shoes the sanctity of the precincts of the temple of Malabar Hill during the day of 20 October, the court hereby condemns the aforesaid Passepartout to fifteen days’ prison and a fine of £300.’

‘£300!’ exclaimed Passepartout, who was only really concerned about the fine.

‘Silence,’ barked the usher.

‘And,’ added Judge Obadiah, ‘in so far as it has not been materially proven that there was no complicity between the servant and his master and in that in any case the latter must be held responsible for the deeds and actions of a servant in his employ, the court hereby detains the aforesaid Phileas Fogg and condemns him to eight days’ prison and a fine of £150. Clerk, call the next case!’

Fix, in his corner, felt an inexpressible sense of satisfaction. Detaining Phileas Fogg for eight days in Calcutta gave more than enough time for the warrant to reach him.

Passepartout was dumbfounded. This sentence meant that his master was ruined. A £20,000 bet had been lost, all because he had casually wandered into that wretched temple!

Phileas Fogg, as firmly in control of himself as if the sentence concerned someone else, didn’t raise an eyebrow. But just at the moment when the clerk was calling the next case, he rose to his feet and said, ‘I wish to put up bail.’

‘You are quite entitled to do so,’ replied the judge.

Fix felt a shiver run down his spine, but he regained his composure when he heard the judge say that ‘in so far as Phileas Fogg and his servant had the status of foreigners’ he was fixing bail for each of them at the enormous sum of £1,000.

It would cost Mr Fogg £2,000 if he failed to serve his sentence.

‘I shall pay,’ the gentleman said.

With that he took from the bag that Passepartout was carrying a wad of banknotes and put them down on the clerk’s desk.

‘This sum of money will be returned to you when you leave prison,’ said the judge. ‘In the meantime you are free on bail.’

‘Come on,’ said Phileas Fogg to his servant.

‘Let me at least have my shoes back!’ exclaimed Passepartout angrily.

His shoes were given back to him.

‘They’re an expensive pair of shoes,’ he muttered. ‘More than a £1,000 each. Not to mention the fact that they’re killing me!’

Passepartout was absolutely crestfallen as he followed Mr Fogg, who had offered Mrs Aouda his arm. Fix was still hoping that the thief would never be prepared to write off this sum of £2,000 and that he would do his eight days in prison. He therefore set off, following in Fogg’s footsteps.

Mr Fogg called for a carriage, which Mrs Aouda, Passepartout and he got into straightaway. Fix ran behind the carriage, which soon came to a stop at one of the quaysides in the town.

Moored in the harbour half a mile offshore stood the Rangoon, ready to sail. Eleven o’clock struck. Mr Fogg was an hour early. Fix saw him get out of the carriage and into a small boat along with Mrs Aouda and his servant. The detective kicked the ground with his foot.

‘The wretch!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s off. £2,000 down the drain. A money-waster as well as a thief. Well, I shall follow him to the ends of the earth if necessary, but at this rate all the money stolen will have gone by then!’

The police inspector was justified in thinking this. It was certainly true that since leaving London, between the cost of travel, the money spent on rewards, buying an elephant and paying the bail and the fines, Phileas Fogg had already used up more than £5,000 to get this far, and the proportion of the amount recovered, which would go to the detectives, was getting smaller all the time.