tagNovels and NovellasPhileas Fogg - A Memoir Pt. 20

Phileas Fogg - A Memoir Pt. 20

byParis Waterman©

The rash exploit had been accomplished; and for an hour Passepartout laughed gaily at his success. Sir Francis pressed the worthy fellow's hand, and his master said, "Well done!" which, from him, was high commendation; to which Passepartout replied that all the credit of the affair belonged to Mr. Fogg. As for him, he had only been struck with a "queer" idea; and he laughed to think that for a few moments he, Passepartout, the ex-gymnast, ex-sergeant fireman, had been the spouse of a charming woman, a venerable, embalmed rajah!

As for the young Indian woman, she had been unconscious throughout of what was passing, and now, wrapped up in a traveling-blanket, was reposing in one of the howdahs.

The elephant, thanks to the skilful guidance of the Parsee, was advancing rapidly through the still darksome forest, and, an hour after leaving the pagoda, had crossed a vast plain. They made a halt at seven o'clock, the young woman being still in a state of complete prostration. The guide made her drink a little brandy and water, but the drowsiness which stupefied her could not yet be shaken off. Sir Francis, who was familiar with the effects of the intoxication produced by the fumes of hemp, reassured his companions on her account. But he was more disturbed at the prospect of her future fate. He told Phileas Fogg that, should Aouda remain in India, she would inevitably fall again into the hands of her executioners. These fanatics were scattered throughout the county, and would, despite the English police, recover their victim at Madras, Bombay, or Calcutta. She would only be safe by quitting India for ever.

Phileas Fogg replied that he would reflect upon the matter.

The station at Allahabad was reached about ten o'clock, and, the interrupted line of railway being resumed, would enable them to reach Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours. Phileas Fogg would thus be able to arrive in time to take the steamer which left Calcutta the next day, October 25th, at noon, for Hong Kong.

The young woman was placed in one of the waiting-rooms of the station, whilst Passepartout was charged with purchasing for her various articles of toilet, a dress, shawl, and some furs; for which his master gave him unlimited credit. Passepartout started off forthwith, and found himself in the streets of Allahabad, that is, the City of God, one of the most venerated in India, being built at the junction of the two sacred rivers, Ganges and Jumna, the waters of which attract pilgrims from every part of the peninsula. The Ganges, according to the legends of the Ramayana, rises in heaven, whence, owing to Brahma's agency, it descends to the earth.

Passepartout made it a point, as he made his purchases, to take a good look at the city. It was formerly defended by a noble fort, which has since become a state prison; its commerce has dwindled away, and Passepartout in vain looked about him for such a bazaar as he used to frequent in Regent Street. At last he came upon an elderly, crusty Jew, who sold second-hand articles, and from whom he purchased a dress of Scotch stuff, a large mantle, and a fine otter-skin pelisse, for which he did not hesitate to pay seventy-five pounds. He then returned triumphantly to the station.

The influence to which the priests of Pillaji had subjected Aouda began gradually to yield, and she became more herself, so that her fine eyes resumed all their soft Indian expression.

When the poet-king, Ucaf Uddaul, celebrates the charms of the queen of Ahmehnagara, he speaks thus:

"Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a passion-flower's half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems to have been modeled in pure silver by the godlike hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor."

It is enough to say, without applying this poetical rhapsody to Aouda, that she was a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the phrase. She spoke English with great purity, and the guide had not exaggerated in saying that the young Parsee had been transformed by her bringing up.

The train was about to start from Allahabad, and Mr. Fogg proceeded to pay the guide the price agreed upon for his service, and not a farthing more; which astonished Passepartout, who remembered all that his master owed to the guide's devotion. He had, indeed, risked his life in the adventure at Pillaji, and, if he should be caught afterwards by the Indians, he would with difficulty escape their vengeance. Kiouni, also, must be disposed of. What should be done with the elephant, which had been so dearly purchased? Phileas Fogg had already determined this question.

"Parsee," said he to the guide, "you have been serviceable and devoted. I have paid for your service, but not for your devotion. Would you like to have this elephant? He is yours."

The guide's eyes glistened. "Your honour is giving me a fortune!" cried he.

"Take him, guide," returned Mr. Fogg, "and I shall still be your debtor."

"Good!" exclaimed Passepartout. "Take him, friend. Kiouni is a brave and faithful beast." And, going up to the elephant, he gave him several lumps of sugar, saying, "Here, Kiouni, here, here." The elephant grunted out his satisfaction, and, clasping Passepartout around the waist with his trunk, lifted him as high as his head. Passepartout, not in the least alarmed, caressed the animal, which replaced him gently on the ground.

Soon after, Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout, installed in a carriage with Aouda, who had the best seat, were whirling at full speed towards Benares. It was a run of eighty miles, and was accomplished in two hours. During the journey, the young woman fully recovered her senses. What was her astonishment to find herself in this carriage, on the railway, dressed in European habiliments, and with travelers who were quite strangers to her!

Her companions first set about fully reviving her with a little liquor, and then Sir Francis narrated to her what had passed, dwelling upon the courage with which Phileas Fogg had not hesitated to risk his life to save her, and recounting the happy sequel of the venture, the result of Passepartout's rash idea. Mr. Fogg said nothing; while Passepartout, abashed, kept repeating that "it wasn't worth telling."

Aouda pathetically thanked her deliverers, rather with tears than words; her fine eyes interpreted her gratitude better than her lips. Then, as her thoughts strayed back to the scene of the sacrifice, and recalled the dangers which still menaced her, she shuddered with terror.

Phileas Fogg understood what was passing in Aouda's mind, and offered, in order to reassure her, to escort her to Hong Kong, where she might remain safely until the affair was hushed up—an offer which she eagerly and gratefully accepted. She had, it seems, a Parsee relation, who was one of the principal merchants of Hong Kong, which is wholly an English city, though on an island on the Chinese coast.

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Benares. The Brahmin legends assert that this city is built on the site of the ancient Casi, which, like Mahomet's tomb, was once suspended between heaven and earth; though the Benares of to-day, which the Orientalists call the Athens of India, stands quite unpoetically on the solid earth, Passepartout caught glimpses of its brick houses and clay huts, giving an aspect of desolation to the place, as the train entered it.

Benares was Sir Francis Cromarty's destination, the troops he was rejoining being encamped some miles northward of the city. He bade adieu to Phileas Fogg, wishing him all success, and expressing the hope that he would come that way again in a less original but more profitable fashion. Mr. Fogg lightly pressed him by the hand. The parting of Aouda, who did not forget what she owed to Sir Francis, betrayed more warmth; and, as for Passepartout, he received a hearty shake of the hand from the gallant general.

The railway, on leaving Benares, passed for a while along the valley of the Ganges. Through the windows of their carriage the travelers had glimpses of the diversified landscape of Behar, with its mountains clothed in verdure, its fields of barley, wheat, and corn, its jungles peopled with green alligators, its neat villages, and its still thickly-leaved forests. Elephants were bathing in the waters of the sacred river, and groups of Indians, despite the advanced season and chilly air, were performing solemnly their pious ablutions. These were fervent Brahmins, the bitterest foes of Buddhism, their deities being Vishnu, the solar god, Shiva, the divine impersonation of natural forces, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and legislators. What would these divinities think of India, anglicised as it is to-day, with steamers whistling and scudding along the Ganges, frightening the gulls which float upon its surface, the turtles swarming along its banks, and the faithful dwelling upon its borders

The panorama passed before their eyes like a flash, save when the steam concealed it fitfully from the view; the travelers could scarcely discern the fort of Chupenie, twenty miles south-westward from Benares, the ancient stronghold of the rajahs of Behar; or Ghazipur and its famous rose-water factories; or the tomb of Lord Cornwallis, rising on the left bank of the Ganges; the fortified town of Buxar, or Patna, a large manufacturing and trading-place, where is held the principal opium market of India; or Monghir, a more than European town, for it is as English as Manchester or Birmingham, with its iron foundries, edge-tool factories, and high chimneys puffing clouds of black smoke heavenward.

Night came on; the train passed on at full speed, in the midst of the roaring of the tigers, bears, and wolves which fled before the locomotive; and the marvels of Bengal, Golconda ruined Gour, Murshedabad, the ancient capital, Burdwan, Hugly, and the French town of Chandernagor, where Passepartout would have been proud to see his country's flag flying, were hidden from their view in the darkness.

*****


The Following was revealed to me, Phileas Fogg, at a later time during our trip around the world, by my good and humble servant Passepartout, with certain flourishes added by the love of my life, my dearest Aouda. I insert it into Mr. Verne's text for chronological reasons.

Passepartout left his compartment to stand between his car and the next in hope of catching a glimpse of the scenery rushing past in the darkness. A minute later, the door opened and the young Parsee stepped out between the cars and joined him.

"You were very brave to rescue me in such brazen fashion. You do know they would have tortured you for several days before permitting you to die?"

"Yes, I knew. Um, perhaps I didn't know of it taking several days, but I knew they would not treat me well."


"I really have no way to repay you or Mr. Fogg for what you have done."

He saw her chest rising and falling beneath the sari she wore. "It is not necessary. We would have tried to save anyone from those . . .Thugs."

A moment passed in silence, then Passepartout broke it saying, "Your English is very good."

"I take it that you are not English," Aouda said softly as her hand reached out to touch his cheek.

"I am a Frenchman," he said hoarsely, bracing himself as the train went into a bend.

Aouda allowed herself to lose her balance and fell against him. Passepartout caught her and savored her body against his for a precious moment before helping her regain her equilibrium.


But the beautiful Parsee wanted something more and leaned back into him and the Frenchman put his arms about her bringing her close in against him.

For a long time they stood there holding each other --- an embrace of soft skin, of breaths mixing on each other's shoulders. Passepartout listened to her slow, ragged breathing, the way Aouda seemed to suck each breath in on the verge of a shattering moan as the train rattled along on the steel rails beneath them.

Then, more impulsively than planned, he jerked the beautiful widow to him, marveling at the way her magnificent breasts jiggled at his action. His hands on her meaty hips encountered raw heat and he realised that this juicy body had been wasted all this time.

"Your husband . . ." he inquired, his voice taut with emotion, "Had you consummated the marriage?"

"No!" Aouda sobbed. "He didn't . . . he died trying though."


As the train entered a wide turn, Passepartout strengthened his hold on her lower hips and turned her around. Her high rising buttocks came into contact with his rapidly stiffening prick; and even through the sheer garment her heat took him by surprise. Her sobs became a low moan and he kissed her.

A moment later, he was kissing her shoulder and it seemed to send an unquenchable tingling through her. Their lips met again, this time he felt her hunger and he knew this was probably the horniest woman he had ever lain with.

The fact that he had yet to lay with Aouda did not deter the virile Passepartout. Her last kiss had reassured him that he would know her this very night. He reached up and cupped her heavy breasts; then with one single tug, yanked the sari she wore off her hips and let it fall in a heap at her feet.


Aouda was in a lusty daze as she allowed him to bend down to her soft nipples and start to kiss and then suck them. She moaned quietly and ground her loins against his. She moaned again as his hands caressed her plump arse cheeks. She squealed lightly as he cupped her rump and kneaded it. The kneading continued and Aouda got wetter and wetter. Not once did she even think of restraining him, for he was her savior.

Aouda denied having had her maidenhead ruptured only hours before; and then having been rescued from the burning pyre now felt her body respond to his touches. A fire blazed deep within her cunt. Not a throbbing excitement, but a roaring inferno that would not be denied. Her legs parted of their own accord and he carried her unresisting into his compartment and kicked the door shut behind them.


In the soft, warm darkness of the compartment, Passepartout's hand brushed against her smoldering cunt and set off Aouda's accumulated lust, causing her to cry out in helpless craving a split second before she fell to her knees.

Even in the darkened compartment the sight of her magnificent torso on all fours before him left Passepartout stunned. He looked down at her face, now glazed with lust. He gazed at her arse as it quivered wantonly.

Slowly he allowed his hands to move along the dusky woman's form. It was like touching something too hot –- too smoldering. The heat was there, he could feel it --- he could smell it and he wanted it. She wriggled her hips and pressed backwards as if to hit his crotch. Passepartout quickly removed his trousers and brought out his steel hard prick, which was now throbbing with as much anticipation as Aouda's quim.


He listened to the sounds she was making. It seemed a mixture of a deep purr and a kind of hissing excitement. For Passepartout it seemed a sensual amazement that one person could be so hot, so burning with lust.

Then, with one single plunge he entered into her nest and Aouda's wet cunt walls bestowed an over lubricated welcome to him as he sheared past her hymen and never heard her shrieking with first pain and then pleasure.

He began stroking into her slushy cunt with gradual motions. Aouda, driven by her wanton behaviour, screamed silently in the darkened room for him to plunge deeper and harder into her ever stretching cunt.


She realized that she had not yet laid eyes on his sexual instrument, and imagined it to be the size of a club, for it filled her beyond her wildest imaginings. Fleetingly, Aouda recalled her husband and the shriveled penis he had made her suck in a futile attempt to attain an erection. Then she attempted to compare it with the monster that was pounding in and out of her at the moment.

Passepartout fucked away at Aouda for another five, scalding minutes, reaching his climax with a roar that both thought would rock the hurtling train off its track. Aouda, with a patina of sweat covering her beautiful body, gasped, then thrust her plump arse back at Passepartout in greedy fashion, not wanting his thick prick to leave her cunt ever.


Then he was spurting his semen in deep inside her; then pulled out and sent the last remaining volleys cannonading over her back and arse.

Ever the chauvinistic male, Passepartout quickly buttoned up his trousers before Aouda, could turn around. Her still convulsing body was recovering from the delicious onslaught and she looked up gradually towards his body. Her first glance went towards his crotch but was disappointed to see that he had already put his woman pleaser away. There she was, lying well fucked by a prick she had never seen.

"I . . . I want to thank you, my Princess. I . . . must apologize, for I was so caught up in the moment that I forgot you were a virgin. I should have been gentler, more . . . ."

Aouda put a finger to his lips, silencing him. "I wanted it more than you did. I almost died a virgin. It is only just that you who saved me have the pleasure of taking it from me. I gave it willingly. I would have you take me again and again if you would, but I see that you have put yourself away."

"If you wish, I will . . ."


She rose slowly, her sari was in her hands and she tried to decide whether to put it on or go for a wash. Her thighs and arse were sticky and some spunk still settled wetly over her swollen quim lips. The drying had not yet begun. With her eyes on his in the dim light of the compartment, Aouda ran her fingers over her cunt lips and felt them. She scooped a bit of spunk onto her fingers and brought them to her nose.

"Hmmmm," she purred at the aroma.

Passepartout felt his arousal renewing itself and he slowly lowered his trousers and carefully removed them, then his shoes and stockings, and lastly he took of his shirt.

"Light the lantern, please," Aouda said softly. "I want to see you."


Passepartout sprang to obey the request and they saw one another --- really saw one another for the first time in the sparse light provided by the lantern.

Then, with strong, silent efficiency, he thrust his prick right into her willing and wet cunt once again. Their bodies meshed, pumping machine-like instantaneously. Aouda's cunt muscles were clasping his member greedily, milking it with unbridled passion. She cried out, a combination of lust and sheer ecstasy. Passepartout usually lasted a long time when fucking a woman the second time, but Aouda's clenching muscles took their toll and soon he was splattering his seed against her cuntal walls as she too climaxed from the intensity of his boiling sperm.

Aouda kissed him everywhere, constantly showering him with her thanks for rescuing her and for deflowering her in such fine fashion. And as Passepartout lay exhausted from his efforts, she donned her sari and swept out of his compartment to her own.

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