A Winter Amid the Ice and Other Thrilling Stories
By Jules Verne
Published by:
The World Publishing House
New Yowk, 1877
DOCTOR OX'S EXPERIMENT
CHAPTER I.
HOW IT IS USELESS TO SEEK, EVEN ON THE BEST MAPS, FOR THE SMALL TOWN
OF QUIQUENDONE.
If you try to find, on any map of Flanders, ancient or modern,
the small town of Quiquendone, probably you will not succeed. Is
Quiquendone, then, one of those towns which have disappeared? No.
A town of the future? By no means. It exists in spite of
geographies, and has done so for some eight or nine hundred
years. It even numbers two thousand three hundred and ninety-three
souls, allowing one soul to each inhabitant. It is situated
thirteen and a half kilometres north-west of Oudenarde, and
fifteen and a quarter kilometres south-east of Bruges, in the
heart of Flanders. The Vaar, a small tributary of the Scheldt,
passes beneath its three bridges, which are still covered with a
quaint mediæval roof, like that at Tournay. An old château is to
be seen there, the first stone of which was laid so long ago as
1197, by Count Baldwin, afterwards Emperor of Constantinople; and
there is a Town Hall, with Gothic windows, crowned by a chaplet
of battlements, and surrounded by a turreted belfry, which rises
three hundred and fifty-seven feet above the soil. Every hour you
may hear there a chime of five octaves, a veritable aerial piano,
the renown of which surpasses that of the famous chimes of
Bruges. Strangers--if any ever come to Quiquendone--do not quit
the curious old town until they have visited its "Stadtholder's
Hall", adorned by a full-length portrait of William of Nassau, by
Brandon; the loft of the Church of Saint Magloire, a masterpiece
of sixteenth century architecture; the cast-iron well in the
spacious Place Saint Ernuph, the admirable ornamentation of which
is attributed to the artist-blacksmith, Quentin Metsys; the tomb
formerly erected to Mary of Burgundy, daughter of Charles the
Bold, who now reposes in the Church of Notre Dame at Bruges; and
so on. The principal industry of Quiquendone is the manufacture
of whipped creams and barley-sugar on a large scale. It has been
governed by the Van Tricasses, from father to son, for several
centuries. And yet Quiquendone is not on the map of Flanders!
Have the geographers forgotten it, or is it an intentional
omission? That I cannot tell; but Quiquendone really exists; with
its narrow streets, its fortified walls, its Spanish-looking
houses, its market, and its burgomaster--so much so, that it has
recently been the theatre of some surprising phenomena, as
extraordinary and incredible as they are true, which are to be
recounted in the present narration.
Surely there is nothing to be said or thought against the
Flemings of Western Flanders. They are a well-to-do folk, wise,
prudent, sociable, with even tempers, hospitable, perhaps a
little heavy in conversation as in mind; but this does not
explain why one of the most interesting towns of their district
has yet to appear on modern maps.
This omission is certainly to be regretted. If only history, or
in default of history the chronicles, or in default of chronicles
the traditions of the country, made mention of Quiquendone! But
no; neither atlases, guides, nor itineraries speak of it. M.
Joanne himself, that energetic hunter after small towns, says not
a word of it. It might be readily conceived that this silence
would injure the commerce, the industries, of the town. But let
us hasten to add that Quiquendone has neither industry nor
commerce, and that it does very well without them. Its barley-sugar
and whipped cream are consumed on the spot; none is exported. In
short, the Quiquendonians have no need of anybody. Their desires are
limited, their existence is a modest one; they are calm, moderate,
phlegmatic--in a word, they are Flemings; such as are still to be
met with sometimes between the Scheldt and the North Sea.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH THE BURGOMASTER VAN TRICASSE AND THE COUNSELLOR NIKLAUSSE
CONSULT ABOUT THE AFFAIRS OF THE TOWN.
"You think so?" asked the burgomaster.
"I--think so," replied the counsellor, after some minutes of
silence.
"You see, we must not act hastily," resumed the burgomaster.
"We have been talking over this grave matter for ten years,"
replied the Counsellor Niklausse, "and I confess to you, my
worthy Van Tricasse, that I cannot yet take it upon myself to
come to a decision."
"I quite understand your hesitation," said the burgomaster, who
did not speak until after a good quarter of an hour of reflection,
"I quite understand it, and I fully share it. We shall do wisely to
decide upon nothing without a more careful examination of the
question."
"It is certain," replied Niklausse, "that this post of civil
commissary is useless in so peaceful a town as Quiquendone."
"Our predecessor," said Van Tricasse gravely, "our predecessor
never said, never would have dared to say, that anything is
certain. Every affirmation is subject to awkward qualifications."
The counsellor nodded his head slowly in token of assent; then he
remained silent for nearly half an hour. After this lapse of
time, during which neither the counsellor nor the burgomaster
moved so much as a finger, Niklausse asked Van Tricasse whether
his predecessor--of some twenty years before--had not thought of
suppressing this office of civil commissary, which each year cost
the town of Quiquendone the sum of thirteen hundred and seventy-five
francs and some centimes.
"I believe he did," replied the burgomaster, carrying his hand
with majestic deliberation to his ample brow; "but the worthy man
died without having dared to make up his mind, either as to this
or any other administrative measure. He was a sage. Why should I
not do as he did?"
Counsellor Niklausse was incapable of originating any objection
to the burgomaster's opinion.
"The man who dies," added Van Tricasse solemnly, "without ever
having decided upon anything during his life, has very nearly
attained to perfection."
This said, the burgomaster pressed a bell with the end of his
little finger, which gave forth a muffled sound, which seemed
less a sound than a sigh. Presently some light steps glided
softly across the tile floor. A mouse would not have made less
noise, running over a thick carpet. The door of the room opened,
turning on its well-oiled hinges. A young girl, with long blonde
tresses, made her appearance. It was Suzel Van Tricasse, the
burgomaster's only daughter. She handed her father a pipe, filled
to the brim, and a small copper brazier, spoke not a word, and
disappeared at once, making no more noise at her exit than at her
entrance.
[Illustration: She handed her father a pipe]
The worthy burgomaster lighted his pipe, and was soon hidden in a
cloud of bluish smoke, leaving Counsellor Niklausse plunged in
the most absorbing thought.
The room in which these two notable personages, charged with the
government of Quiquendone, were talking, was a parlour richly
adorned with carvings in dark wood. A lofty fireplace, in which
an oak might have been burned or an ox roasted, occupied the
whole of one of the sides of the room; opposite to it was a
trellised window, the painted glass of which toned down the
brightness of the sunbeams. In an antique frame above the
chimney-piece appeared the portrait of some worthy man,
attributed to Memling, which no doubt represented an ancestor of
the Van Tricasses, whose authentic genealogy dates back to the
fourteenth century, the period when the Flemings and Guy de
Dampierre were engaged in wars with the Emperor Rudolph of
Hapsburgh.
This parlour was the principal apartment of the burgomaster's
house, which was one of the pleasantest in Quiquendone. Built in
the Flemish style, with all the abruptness, quaintness, and
picturesqueness of Pointed architecture, it was considered one of
the most curious monuments of the town. A Carthusian convent, or
a deaf and dumb asylum, was not more silent than this mansion.
Noise had no existence there; people did not walk, but glided
about in it; they did not speak, they murmured. There was not,
however, any lack of women in the house, which, in addition to
the burgomaster Van Tricasse himself, sheltered his wife, Madame
Brigitte Van Tricasse, his daughter, Suzel Van Tricasse, and his
domestic, Lotchè Janshéu. We may also mention the burgomaster's
sister, Aunt Hermance, an elderly maiden who still bore the
nickname of Tatanémance, which her niece Suzel had given her when
a child. But in spite of all these elements of discord and noise,
the burgomaster's house was as calm as a desert.
The burgomaster was some fifty years old, neither fat nor lean,
neither short nor tall, neither rubicund nor pale, neither gay
nor sad, neither contented nor discontented, neither energetic
nor dull, neither proud nor humble, neither good nor bad, neither
generous nor miserly, neither courageous nor cowardly, neither
too much nor too little of anything--a man notably moderate in
all respects, whose invariable slowness of motion, slightly
hanging lower jaw, prominent eyebrows, massive forehead, smooth
as a copper plate and without a wrinkle, would at once have
betrayed to a physiognomist that the burgomaster Van Tricasse was
phlegm personified. Never, either from anger or passion, had any
emotion whatever hastened the beating of this man's heart, or
flushed his face; never had his pupils contracted under the
influence of any irritation, however ephemeral. He invariably
wore good clothes, neither too large nor too small, which he
never seemed to wear out. He was shod with large square shoes
with triple soles and silver buckles, which lasted so long that
his shoemaker was in despair. Upon his head he wore a large hat
which dated from the period when Flanders was separated from
Holland, so that this venerable masterpiece was at least forty
years old. But what would you have? It is the passions which wear
out body as well as soul, the clothes as well as the body; and
our worthy burgomaster, apathetic, indolent, indifferent, was
passionate in nothing. He wore nothing out, not even himself, and
he considered himself the very man to administer the affairs of
Quiquendone and its tranquil population.
The town, indeed, was not less calm than the Van Tricasse
mansion. It was in this peaceful dwelling that the burgomaster
reckoned on attaining the utmost limit of human existence, after
having, however, seen the good Madame Brigitte Van Tricasse, his
wife, precede him to the tomb, where, surely, she would not find
a more profound repose than that she had enjoyed on earth for
sixty years.
This demands explanation.
The Van Tricasse family might well call itself the "Jeannot
family." This is why:--
Every one knows that the knife of this typical personage is as
celebrated as its proprietor, and not less incapable of wearing
out, thanks to the double operation, incessantly repeated, of
replacing the handle when it is worn out, and the blade when it
becomes worthless. A precisely similar operation had been going
on from time immemorial in the Van Tricasse family, to which
Nature had lent herself with more than usual complacency. From
1340 it had invariably happened that a Van Tricasse, when left a
widower, had remarried a Van Tricasse younger than himself; who,
becoming in turn a widow, had married again a Van Tricasse
younger than herself; and so on, without a break in the
continuity, from generation to generation. Each died in his or
her turn with mechanical regularity. Thus the worthy Madame
Brigitte Van Tricasse had now her second husband; and, unless she
violated her every duty, would precede her spouse--he being ten
years younger than herself--to the other world, to make room for
a new Madame Van Tricasse. Upon this the burgomaster calmly
counted, that the family tradition might not be broken. Such was
this mansion, peaceful and silent, of which the doors never
creaked, the windows never rattled, the floors never groaned, the
chimneys never roared, the weathercocks never grated, the
furniture never squeaked, the locks never clanked, and the
occupants never made more noise than their shadows. The god
Harpocrates would certainly have chosen it for the Temple of
Silence.
[Illustration: the worthy Madame Brigitte Van Tricasse had now
her second husband]
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH THE COMMISSARY PASSAUF ENTERS AS NOISILY AS UNEXPECTEDLY.
When the interesting conversation which has been narrated began,
it was a quarter before three in the afternoon. It was at a
quarter before four that Van Tricasse lighted his enormous pipe,
which could hold a quart of tobacco, and it was at thirty-five
minutes past five that he finished smoking it.
All this time the two comrades did not exchange a single word.
About six o'clock the counsellor, who had a habit of speaking in
a very summary manner, resumed in these words,--
"So we decide--"
"To decide nothing," replied the burgomaster.
"I think, on the whole, that you are right, Van Tricasse."
"I think so too, Niklausse. We will take steps with reference to
the civil commissary when we have more light on the subject--
later on. There is no need for a month yet."
"Nor even for a year," replied Niklausse, unfolding his
pocket-handkerchief and calmly applying it to his nose.
There was another silence of nearly a quarter of an hour. Nothing
disturbed this repeated pause in the conversation; not even the
appearance of the house-dog Lento, who, not less phlegmatic than
his master, came to pay his respects in the parlour. Noble dog!--
a model for his race. Had he been made of pasteboard, with wheels
on his paws, he would not have made less noise during his stay.
Towards eight o'clock, after Lotchè had brought the antique lamp
of polished glass, the burgomaster said to the counsellor,--
"We have no other urgent matter to consider?"
"No, Van Tricasse; none that I know of."
"Have I not been told, though," asked the burgomaster, "that the
tower of the Oudenarde gate is likely to tumble down?"
"Ah!" replied the counsellor; "really, I should not be astonished
if it fell on some passer-by any day."
"Oh! before such a misfortune happens I hope we shall have come
to a decision on the subject of this tower."
"I hope so, Van Tricasse."
"There are more pressing matters to decide."
"No doubt; the question of the leather-market, for instance."
"What, is it still burning?"
"Still burning, and has been for the last three weeks."
"Have we not decided in council to let it burn?"
"Yes, Van Tricasse--on your motion."
"Was not that the surest and simplest way to deal with it?"
"Without doubt."
"Well, let us wait. Is that all?"
"All," replied the counsellor, scratching his head, as if to
assure himself that he had not forgotten anything important.
"Ah!" exclaimed the burgomaster, "haven't you also heard
something of an escape of water which threatens to inundate the
low quarter of Saint Jacques?"
"I have. It is indeed unfortunate that this escape of water did
not happen above the leather-market! It would naturally have
checked the fire, and would thus have saved us a good deal of
discussion."
"What can you expect, Niklausse? There is nothing so illogical as
accidents. They are bound by no rules, and we cannot profit by
one, as we might wish, to remedy another."
It took Van Tricasse's companion some time to digest this fine
observation.
"Well, but," resumed the Counsellor Niklausse, after the lapse of
some moments, "we have not spoken of our great affair!"
"What great affair? Have we, then, a great affair?" asked the
burgomaster.
"No doubt. About lighting the town."
"O yes. If my memory serves me, you are referring to the lighting
plan of Doctor Ox."
"Precisely."
"It is going on, Niklausse," replied the burgomaster. "They are
already laying the pipes, and the works are entirely completed."
"Perhaps we have hurried a little in this matter," said the
counsellor, shaking his head.
"Perhaps. But our excuse is, that Doctor Ox bears the whole
expense of his experiment. It will not cost us a sou."
"That, true enough, is our excuse. Moreover, we must advance with
the age. If the experiment succeeds, Quiquendone will be the
first town in Flanders to be lighted with the oxy--What is the
gas called?"
"Oxyhydric gas."
"Well, oxyhydric gas, then."
At this moment the door opened, and Lotchè came in to tell the
burgomaster that his supper was ready.
Counsellor Niklausse rose to take leave of Van Tricasse, whose
appetite had been stimulated by so many affairs discussed and
decisions taken; and it was agreed that the council of notables
should be convened after a reasonably long delay, to determine
whether a decision should be provisionally arrived at with
reference to the really urgent matter of the Oudenarde gate.
The two worthy administrators then directed their steps towards
the street-door, the one conducting the other. The counsellor,
having reached the last step, lighted a little lantern to guide
him through the obscure streets of Quiquendone, which Doctor Ox
had not yet lighted. It was a dark October night, and a light fog
overshadowed the town.
Niklausse's preparations for departure consumed at least a
quarter of an hour; for, after having lighted his lantern, he had
to put on his big cow-skin socks and his sheep-skin gloves; then
he put up the furred collar of his overcoat, turned the brim of
his felt hat down over his eyes, grasped his heavy crow-beaked
umbrella, and got ready to start.
When Lotchè, however, who was lighting her master, was about to
draw the bars of the door, an unexpected noise arose outside.
Yes! Strange as the thing seems, a noise--a real noise, such as
the town had certainly not heard since the taking of the donjon
by the Spaniards in 1513--terrible noise, awoke the long-dormant
echoes of the venerable Van Tricasse mansion.
Some one knocked heavily upon this door, hitherto virgin to
brutal touch! Redoubled knocks were given with some blunt
implement, probably a knotty stick, wielded by a vigorous arm.
With the strokes were mingled cries and calls. These words were
distinctly heard:--
"Monsieur Van Tricasse! Monsieur the burgomaster! Open, open
quickly!"
The burgomaster and the counsellor, absolutely astounded, looked
at each other speechless.
This passed their comprehension. If the old culverin of the
château, which had not been used since 1385, had been let off in
the parlour, the dwellers in the Van Tricasse mansion would not
have been more dumbfoundered.
Meanwhile, the blows and cries were redoubled. Lotchè, recovering
her coolness, had plucked up courage to speak.
"Who is there?"
"It is I! I! I!"
"Who are you?"
"The Commissary Passauf!"
The Commissary Passauf! The very man whose office it had been
contemplated to suppress for ten years. What had happened, then?
Could the Burgundians have invaded Quiquendone, as they did in
the fourteenth century? No event of less importance could have so
moved Commissary Passauf, who in no degree yielded the palm to
the burgomaster himself for calmness and phlegm.
On a sign from Van Tricasse--for the worthy man could not have
articulated a syllable--the bar was pushed back and the door
opened.
Commissary Passauf flung himself into the antechamber. One would
have thought there was a hurricane.
"What's the matter, Monsieur the commissary?" asked Lotchè, a
brave woman, who did not lose her head under the most trying
circumstances.
"What's the matter!" replied Passauf, whose big round eyes
expressed a genuine agitation. "The matter is that I have just
come from Doctor Ox's, who has been holding a reception, and that
there--"
[Illustration: I have just come from Doctor Ox's]
"There?"
"There I have witnessed such an altercation as--Monsieur the
burgomaster, they have been talking politics!"
"Politics!" repeated Van Tricasse, running his fingers through
his wig.
"Politics!" resumed Commissary Passauf, "which has not been done
for perhaps a hundred years at Quiquendone. Then the discussion
got warm, and the advocate, André Schut, and the doctor,
Dominique Custos, became so violent that it may be they will call
each other out."
"Call each other out!" cried the counsellor. "A duel! A duel at
Quiquendone! And what did Advocate Schut and Doctor Gustos say?"
"Just this: 'Monsieur advocate,' said the doctor to his
adversary, 'you go too far, it seems to me, and you do not take
sufficient care to control your words!'"
The Burgomaster Van Tricasse clasped his hands--the counsellor
turned pale and let his lantern fall--the commissary shook his
head. That a phrase so evidently irritating should be pronounced
by two of the principal men in the country!
"This Doctor Custos," muttered Van Tricasse, "is decidedly a
dangerous man--a hare-brained fellow! Come, gentlemen!"
On this, Counsellor Niklausse and the commissary accompanied the
burgomaster into the parlour.
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH DOCTOR OX REVEALS HIMSELF AS A PHYSIOLOGIST OF THE FIRST
RANK, AND AS AN AUDACIOUS EXPERIMENTALIST.
Who, then, was this personage, known by the singular name of
Doctor Ox?
An original character for certain, but at the same time a bold
savant, a physiologist, whose works were known and highly
estimated throughout learned Europe, a happy rival of the Davys,
the Daltons, the Bostocks, the Menzies, the Godwins, the
Vierordts--of all those noble minds who have placed physiology
among the highest of modern sciences.
Doctor Ox was a man of medium size and height, aged--: but we
cannot state his age, any more than his nationality. Besides, it
matters little; let it suffice that he was a strange personage,
impetuous and hot-blooded, a regular oddity out of one of
Hoffmann's volumes, and one who contrasted amusingly enough with
the good people of Quiquendone. He had an imperturbable
confidence both in himself and in his doctrines. Always smiling,
walking with head erect and shoulders thrown back in a free and
unconstrained manner, with a steady gaze, large open nostrils, a
vast mouth which inhaled the air in liberal draughts, his
appearance was far from unpleasing. He was full of animation,
well proportioned in all parts of his bodily mechanism, with
quicksilver in his veins, and a most elastic step. He could never
stop still in one place, and relieved himself with impetuous
words and a superabundance of gesticulations.
Was Doctor Ox rich, then, that he should undertake to light a
whole town at his expense? Probably, as he permitted himself to
indulge in such extravagance,--and this is the only answer we can
give to this indiscreet question.
Doctor Ox had arrived at Quiquendone five months before,
accompanied by his assistant, who answered to the name of Gédéon
Ygène; a tall, dried-up, thin man, haughty, but not less
vivacious than his master.
And next, why had Doctor Ox made the proposition to light the
town at his own expense? Why had he, of all the Flemings,
selected the peaceable Quiquendonians, to endow their town with
the benefits of an unheard-of system of lighting? Did he not,
under this pretext, design to make some great physiological
experiment by operating -in anima vili?- In short, what was this
original personage about to attempt? We know not, as Doctor Ox
had no confidant except his assistant Ygène, who, moreover,
obeyed him blindly.
In appearance, at least, Doctor Ox had agreed to light the town,
which had much need of it, "especially at night," as Commissary
Passauf wittily said. Works for producing a lighting gas had
accordingly been established; the gasometers were ready for use,
and the main pipes, running beneath the street pavements, would
soon appear in the form of burners in the public edifices and the
private houses of certain friends of progress. Van Tricasse and
Niklausse, in their official capacity, and some other worthies,
thought they ought to allow this modern light to be introduced
into their dwellings.
If the reader has not forgotten, it was said, during the long
conversation of the counsellor and the burgomaster, that the
lighting of the town was to be achieved, not by the combustion of
common carburetted hydrogen, produced by distilling coal, but by
the use of a more modern and twenty-fold more brilliant gas,
oxyhydric gas, produced by mixing hydrogen and oxygen.
The doctor, who was an able chemist as well as an ingenious
physiologist, knew how to obtain this gas in great quantity and
of good quality, not by using manganate of soda, according to the
method of M. Tessié du Motay, but by the direct decomposition of
slightly acidulated water, by means of a battery made of new
elements, invented by himself. Thus there were no costly
materials, no platinum, no retorts, no combustibles, no delicate
machinery to produce the two gases separately. An electric
current was sent through large basins full of water, and the
liquid was decomposed into its two constituent parts, oxygen and
hydrogen. The oxygen passed off at one end; the hydrogen, of
double the volume of its late associate, at the other. As a
necessary precaution, they were collected in separate reservoirs,
for their mixture would have produced a frightful explosion if it
had become ignited. Thence the pipes were to convey them
separately to the various burners, which would be so placed as to
prevent all chance of explosion. Thus a remarkably brilliant
flame would be obtained, whose light would rival the electric
light, which, as everybody knows, is, according to Cassellmann's
experiments, equal to that of eleven hundred and seventy-one wax
candles,--not one more, nor one less.
It was certain that the town of Quiquendone would, by this
liberal contrivance, gain a splendid lighting; but Doctor Ox and
his assistant took little account of this, as will be seen in the
sequel.
The day after that on which Commissary Passauf had made his noisy
entrance into the burgomaster's parlour, Gédéon Ygène and Doctor
Ox were talking in the laboratory which both occupied in common,
on the ground-floor of the principal building of the gas-works.
"Well, Ygène, well," cried the doctor, rubbing his hands. "You
saw, at my reception yesterday, the cool-bloodedness of these
worthy Quiquendonians. For animation they are midway between
sponges and coral! You saw them disputing and irritating each
other by voice and gesture? They are already metamorphosed,
morally and physically! And this is only the beginning. Wait till
we treat them to a big dose!"
"Indeed, master," replied Ygène, scratching his sharp nose with
the end of his forefinger, "the experiment begins well, and if I
had not prudently closed the supply-tap, I know not what would
have happened."
"You heard Schut, the advocate, and Custos, the doctor?" resumed
Doctor Ox. "The phrase was by no means ill-natured in itself,
but, in the mouth of a Quiquendonian, it is worth all the insults
which the Homeric heroes hurled at each other before drawing
their swords, Ah, these Flemings! You'll see what we shall do
some day!"
"We shall make them ungrateful," replied Ygène, in the tone of a
man who esteems the human race at its just worth.
"Bah!" said the doctor; "what matters it whether they think well
or ill of us, so long as our experiment succeeds?"
"Besides," returned the assistant, smiling with a malicious
expression, "is it not to be feared that, in producing such an
excitement in their respiratory organs, we shall somewhat injure
the lungs of these good people of Quiquendone?"
"So much the worse for them! It is in the interests of science.
What would you say if the dogs or frogs refused to lend
themselves to the experiments of vivisection?"
[Illustration: It is in the interests of Science.]
It is probable that if the frogs and dogs were consulted, they
would offer some objection; but Doctor Ox imagined that he had
stated an unanswerable argument, for he heaved a great sigh of
satisfaction.
"After all, master, you are right," replied Ygène, as if quite
convinced. "We could not have hit upon better subjects than these
people of Quiquendone for our experiment."
"We--could--not," said the doctor, slowly articulating each word.
"Have you felt the pulse of any of them?"
"Some hundreds."
"And what is the average pulsation you found?"
"Not fifty per minute. See--this is a town where there has not
been the shadow of a discussion for a century, where the carmen
don't swear, where the coachmen don't insult each other, where
horses don't run away, where the dogs don't bite, where the cats
don't scratch,--a town where the police-court has nothing to do
from one year's end to another,--a town where people do not grow
enthusiastic about anything, either about art or business,--a
town where the gendarmes are a sort of myth, and in which an
indictment has not been drawn up for a hundred years,--a town, in
short, where for three centuries nobody has struck a blow with
his fist or so much as exchanged a slap in the face! You see,
Ygène, that this cannot last, and that we must change it all."
"Perfectly! perfectly!" cried the enthusiastic assistant; "and
have you analyzed the air of this town, master?"
"I have not failed to do so. Seventy-nine parts of azote and
twenty-one of oxygen, carbonic acid and steam in a variable
quantity. These are the ordinary proportions."
"Good, doctor, good!" replied Ygène. "The experiment will be made
on a large scale, and will be decisive."
"And if it is decisive," added Doctor Ox triumphantly, "we shall
reform the world!"
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH THE BURGOMASTER AND THE COUNSELLOR PAY A VISIT TO DOCTOR
OX, AND WHAT FOLLOWS.
The Counsellor Niklausse and the Burgomaster Van Tricasse at last
knew what it was to have an agitated night. The grave event which
had taken place at Doctor Ox's house actually kept them awake.
What consequences was this affair destined to bring about? They
could not imagine. Would it be necessary for them to come to a
decision? Would the municipal authority, whom they represented,
be compelled to interfere? Would they be obliged to order arrests
to be made, that so great a scandal should not be repeated? All
these doubts could not but trouble these soft natures; and on
that evening, before separating, the two notables had "decided"
to see each other the next day.
On the next morning, then, before dinner, the Burgomaster Van
Tricasse proceeded in person to the Counsellor Niklausse's house.
He found his friend more calm. He himself had recovered his
equanimity.
"Nothing new?" asked Van Tricasse.
"Nothing new since yesterday," replied Niklausse.
"And the doctor, Dominique Custos?"
"I have not heard anything, either of him or of the advocate,
André Schut."
After an hour's conversation, which consisted of three remarks
which it is needless to repeat, the counsellor and the burgomaster
had resolved to pay a visit to Doctor Ox, so as to draw from him,
without seeming to do so, some details of the affair.
Contrary to all their habits, after coming to this decision the
two notables set about putting it into execution forthwith. They
left the house and directed their steps towards Doctor Ox's
laboratory, which was situated outside the town, near the
Oudenarde gate--the gate whose tower threatened to fall in ruins.
They did not take each other's arms, but walked side by side,
with a slow and solemn step, which took them forward but thirteen
inches per second. This was, indeed, the ordinary gait of the
Quiquendonians, who had never, within the memory of man, seen any
one run across the streets of their town.
From time to time the two notables would stop at some calm and
tranquil crossway, or at the end of a quiet street, to salute the
passers-by.
"Good morning, Monsieur the burgomaster," said one.
"Good morning, my friend," responded Van Tricasse.
"Anything new, Monsieur the counsellor?" asked another.
"Nothing new," answered Niklausse.
But by certain agitated motions and questioning looks, it was
evident that the altercation of the evening before was known
throughout the town. Observing the direction taken by Van
Tricasse, the most obtuse Quiquendonians guessed that the
burgomaster was on his way to take some important step. The
Custos and Schut affair was talked of everywhere, but the people
had not yet come to the point of taking the part of one or the
other. The Advocate Schut, having never had occasion to plead in
a town where attorneys and bailiffs only existed in tradition,
had, consequently, never lost a suit. As for the Doctor Custos,
he was an honourable practitioner, who, after the example of his
fellow-doctors, cured all the illnesses of his patients, except
those of which they died--a habit unhappily acquired by all the
members of all the faculties in whatever country they may
practise.
On reaching the Oudenarde gate, the counsellor and the
burgomaster prudently made a short detour, so as not to pass
within reach of the tower, in case it should fall; then they
turned and looked at it attentively.
"I think that it will fall," said Van Tricasse.
"I think so too," replied Niklausse.
"Unless it is propped up," added Van Tricasse. "But must it be
propped up? That is the question."
"That is--in fact--the question."
Some moments after, they reached the door of the gasworks.
"Can we see Doctor Ox?" they asked.
Doctor Ox could always be seen by the first authorities of the
town, and they were at once introduced into the celebrated
physiologist's study.
Perhaps the two notables waited for the doctor at least an hour;
at least it is reasonable to suppose so, as the burgomaster--a
thing that had never before happened in his life--betrayed a
certain amount of impatience, from which his companion was not
exempt.
Doctor Ox came in at last, and began to excuse himself for having
kept them waiting; but he had to approve a plan for the
gasometer, rectify some of the machinery--But everything was
going on well! The pipes intended for the oxygen were already
laid. In a few months the town would be splendidly lighted. The
two notables might even now see the orifices of the pipes which
were laid on in the laboratory.
Then the doctor begged to know to what he was indebted for the
honour of this visit.
"Only to see you, doctor; to see you," replied Van Tricasse. "It
is long since we have had the pleasure. We go abroad but little
in our good town of Quiquendone. We count our steps and measure
our walks. We are happy when nothing disturbs the uniformity of
our habits."
Niklausse looked at his friend. His friend had never said so much
at once--at least, without taking time, and giving long intervals
between his sentences. It seemed to him that Van Tricasse
expressed himself with a certain volubility, which was by no
means common with him. Niklausse himself experienced a kind of
irresistible desire to talk.
As for Doctor Ox, he looked at the burgomaster with sly
attention.
Van Tricasse, who never argued until he had snugly ensconced
himself in a spacious armchair, had risen to his feet. I know not
what nervous excitement, quite foreign to his temperament, had
taken possession of him. He did not gesticulate as yet, but this
could not be far off. As for the counsellor, he rubbed his legs,
and breathed with slow and long gasps. His look became animated
little by little, and he had "decided" to support at all hazards,
if need be, his trusty friend the burgomaster.
Van Tricasse got up and took several steps; then he came back,
and stood facing the doctor.
"And in how many months," he asked in a somewhat emphatic tome,
"do you say that your work will be finished?"
"In three or four months, Monsieur the burgomaster," replied
Doctor Ox.
"Three or four months,--it's a very long time!" said Van
Tricasse.
"Altogether too long!" added Niklausse, who, not being able to
keep his seat, rose also.
"This lapse of time is necessary to complete our work," returned
Doctor Ox. "The workmen, whom we have had to choose in Quiquendone,
are not very expeditious."
[Illustration: "The workmen, whom we have had to choose in
Quiquendone, are not very expeditious."]
"How not expeditious?" cried the burgomaster, who seemed to take
the remark as personally offensive.
"No, Monsieur Van Tricasse," replied Doctor Ox obstinately. "A
French workman would do in a day what it takes ten of your
workmen to do; you know, they are regular Flemings!"
"Flemings!" cried the counsellor, whose fingers closed together.
"In what sense, sir, do you use that word?"
"Why, in the amiable sense in which everybody uses it," replied
Doctor Ox, smiling.
"Ah, but doctor," said the burgomaster, pacing up and down the
room, "I don't like these insinuations. The workmen of Quiquendone
are as efficient as those of any other town in the world, you must
know; and we shall go neither to Paris nor London for our models!
As for your project, I beg you to hasten its execution. Our streets
have been unpaved for the putting down of your conduit-pipes, and it
is a hindrance to traffic. Our trade will begin to suffer, and I,
being the responsible authority, do not propose to incur reproaches
which will be but too just."
Worthy burgomaster! He spoke of trade, of traffic, and the wonder
was that those words, to which he was quite unaccustomed, did not
scorch his lips. What could be passing in his mind?
"Besides," added Niklausse, "the town cannot be deprived of light
much longer."
"But," urged Doctor Ox, "a town which has been un-lighted for
eight or nine hundred years--"
"All the more necessary is it," replied the burgomaster,
emphasizing his words. "Times alter, manners alter! The world
advances, and we do not wish to remain behind. We desire our
streets to be lighted within a month, or you must pay a large
indemnity for each day of delay; and what would happen if, amid
the darkness, some affray should take place?"
"No doubt," cried Niklausse. "It requires but a spark to inflame
a Fleming! Fleming! Flame!"
"Apropos of this," said the burgomaster, interrupting his friend,
"Commissary Passauf, our chief of police, reports to us that a
discussion took place in your drawing-room last evening, Doctor
Ox. Was he wrong in declaring that it was a political discussion?"
"By no means, Monsieur the burgomaster," replied Doctor Ox, who
with difficulty repressed a sigh of satisfaction.
"So an altercation did take place between Dominique Gustos and
André Schut?"
"Yes, counsellor; but the words which passed were not of grave
import."
"Not of grave import!" cried the burgomaster. "Not of grave
import, when one man tells another that he does not measure the
effect of his words! But of what stuff are you made, monsieur? Do
you not know that in Quiquendone nothing more is needed to bring
about extremely disastrous results? But monsieur, if you, or any
one else, presume to speak thus to me--"
"Or to me," added Niklausse.
As they pronounced these words with a menacing air, the two
notables, with folded arms and bristling air, confronted Doctor
Ox, ready to do him some violence, if by a gesture, or even the
expression of his eye, he manifested any intention of contradicting
them.
But the doctor did not budge.
"At all events, monsieur," resumed the burgomaster, "I propose to
hold you responsible for what passes in your house. I am bound to
insure the tranquillity of this town, and I do not wish it to be
disturbed. The events of last evening must not be repeated, or I
shall do my duty, sir! Do you hear? Then reply, sir."
The burgomaster, as he spoke, under the influence of
extraordinary excitement, elevated his voice to the pitch of
anger. He was furious, the worthy Van Tricasse, and might
certainly be heard outside. At last, beside himself, and seeing
that Doctor Ox did not reply to his challenge, "Come, Niklausse,"
said he.
And, slamming the door with a violence which shook the house, the
burgomaster drew his friend after him.
Little by little, when they had taken twenty steps on their road,
the worthy notables grew more calm. Their pace slackened, their
gait became less feverish. The flush on their faces faded away;
from being crimson, they became rosy. A quarter of an hour after
quitting the gasworks, Van Tricasse said softly to Niklausse, "An
amiable man, Doctor Ox! It is always a pleasure to see him!"
CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH FRANTZ NIKLAUSSE AND SUZEL VAN TRICASSE FORM CERTAIN
PROJECTS FOR THE FUTURE.
Our readers know that the burgomaster had a daughter, Suzel But,
shrewd as they may be, they cannot have divined that the
counsellor Niklausse had a son, Frantz; and had they divined
this, nothing could have led them to imagine that Frantz was the
betrothed lover of Suzel. We will add that these young people
were made for each other, and that they loved each other, as
folks did love at Quiquendone.
It must not be thought that young hearts did not beat in this
exceptional place; only they beat with a certain deliberation.
There were marriages there, as in every other town in the world;
but they took time about it. Betrothed couples, before engaging
in these terrible bonds, wished to study each other; and these
studies lasted at least ten years, as at college. It was rare
that any one was "accepted" before this lapse of time.
Yes, ten years! The courtships last ten years! And is it, after
all, too long, when the being bound for life is in consideration?
One studies ten years to become an engineer or physician, an
advocate or attorney, and should less time be spent in acquiring
the knowledge to make a good husband? Is it not reasonable? and,
whether due to temperament or reason with them, the Quiquendonians
seem to us to be in the right in thus prolonging their courtship.
When marriages in other more lively and excitable cities are seen
taking place within a few months, we must shrug our shoulders,
and hasten to send our boys to the schools and our daughters to the
-pensions- of Quiquendone.
For half a century but a single marriage was known to have taken
place after the lapse of two years only of courtship, and that
turned out badly!
Frantz Niklausse, then, loved Suzel Van Tricasse, but quietly, as
a man would love when he has ten years before him in which to
obtain the beloved object. Once every week, at an hour agreed
upon, Frantz went to fetch Suzel, and took a walk with her along
the banks of the Vaar. He took good care to carry his fishing-tackle,
and Suzel never forgot her canvas, on which her pretty hands
embroidered the most unlikely flowers.
Frantz was a young man of twenty-two, whose cheeks betrayed a
soft, peachy down, and whose voice had scarcely a compass of one
octave.
As for Suzel, she was blonde and rosy. She was seventeen, and did
not dislike fishing. A singular occupation this, however, which
forces you to struggle craftily with a barbel. But Frantz loved
it; the pastime was congenial to his temperament. As patient as
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