It was only after a week of searching in the vicinity of Pagam and journeys along the Irrawaddy that our friends discovered any evidence of the passage of the white elephant. In the jungle, 15 leagues to the north of the town, Farandoul picked up a blue pearl similar in all respects to those the King of Siam had shown him in the temple treasure. That pearl must have been detached from one of the strings ornamenting the sacred animal’s neck.
There was no possible doubt; the thieves and their captive were heading for India; they must have crossed the Thalawaddy and taken the road to Manipur, the nearest Hindu town. Farandoul and his mariners urged their elephants to the gallop.
The Siamese interpreter was still with them; enticed by the hope of receiving a share of the promised reward, he had volunteered to continue his functions, claiming to have learned the majority of Asiatic languages at the great College of the Talapoins of the Wat-Chan Pagoda in Bangkok.
The mariners reached Manipur in two days and, not discovering any clue there, continued their journey at top speed. At Jaintiapur there was the same absence of information. It was necessary to go into the wild Langau mountains, foothills of the great Himalayan chain, and head up the Brahmaputra as far as the first ford.
Were the elephant-thieves heading for Tibet, to sell their captive to the High Lama, or had they veered westwards towards the great Hindu cities of India? The Siamese interpreter, still seeing information relentlessly, could not obtain any. It was necessary to take one direction or the other at random.
An encounter with a band of pilgrims on their way to Kifir, one of the holy cities of India, in the independent states, decided the issue.
At Kifir, great religious solemnities were being advertised; there was to be a procession of the chariot of the Chattiram pagoda, a rival of those of Djaggernat,85 and people were hastening there from all over India, attracted by the hope of being numbered among the fortunate mortals over whose backs the stone wheels of the chariot would pass—a prompt and infallible means, as everyone knows, of obtaining a first-class place in the paradise of Indra.
Farandoul did not hesitate. “It’s in Kifir,” he said, “that we’ll find our elephant! En route for Kifir!”
Another 400 leagues to cover and half of India to cross. The journey through the English possessions was not without danger for Farandoul and his men; the conquest of Australia they had effected was still remembered by the English bimanes. As soon as he arrived in English territory, therefore, Farandoul posed as a photographic artist traveling with his assistants. His disguise was nearly pierced several times over, however, by inopportune encounters with officers who had served against him in the two sieges of Melbourne.
The caravan followed the bank of the Ganges, the sacred river of the Hindus; it went through the great cities of Patna, Benares and Allahabad and, quitting the English possessions, entered into Bundelkund.86
Farandoul no longer had any doubt regarding the presence of the white elephant in Kifir. In the last week of their journey, the rumor had spread out into all the Hindu districts that Kifir the holy had been favored by the arrival in the temple of a sacred elephant, a direct emanation of the Great Buddha.
III.
First of all, let us say right away that it would be no use searching for Kifir on the most complete map of India, even those of the English general staff; no city of that name exists. Important reasons and motives of the highest gravity have forced us not to reveal the true name of the city in which such terrible event unfolded. The city is well-known—too well-known; if we wrote it here, the name would set fire to our pen and blood would run there; the blades and stakes of executioners would do their work, and 40 women—the majority of them charming—would go to the pyre!
You will understand our reserve; we do not want any executions on our conscience. However, as history has its rights, the name of the city has been deposited in a sealed envelope with a notary, whose name we shall also not disclose, in order not to expose him to the danger of receiving a visit from a few thugs. This envelope will not be opened until 50 years hence, when all risk will have disappeared.
The festivals of Kifir had attracted an enormous crowd of fanatics, camped randomly in the suburbs and along the river, on an esplanade overlooked by the splendid palaces of the old rajah Nana-Sirkar. The faithful of the higher castes were resident in the city, with numerous bayaderes and countless fakirs, attracted by the Great Pagoda of Chattiram’s reputation for holiness. Among these people, the most remarkable included a strange troop of fakirs—brought, it was rumored, from the far side of India on six elephants by a rich Siamese aristocrat.
These fakirs, drawn from all the Hindu castes, had made a vow not to pronounce a single word of their maternal tongue, and had made up a sort of private language which they only employed in rare circumstances; no Hindu word ever escaped their lips; they were so far plunged into nothingness, in obedience to the prescriptions of Brahma, that they had forgotten that language completely.
Only the venerated chief of these fakirs, an old man with a long white beard, still pronounced a few Hindu words, but that was only a phrase in honor of Brahma, Indra, Sura and Vishnu, repeated as a prayer.
These fakirs, whose holiness was admired by all Kifir, were—as you will already have guessed—none other than Farandoul and his mariners. The interpreter played the role of the rich Siamese aristocrat. Rajah Nana-Sirkar had forbidden Europeans to come into Kifir during the festivals, on pain of death. Besides, it was understood that a European caught in the midst of that fanatical population would have been instantly torn into pieces, without any need for the rajah’s solders to do it.
Farandoul and his mariners were, however, admirably begrimed and costumed. Farandoul, the venerable chief of the troop, dressed in costume of rags and coiffed by a huge turban, wore around his neck a circlet of iron surcharged with all manner of objects: bullets, feathers and fragments of marble collected in all the temples of India. Over the rags covering his Herculean torso, Mandibul, transformed into a sapwallah,87 or snake-charmer, had a little basket full of cobras, whose bites were deadly, slung over his shoulder.
Since their arrival, it had been necessary for them to devote a few hours, in the bungalow in which they were lodged, to the pious crowd of Hindus attracted by the reputation for holiness that the interpreter had created for them.
The mariners, gathered in the central courtyard, all assumed the poses of fakirs sunk in the contemplation of nothingness, some with their arms in the air, others crouching without appearing to on the adapted heels of their footwear. It was tiring, but indispensable.
Tournesol and the Breton Trabadec, heads down with their feet in the air, were backed up against the wall and gazed at the audience with expressions of the utmost seriousness, without moving a single facial muscle. The Siamese aristocrat, interrogated by the crowd, skillfully put about the rumor that these two fakirs had been living in that uncomfortable position and sleeping head down for more than 30 years without interruption. Only the rumor of the festivals of Kifir had made them decide to use their legs for walking, and they had still covered nearly half the route head-down, resuming that pose in their rooms in order to sleep.
The emaciated Escoubico, thanks to the loquacity of the Siamese, became an anchorite who only ate like other men for one month every ten years; this time, in order to make the journey, he had accorded himself two months of nourishment.
Only the Englishman Kirkson, a burly and rotund eater of beefsteaks, did not look the part, transformed into a vegetarian fakir who had lived since infancy buried up to the shoulders in a field near Calcutta, nourishing himself solely on grass growing within arm’s reach. Like the others, of course, he had only quit his hole in order to witness the festivals of Kifir.
Mandibul the sapwallah was obliged, by the light or torches, to bring out the cobras sleeping in his basket. He had no need, like other snake-charmers, of a bowl of milk to awaken the dangerous reptiles; without any hesitation, he introduced his hand into t
he basket and abruptly drew out three superb serpents, which he waved above his head. The circle increased its diameter very quickly, no one caring to get too close to the reptiles that the sapwallah handled with such incredible audacity, without any of his colleagues’ precautions.
A troop of bayaderes, also longed in the bungalow, mingled with the crowd; their musicians—flute-players and drummers—accompanied Mandibul’s exercises with their music, alternately monotonous and furious.
In the end, Mandibul, in an excess of verve, threw his serpents into the air, caught them, wrapped them around his neck, made them descend into his clothing and exit through the sleeves, the jerky movements of the reptiles betraying their fury. The breathless crowd retreated further, but, with a rapid gesture, Mandibul replaced them in the basket and resumed his initial position and his air of detachment from earthly things. Needless to say, the terrible cobras were mere imitations given to Mandibul as a souvenir by one of the inhabitants of the sacred apartments.
Farandoul, the old white-bearded fakir, had not budged. As all gazes strayed towards him, he thought that the moment had come to make his entrance in his turn.
“The world being dead,” he said, “Brahma and Vishnu wished to re-create it. The Devas and the Danavas transported Mount Mandara into the middle of the Ocean on the back of the queen of turtles; then, with the aid of the serpent of Vishnu, they began the churning of the sea. Soon, the waters of the ocean changed into milk, and then butter. Finally, from that butter was born the Moon, which flew into the firmament like an air-bubble, followed by the cow Surabhi, the fountain of milk, the horse and the elephant of Indra, Dhanwantari, and Sura, the goddess of wine!”88
Farandoul fell silent; that was all he knew of the Hindu language—a fragment of theological discourse that the interpreter had made him learn by heart, and which the faithful greeted with solemn respect.
Meanwhile, the bayaderes came together in a corner of the courtyard and set their scarves flying; the drums and flutes resumed their concert at a rapid tempo, and the crowd parted to leave the field free for the dancers. Seen thus, whirling by the light of torches lit by hurried servants, the dancers seemed to belong more to the world of dreams and fantastic apparitions than to any actual world. Soon, however, the movement slowed, the dance became slower, and the audience was able more easily to admire the marvelous costumes and charming features of the bayaderes.
The false sapwallah Mandibul almost lost his impassivity in his excited contemplation of the leader of the troop, a tall and superb woman with dark eyes, surmounted by stars in their brows. Standing and leaning slightly backwards in the middle of the circle of bayaderes, she made her scarf fly above her head in a sculptural pose; large rings hung down from her ears, gold circlets encased her neck above a little corsage of scarlet, and other circlets wound around her arms from the shoulder to the wrist. Mandibul, electrified, took up his serpents again and launched himself into the group of bayaderes to pose in the midst of them as he had once seen done in Paris in ballets. His entrance was well-received; the dance resumed, swift and staccato, around Mandibul, brandishing his frightful serpents above his head.
The day following this well-spent soirée was the first of the festivals of Kifir. The fake fakirs and the Siamese aristocrat had spent the night in a large, tightly-closed room, sheltered from indiscreet gazes. Their plan was made; first they had to study the surrounds of the temple of Chattiram, in which the white elephant was exposed to the veneration of the faithful, then wait for nightfall and steal it somehow.
Our friends had no need of a guide to find their way about Kifir. An immense crowd filled the streets, going to the temple to watch the first ceremonies and the procession of the chariot of Chattiram. At the sight of the fakirs, the crowd parted respectfully. A procession formed behind them; it was assumed that the holy anchorites would crown their austere existence with a supreme austerity, by having themselves devotedly crushed by the wheels of the sacred chariot.
To all the questions of the curious our friends disdained to reply; the Siamese aristocrat, taking the lead enthroned on an elephant, reminded the Hindus that the honorable fakirs had made a vow of eternal silence.
The great temple of Chattiram soon came into view over the rooftops, sparkling in the sunlight: a colossal pyramid populated with an entire world of statues of gods, demons, elephants and sacred animals. The crowd around the temple was so compact that it required more than three hours of effort to reach and cross the threshold, not without jostling and bruises-which the fakirs endured patiently. A few muttered exclamations of ventre de phoque and bagasse escaped Mandibul and Tournesol, southerners not over-blessed with patience, astonishing those who heard them, but no hint of suspicion slipped into the minds of the Hindus.
The white elephant was there! Through the clouds of incense, Farandoul caught sight of it among the gods and eight-armed goddesses. Farandoul had studied the large photograph given to him by the King of Siam carefully enough to recognize the sacred animal at the first glance. It was definitely the same one: its enormous curved tusks, with a fracture at the tip of the one on the left, made it sufficiently recognizable—but how could it be removed in the midst of this immense population. How could they even get close to it?
Farandoul decided to spend that first day in the temple and to try to hide himself there when night fell. Armed with an invincible patience, the mariners silently established themselves, like good fakirs, as close as possible to the elephant, without paying any heed to the crowd.
Until midday all went well; the interpreter had gone to find out how many priests were attached to the temple and to try to insinuate himself into their confidence. He came back just as the great procession was getting under way. The crowd was pressing around our friends, more compact than ever, surrounding the fakirs with evidences of the utmost veneration. As he made his way through the crowd towards them, its clamor informed the interpreter of the reason for this increase in fervor.
Farandoul and his friends were positioned at the entrance to the temple, at the exact point where the fatal chariot would emerge; this circumstance had confirmed in the eyes of the Hindus the rumor that the fakirs had come with the intention of being crushed by the enormous mass, so they had quickly been surrounded by all the most fanatical individuals in Kifir—by men who really had decided to force the gates of paradise in that uncommon fashion, and by others who were merely desirous of providing themselves with the edifying spectacle of these heroic immolations.
The interpreter scarcely had time to reach the mariners to warn them what the crowd expected of them. Farandoul was on the alert; he had already noticed a face that was not unknown to him holding forth in the midst of the fanatics and frequently pointing at the fake fakirs. It was that of one of the bayaderes’ musicians from the bungalow. Farandoul had already begun to wonder, the previous day, where the Devil he had seen him before, without being able to remember.
At that moment, a great clamor within the temple advertised the fact that the procession had begun. Behind the colonnades, an enormous pyramid carved with 1000 sculptures and mounted on colossal wheels began to move forward. It was the chariot of Chattiram, which had already passed over the bodies of a few privileged Hindus. It was advancing quite rapidly, drawn by 1000 men harnessed to it by ropes.
In the narrow passage where the mariners were stationed, a dreadful crush was in prospect. Many people were likely to be choked in the crowd or precipitated involuntarily under the wheels of the chariot. Farandoul whispered a few words to the interpreter and told him to warn all the false fakirs individually of the danger, without exciting the suspicions of the Hindus.
He was just in time. The clamor increased further; the men hitched to the ropes were entering the passage. All eyes were upon the fake fakirs; the moment had come for them to fulfill their vow—and five or six frantic devotees slipped into the midst of them in order to pass beneath the terrible wheels in such good company.
“Back! Back!” ordered Faran
doul, by means of gestures—but that was easier to say than to do. A living wall of fanatics cut off any possible retreat. The chariot slid to which in a few paces of Farandoul, with a horrible noise; he had to make a decision rapidly.
The crowd, seeing the fakirs retreat, was already howling angrily and shoving them towards the chariot. Farandoul made up his mind; making a sign to his friends, he threw himself on to one of the wheels, set his foot on a projection, grabbed one of the goddess Kali’s arms, and climbed on top of the chariot. Mandibul and all the mariners did likewise. Leaping up above head height, they scaled the chariot and installed themselves triumphantly astride stone elephants or on the shoulders of gods.
There was a terrible commotion in the crowd; some saw the fakirs’ action as an impulse of religious mania, but the majority were crying sacrilege and making frightful threats against the profaners of the sacred chariot.
The chariot was still moving forwards, following the esplanade in the direction of the palace of the rajah Nana-Sirkar. Farandoul had anticipated that; the interpreter had told him that the chariot of Chattiram would pay a call on the old rajah, and he was hoping to take advantage of the brouhaha occasioned by its arrival at the palace to jump down from the chariot and slip away unobtrusively.
It would be futile to attempt to describe Nana-Sirkar’s palace; these magical palaces cannot be described. A dazzled painter might make a sketch, but the impotent pen can only note the principal beauties: sparkling façades sculpted by light, aerial colonnades, balconies surcharged with sculptures, miraculous windows, roofs bristling with 1000 spires and sunlit bell-turrets. At the entrance to the palace of Kifir, in front of a wall crowned with fantastically-carved crenellations, a highly-ornamented gate was standing wide open to give passage to the chariot.
The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul Page 43