cloud was visible from horizon to zenith. The old footmarks were all as
distinct as on the day in which they had been imprinted, and the only
portion of the shore where any change was apparent was in the little
creek. Here the elevation of the ice had gone on increasing, until the
schooner and the tartan had been uplifted to a height of 150 feet, not
only rendering them quite inaccessible, but exposing them to all but
certain destruction in the event of a thaw.
Isaac Hakkabut, immovable from the personal oversight of his property
in the cavern, had not accompanied the party, and consequently was in
blissful ignorance of the fate that threatened his vessel. “A good thing
the old fellow wasn’t there to see,” observed Ben Zoof; “he would have
screamed like a peacock. What a misfortune it is,” he added, speaking to
himself, “to have a peacock’s voice, without its plumage!”
During the months of July and August, Gallia advanced 164,000,000
leagues along her orbit. At night the cold was still intense, but in
the daytime the sun, here full upon the equator, caused an appreciable
difference of 20 degrees in the temperature. Like birds, the population
spent whole days exposed to its grateful warmth, rarely returning till
nightfall to the shade of their gloomy home.
This spring-time, if such it may be called, had a most enlivening
influence upon all. Hope and courage revived as day by day the sun’s
disc expanded in the heavens, and every evening the earth assumed a
greater magnitude amongst the fixed stars. It was distant yet, but the
goal was cheeringly in view.
“I can’t believe that yonder little speck of light contains my mountain
of Montmartre,” said Ben Zoof, one night, after he had been gazing long
and steadily at the far-off world.
“You will, I hope, some day find out that it does,” answered his master.
“I hope so,” said the orderly, without moving his eye from the distant
sphere. After meditating a while, he spoke again. “I suppose Professor
Rosette couldn’t make his comet go straight back, could he?”
“Hush!” cried Servadac.
Ben Zoof understood the correction.
“No,” continued the captain; “it is not for man to disturb the order of
the universe. That belongs to a Higher Power than ours!”
CHAPTER XIV. THE PROFESSOR PERPLEXED
Another month passed away, and it was now September, but it was still
impossible to leave the warmth of the subterranean retreat for the
more airy and commodious quarters of the Hive, where “the bees” would
certainly have been frozen to death in their cells. It was altogether
quite as much a matter of congratulation as of regret that the volcano
showed no symptoms of resuming its activity; for although a return of
the eruption might have rendered their former resort again habitable,
any sudden outbreak would have been disastrous to them where they were,
the crater being the sole outlet by which the burning lava could escape.
“A wretched time we have had for the last seven months,” said the
orderly one day to his master; “but what a comfort little Nina has been
to us all!”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Servadac; “she is a charming little creature. I
hardly know how we should have got on without her.”
“What is to become of her when we arrive back at the earth?”
“Not much fear, Ben Zoof, but that she will be well taken care of.
Perhaps you and I had better adopt her.”
“Ay, yes,” assented the orderly. “You can be her father, and I can be
her mother.”
Servadac laughed. “Then you and I shall be man and wife.”
“We have been as good as that for a long time,” observed Ben Zoof,
gravely.
By the beginning of October, the temperature had so far moderated that
it could scarcely be said to be intolerable. The comet’s distance was
scarcely three times as great from the sun as the earth from the sun, so
that the thermometer rarely sunk beyond 35 degrees below zero. The whole
party began to make almost daily visits to the Hive, and frequently
proceeded to the shore, where they resumed their skating exercise,
rejoicing in their recovered freedom like prisoners liberated from a
dungeon. Whilst the rest were enjoying their recreation, Servadac and
the count would hold long conversations with Lieutenant Procope about
their present position and future prospects, discussing all manner of
speculations as to the results of the anticipated collision with
the earth, and wondering whether any measures could be devised for
mitigating the violence of a shock which might be terrible in its
consequences, even if it did not entail a total annihilation of
themselves.
There was no visitor to the Hive more regular than Rosette. He
had already directed his telescope to be moved back to his former
observatory, where, as much as the cold would permit him, he persisted
in making his all-absorbing studies of the heavens.
The result of these studies no one ventured to inquire; but it became
generally noticed that something was very seriously disturbing
the professor’s equanimity. Not only would he be seen toiling more
frequently up the arduous way that lay between his nook below and his
telescope above, but he would be heard muttering in an angry tone that
indicated considerable agitation.
One day, as he was hurrying down to his study, he met Ben Zoof, who,
secretly entertaining a feeling of delight at the professor’s manifest
discomfiture, made some casual remark about things not being very
straight. The way in which his advance was received the good orderly
never divulged, but henceforward he maintained the firm conviction that
there was something very much amiss up in the sky.
To Servadac and his friends this continual disquietude and ill-humor on
the part of the professor occasioned no little anxiety. From what, they
asked, could his dissatisfaction arise? They could only conjecture that
he had discovered some flaw in his reckonings; and if this were so,
might there not be reason to apprehend that their anticipations of
coming into contact with the earth, at the settled time, might all be
falsified?
Day followed day, and still there was no cessation of the professor’s
discomposure. He was the most miserable of mortals. If really his
calculations and his observations were at variance, this, in a man of
his irritable temperament, would account for his perpetual perturbation.
But he entered into no explanation; he only climbed up to his telescope,
looking haggard and distressed, and when compelled by the frost to
retire, he would make his way back to his study more furious than ever.
At times he was heard giving vent to his vexation. “Confound it! what
does it mean? what is she doing? All behind! Is Newton a fool? Is the
law of universal gravitation the law of universal nonsense?” And the
little man would seize his head in both his hands, and tear away at the
scanty locks which he could ill afford to lose.
Enough was overheard to confirm the suspicion that there was some
irreconcilable discrepancy between the results of his computation and
what he had actually observed; and yet, if he had been called upon to
say, he would have sooner insisted that there was derangement in
the laws of celestial mechanism, than have owned there was the least
probability of error in any of his own calculations. Assuredly, if the
poor professor had had any flesh to lose he would have withered away to
a shadow.
But this state of things was before long to come to an end. On the 12th,
Ben Zoof, who was hanging about outside the great hall of the cavern,
heard the professor inside utter a loud cry. Hurrying in to ascertain
the cause, he found Rosette in a state of perfect frenzy, in which
ecstasy and rage seemed to be struggling for the predominance.
“Eureka! Eureka!” yelled the excited astronomer.
“What, in the name of peace, do you mean?” bawled Ben Zoof, in
open-mouthed amazement.
“Eureka!” again shrieked the little man.
“How? What? Where?” roared the bewildered orderly.
“Eureka! I say,” repeated Rosette; “and if you don’t understand me, you
may go to the devil!”
Without availing himself of this polite invitation, Ben Zoof betook
himself to his master. “Something has happened to the professor,”
he said; “he is rushing about like a madman, screeching and yelling
‘Eureka!’”
“Eureka?” exclaimed Servadac. “That means he has made a discovery;” and,
full of anxiety, he hurried off to meet the professor.
But, however great was his desire to ascertain what this discovery
implied, his curiosity was not yet destined to be gratified. The
professor kept muttering in incoherent phrases: “Rascal! he shall pay
for it yet. I will be even with him! Cheat! Thrown me out!” But he did
not vouchsafe any reply to Servadac’s inquiries, and withdrew to his
study.
From that day Rosette, for some reason at present incomprehensible,
quite altered his behavior to Isaac Hakkabut, a man for whom he had
always hitherto evinced the greatest repugnance and contempt. All at
once he began to show a remarkable interest in the Jew and his affairs,
paying several visits to the dark little storehouse, making inquiries as
to the state of business and expressing some solicitude about the state
of the exchequer.
The wily Jew was taken somewhat by surprise, but came to an immediate
conclusion that the professor was contemplating borrowing some money; he
was consequently very cautious in all his replies.
It was not Hakkabut’s habit ever to advance a loan except at an
extravagant rate of interest, or without demanding far more than an
adequate security. Count Timascheff, a Russian nobleman, was evidently
rich; to him perhaps, for a proper consideration, a loan might be made:
Captain Servadac was a Gascon, and Gascons are proverbially poor; it
would never do to lend any money to him; but here was a professor,
a mere man of science, with circumscribed means; did -he- expect to
borrow? Certainly Isaac would as soon think of flying, as of lending
money to him. Such were the thoughts that made him receive all Rosette’s
approaches with a careful reservation.
It was not long, however, before Hakkabut was to be called upon to apply
his money to a purpose for which he had not reckoned. In his eagerness
to effect sales, he had parted with all the alimentary articles in his
cargo without having the precautionary prudence to reserve enough for
his own consumption. Amongst other things that failed him was his stock
of coffee, and as coffee was a beverage without which he deemed it
impossible to exist, he found himself in considerable perplexity.
He pondered the matter over for a long time, and ultimately persuaded
himself that, after all, the stores were the common property of all,
and that he had as much right to a share as anyone else. Accordingly, he
made his way to Ben Zoof, and, in the most amiable tone he could assume,
begged as a favor that he would let him have a pound of coffee.
The orderly shook his head dubiously.
“A pound of coffee, old Nathan? I can’t say.”
“Why not? You have some?” said Isaac.
“Oh yes! plenty--a hundred kilogrammes.”
“Then let me have one pound. I shall be grateful.”
“Hang your gratitude!”
“Only one pound! You would not refuse anybody else.”
“That’s just the very point, old Samuel; if you were anybody else,
I should know very well what to do. I must refer the matter to his
Excellency.”
“Oh, his Excellency will do me justice.”
“Perhaps you will find his justice rather too much for you.” And with
this consoling remark, the orderly went to seek his master.
Rosette meanwhile had been listening to the conversation, and secretly
rejoicing that an opportunity for which he had been watching had
arrived. “What’s the matter, Master Isaac? Have you parted with all your
coffee?” he asked, in a sympathizing voice, when Ben Zoof was gone.
“Ah! yes, indeed,” groaned Hakkabut, “and now I require some for my own
use. In my little black hole I cannot live without my coffee.”
“Of course you cannot,” agreed the professor.
“And don’t you think the governor ought to let me have it?”
“No doubt.”
“Oh, I must have coffee,” said the Jew again.
“Certainly,” the professor assented. “Coffee is nutritious; it warms the
blood. How much do you want?”
“A pound. A pound will last me for a long time.”
“And who will weigh it for you?” asked Rosette, scarcely able to conceal
the eagerness that prompted the question.
“Why, they will weigh it with my steelyard, of course. There is no other
balance here.” And as the Jew spoke, the professor fancied he could
detect the faintest of sighs.
“Good, Master Isaac; all the better for you! You will get your seven
pounds instead of one!”
“Yes; well, seven, or thereabouts--thereabouts,” stammered the Jew with
considerable hesitation.
Rosette scanned his countenance narrowly, and was about to probe him
with further questions, when Ben Zoof returned. “And what does his
Excellency say?” inquired Hakkabut.
“Why, Nehemiah, he says he shan’t give you any.”
“Merciful heavens!” began the Jew.
“He says he doesn’t mind selling you a little.”
“But, by the holy city, why does he make me pay for what anybody else
could have for nothing?”
“As I told you before, you are not anybody else; so, come along. You
can afford to buy what you want. We should like to see the color of your
money.”
“Merciful heavens!” the old man whined once more.
“Now, none of that! Yes or no? If you are going to buy, say so at once;
if not, I shall shut up shop.”
Hakkabut knew well enough that the orderly was not a man to be trifled
with, and said, in a tremulous voice, “Yes, I will buy.”
The professor, who had been looking on with much interest, betrayed
manifest symptoms of satisfaction.
“How much do you want? What will you charge for it?” asked Isaac,
mournfully, putting his hand into his pocket and chinking his money.
“Oh, we will deal gently with you. We will not make any profit. You
shall have it for the same price that we paid for it. Ten francs a
pound, you know.”
The Jew hesitated.
“Come now, what is the use of your hesitating? Your gold will have no
value when you go back to the world.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hakkabut, startled.
“You will find out some day,” answered Ben Zoof, significantly.
Hakkabut drew out a small piece of gold from his pocket, took it close
under the lamp, rolled it over in his hand, and pressed it to his
lips. “Shall you weigh me the coffee with my steelyard?” he asked, in a
quavering voice that confirmed the professor’s suspicions.
“There is nothing else to weigh it with; you know that well enough, old
Shechem,” said Ben Zoof. The steelyard was then produced; a tray was
suspended to the hook, and upon this coffee was thrown until the needle
registered the weight of one pound. Of course, it took seven pounds of
coffee to do this.
“There you are! There’s your coffee, man!” Ben Zoof said.
“Are you sure?” inquired Hakkabut, peering down close to the dial. “Are
you quite sure that the needle touches the point?”
“Yes; look and see.”
“Give it a little push, please.”
“Why?”
“Because--because--”
“Well, because of what?” cried the orderly, impatiently.
“Because I think, perhaps--I am not quite sure--perhaps the steelyard is
not quite correct.”
The words were not uttered before the professor, fierce as a tiger, had
rushed at the Jew, had seized him by the throat, and was shaking him
till he was black in the face.
“Help! help!” screamed Hakkabut. “I shall be strangled.”
“Rascal! consummate rascal! thief! villain!” the professor reiterated,
and continued to shake the Jew furiously.
Ben Zoof looked on and laughed, making no attempt to interfere; he had
no sympathy with either of the two.
The sound of the scuffling, however, drew the attention of Servadac,
who, followed by his companions, hastened to the scene. The combatants
were soon parted. “What is the meaning of all this?” demanded the
captain.
As soon as the professor had recovered his breath, exhausted by his
exertions, he said, “The old reprobate, the rascal has cheated us! His
steelyard is wrong! He is a thief!”
Captain Servadac looked sternly at Hakkabut.
“How is this, Hakkabut? Is this a fact?”
“No, no--yes--no, your Excellency, only--”
“He is a cheat, a thief!” roared the excited astronomer. “His weights
deceive!”
“Stop, stop!” interposed Servadac; “let us hear. Tell me, Hakkabut--”
“The steelyard lies! It cheats! it lies!” roared the irrepressible
Rosette.
“Tell me, Hakkabut, I say,” repeated Servadac.
The Jew only kept on stammering, “Yes--no--I don’t know.”
But heedless of any interruption, the professor continued, “False
weights! That confounded steelyard! It gave a false result! The mass was
wrong! The observations contradicted the calculations; they were wrong!
She was out of place! Yes, out of place entirely.”
“What!” cried Servadac and Procope in a breath, “out of place?”
“Yes, completely,” said the professor.
“Gallia out of place?” repeated Servadac, agitated with alarm.
“I did not say Gallia,” replied Rosette, stamping his foot impetuously;
“I said Nerina.”
“Oh, Nerina,” answered Servadac. “But what of Gallia?” he inquired,
still nervously.
“Gallia, of course, is on her way to the earth. I told you so. But that
Jew is a rascal!”
CHAPTER XV. A JOURNEY AND A DISAPPOINTMENT
It was as the professor had said. From the day that Isaac Hakkabut had
entered upon his mercantile career, his dealings had all been carried
on by a system of false weight. That deceitful steelyard had been the
mainspring of his fortune. But when it had become his lot to be the
purchaser instead of the vendor, his spirit had groaned within him at
being compelled to reap the fruits of his own dishonesty. No one who had
studied his character could be much surprised at the confession that was
extorted from him, that for every supposed kilogramme that he had ever
sold the true weight was only 750 grammes, or just five and twenty per
cent. less than it ought to have been.
The professor, however, had ascertained all that he wanted to know. By
estimating his comet at a third as much again as its proper weight,
he had found that his calculations were always at variance with the
observed situation of the satellite, which was immediately influenced by
the mass of its primary.
But now, besides enjoying the satisfaction of having punished old
Hakkabut, Rosette was able to recommence his calculations with reference
to the elements of Nerina upon a correct basis, a task to which he
devoted himself with redoubled energy.
It will be easily imagined that Isaac Hakkabut, thus caught in his own
trap, was jeered most unmercifully by those whom he had attempted to
make his dupes. Ben Zoof, in particular, was never wearied of telling
him how on his return to the world he would be prosecuted for using
false weights, and would certainly become acquainted with the inside
of a prison. Thus badgered, he secluded himself more than ever in his
dismal hole, never venturing, except when absolutely obliged, to face
the other members of the community.
On the 7th of October the comet re-entered the zone of the telescopic
planets, one of which had been captured as a satellite, and the origin
of the whole of which is most probably correctly attributed to the
disintegration of some large planet that formerly revolved between the
orbits of Mars and Jupiter. By the beginning of the following month half
of this zone had been traversed, and only two months remained before
the collision with the earth was to be expected. The temperature was now
rarely below 12 degrees below zero, but that was far too cold to permit
the slightest symptoms of a thaw. The surface of the sea remained as
frozen as ever, and the two vessels, high up on their icy pedestals,
remained unaltered in their critical position.
It was about this time that the question began to be mooted whether it
would not be right to reopen some communication with the Englishmen at
Gibraltar. Not that any doubt was entertained as to their having been
able successfully to cope with the rigors of the winter; but Captain
Servadac, in a way that did honor to his generosity, represented that,
however uncourteous might have been their former behavior, it was at
least due to them that they should be informed of the true condition of
things, which they had had no opportunity of learning; and, moreover,
that they should be invited to co-operate with the population of Nina’s
Hive, in the event of any measures being suggested by which the shock of
the approaching collision could be mitigated.
The count and the lieutenant both heartily concurred in Servadac’s
sentiments of humanity and prudence, and all agreed that if the
intercourse were to be opened at all, no time could be so suitable as
the present, while the surface of the sea presented a smooth and solid
footing. After a thaw should set in, neither the yacht nor the tartan
could be reckoned on for service, and it would be inexpedient to make
use of the steam launch, for which only a few tons of coal had been
reserved, just sufficient to convey them to Gourbi Island when the
occasion should arise; whilst as to the yawl, which, transformed into a
sledge, had performed so successful a trip to Formentera, the absence of
wind would make that quite unavailable. It was true that with the return
of summer temperature, there would be certain to be a derangement in the
atmosphere of Gallia, which would result in wind, but for the present
the air was altogether too still for the yawl to have any prospects of
making its way to Gibraltar.
The only question remaining was as to the possibility of going on foot.
The distance was somewhere about 240 miles. Captain Servadac declared
himself quite equal to the undertaking. To skate sixty or seventy miles
a day would be nothing, he said, to a practical skater like himself. The
whole journey there and back might be performed in eight days. Provided
with a compass, a sufficient supply of cold meat, and a spirit lamp, by
which he might boil his coffee, he was perfectly sure he should, without
the least difficulty, accomplish an enterprise that chimed in so exactly
with his adventurous spirit.
Equally urgent were both the count and the lieutenant to be allowed
to accompany him; nay, they even offered to go instead; but Servadac,
expressing himself as most grateful for their consideration, declined
their offer, and avowed his resolution of taking no other companion than
his own orderly.
Highly delighted at his master’s decision, Ben Zoof expressed his
satisfaction at the prospect of “stretching his legs a bit,” declaring
that nothing could induce him to permit the captain to go alone. There
was no delay. The departure was fixed for the following morning, the 2nd
of November.
Although it is not to be questioned that a genuine desire of doing
an act of kindness to his fellow-creatures was a leading motive of
Servadac’s proposed visit to Gibraltar, it must be owned that another
idea, confided to nobody, least of all to Count Timascheff, had been
conceived in the brain of the worthy Gascon. Ben Zoof had an inkling
that his master was “up to some other little game,” when, just before
starting, he asked him privately whether there was a French tricolor
among the stores. “I believe so,” said the orderly.
“Then don’t say a word to anyone, but fasten it up tight in your
knapsack.”
Ben Zoof found the flag, and folded it up as he was directed. Before
proceeding to explain this somewhat enigmatical conduct of Servadac,
it is necessary to refer to a certain physiological fact, coincident
but unconnected with celestial phenomena, originating entirely in the
frailty of human nature. The nearer that Gallia approached the earth,
the more a sort of reserve began to spring up between the captain and
Count Timascheff. Though they could not be said to be conscious of
it, the remembrance of their former rivalry, so completely buried in
oblivion for the last year and ten months, was insensibly recovering
its hold upon their minds, and the question was all but coming to
the surface as to what would happen if, on their return to earth, the
handsome Madame de L---- should still be free. From companions in peril,
would they not again be avowed rivals? Conceal it as they would, a
coolness was undeniably stealing over an intimacy which, though it could
never be called affectionate, had been uniformly friendly and courteous.
Under these circumstances, it was not surprising that Hector Servadac
should not have confided to the count a project which, wild as it was,
could scarcely have failed to widen the unacknowledged breach that was
opening in their friendship.
The project was the annexation of Ceuta to the French dominion. The
Englishmen, rightly enough, had continued to occupy the fragment of
Gibraltar, and their claim was indisputable. But the island of Ceuta,
which before the shock had commanded the opposite side of the strait,
and had been occupied by Spaniards, had since been abandoned, and was
therefore free to the first occupant who should lay claim to it. To
plant the tricolor upon it, in the name of France, was now the cherished
wish of Servadac’s heart.
“Who knows,” he said to himself, “whether Ceuta, on its return to earth,
may not occupy a grand and commanding situation? What a proud thing it
would be to have secured its possession to France!”
Next morning, as soon as they had taken their brief farewell of their
friends, and were fairly out of sight of the shore, Servadac imparted
his design to Ben Zoof, who entered into the project with the greatest
zest, and expressed himself delighted, not only at the prospect of
adding to the dominions of his beloved country, but of stealing a march
upon England.
Both travelers were warmly clad, the orderly’s knapsack containing all
the necessary provisions. The journey was accomplished without special
incident; halts were made at regular intervals, for the purpose of
taking food and rest. The temperature by night as well as by day was
quite endurable, and on the fourth afternoon after starting, thanks to
the straight course which their compass enabled them to maintain, the
adventurers found themselves within a few miles of Ceuta.
As soon as Ben Zoof caught sight of the rock on the western horizon, he
was all excitement. Just as if he were in a regiment going into action,
he talked wildly about “columns” and “squares” and “charges.” The
captain, although less demonstrative, was hardly less eager to reach the
rock. They both pushed forward with all possible speed till they were
within a mile and a half of the shore, when Ben Zoof, who had a very
keen vision, stopped suddenly, and said that he was sure he could see
something moving on the top of the island.
“Never mind, let us hasten on,” said Servadac. A few minutes carried
them over another mile, when Ben Zoof stopped again.
“What is it, Ben Zoof?” asked the captain.
“It looks to me like a man on a rock, waving his arms in the air,” said
the orderly.
“Plague on it!” muttered Servadac; “I hope we are not too late.” Again
they went on; but soon Ben Zoof stopped for the third time.
“It is a semaphore, sir; I see it quite distinctly.” And he was not
mistaken; it had been a telegraph in motion that had caught his eye.
“Plague on it!” repeated the captain.
“Too late, sir, do you think?” said Ben Zoof.
“Yes, Ben Zoof; if that’s a telegraph--and there is no doubt of
it--somebody has been before us and erected it; and, moreover, if it is
moving, there must be somebody working it now.”
He was keenly disappointed. Looking towards the north, he could
distinguish Gibraltar faintly visible in the extreme distance, and upon
the summit of the rock both Ben Zoof and himself fancied they could make
out another semaphore, giving signals, no doubt, in response to the one
here.
“Yes, it is only too clear; they have already occupied it, and
established their communications,” said Servadac.
“And what are we to do, then?” asked Ben Zoof.
“We must pocket our chagrin, and put as good a face on the matter as we
can,” replied the captain.
“But perhaps there are only four or five Englishmen to protect the
place,” said Ben Zoof, as if meditating an assault.
“No, no, Ben Zoof,” answered Servadac; “we must do nothing rash. We
have had our warning, and, unless our representations can induce them to
yield their position, we must resign our hope.”
Thus discomfited, they had reached the foot of the rock, when all at
once, like a “Jack-in-the-box,” a sentinel started up before them with
the challenge:
“Who goes there?”
“Friends. Vive la France!” cried the captain.
“Hurrah for England!” replied the soldier.
By this time four other men had made their appearance from the upper
part of the rock.
“What do you want?” asked one of them, whom Servadac remembered to have
seen before at Gibraltar.
“Can I speak to your commanding officer?” Servadac inquired.
“Which?” said the man. “The officer in command of Ceuta?”
“Yes, if there is one.”
“I will acquaint him with your arrival,” answered the Englishman, and
disappeared.
In a few minutes the commanding officer, attired in full uniform, was
seen descending to the shore. It was Major Oliphant himself.
Servadac could no longer entertain a doubt that the Englishmen had
forestalled him in the occupation of Ceuta. Provisions and fuel had
evidently been conveyed thither in the boat from Gibraltar before the
sea had frozen, and a solid casemate, hollowed in the rock, had afforded
Major Oliphant and his contingent ample protection from the rigor of
the winter. The ascending smoke that rose above the rock was sufficient
evidence that good fires were still kept up; the soldiers appeared to
have thriven well on what, no doubt, had been a generous diet, and the
major himself, although he would scarcely have been willing to allow it,
was slightly stouter than before.
Being only about twelve miles distant from Gibraltar, the little
garrison at Ceuta had felt itself by no means isolated in its position;
but by frequent excursions across the frozen strait, and by the constant
use of the telegraph, had kept up their communication with their
fellow-countrymen on the other island. Colonel Murphy and the major had
not even been forced to forego the pleasures of the chessboard. The game
that had been interrupted by Captain Servadac’s former visit was not yet
concluded; but, like the two American clubs that played their celebrated
game in 1846 between Washington and Baltimore, the two gallant officers
made use of the semaphore to communicate their well-digested moves.
The major stood waiting for his visitor to speak.
“Major Oliphant, I believe?” said Servadac, with a courteous bow.
“Yes, sir, Major Oliphant, officer in command of the garrison at Ceuta,”
was the Englishman’s reply. “And to whom,” he added, “may I have the
honor of speaking?”
“To Captain Servadac, the governor general of Gallia.”
“Indeed!” said the major, with a supercilious look.
“Allow me to express my surprise,” resumed the captain, “at seeing you
installed as commanding officer upon what I have always understood to be
Spanish soil. May I demand your claim to your position?”
“My claim is that of first occupant.”
“But do you not think that the party of Spaniards now resident with me
may at some future time assert a prior right to the proprietorship?”
“I think not, Captain Servadac.”
“But why not?” persisted the captain.
“Because these very Spaniards have, by formal contract, made over Ceuta,
in its integrity, to the British government.”
Servadac uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“And as the price of that important cession,” continued Major Oliphant,
“they have received a fair equivalent in British gold.”
“Ah!” cried Ben Zoof, “that accounts for that fellow Negrete and his
people having such a lot of money.”
Servadac was silent. It had become clear to his mind what had been the
object of that secret visit to Ceuta which he had heard of as being made
by the two English officers. The arguments that he had intended to use
had completely fallen through; all that he had now to do was carefully
to prevent any suspicion of his disappointed project.
“May I be allowed to ask, Captain Servadac, to what I am indebted for
the honor of this visit?” asked Major Oliphant presently.
“I have come, Major Oliphant, in the hope of doing you and your
companions a service,” replied Servadac, rousing himself from his
reverie.
“Ah, indeed!” replied the major, as though he felt himself quite
independent of all services from exterior sources.
“I thought, major, that it was not unlikely you were in ignorance of
the fact that both Ceuta and Gibraltar have been traversing the solar
regions on the surface of a comet.”
The major smiled incredulously; but Servadac, nothing daunted, went on
to detail the results of the collision between the comet and the earth,
adding that, as there was the almost immediate prospect of another
concussion, it had occurred to him that it might be advisable for the
whole population of Gallia to unite in taking precautionary measures for
the common welfare.
“In fact, Major Oliphant,” he said in conclusion, “I am here to inquire
whether you and your friends would be disposed to join us in our present
quarters.”
“I am obliged to you, Captain Servadac,” answered the major stiffly;
“but we have not the slightest intention of abandoning our post. We have
received no government orders to that effect; indeed, we have received
no orders at all. Our own dispatch to the First Lord of the Admiralty
still awaits the mail.”
“But allow me to repeat,” insisted Servadac, “that we are no longer on
the earth, although we expect to come in contact with it again in about
eight weeks.”
“I have no doubt,” the major answered, “that England will make every
effort to reclaim us.”
Servadac felt perplexed. It was quite evident that Major Oliphant had
not been convinced of the truth of one syllable of what he had been
saying.
“Then I am to understand that you are determined to retain your two
garrisons here and at Gibraltar?” asked Servadac, with one last effort
at persuasion.
“Certainly; these two posts command the entrance of the Mediterranean.”
“But supposing there is no longer any Mediterranean?” retorted the
captain, growing impatient.
“Oh, England will always take care of that,” was Major Oliphant’s cool
reply. “But excuse me,” he added presently; “I see that Colonel
Murphy has just telegraphed his next move. Allow me to wish you
good-afternoon.”
And without further parley, followed by his soldiers, he retired into
the casemate, leaving Captain Servadac gnawing his mustache with mingled
rage and mortification.
“A fine piece of business we have made of this!” said Ben Zoof, when he
found himself alone with his master.
“We will make our way back at once,” replied Captain Servadac.
“Yes, the sooner the better, with our tails between our legs,” rejoined
the orderly, who this time felt no inclination to start off to the march
of the Algerian zephyrs. And so the French tricolor returned as it had
set out--in Ben Zoof’s knapsack.
On the eighth evening after starting, the travelers again set foot on
the volcanic promontory just in time to witness a great commotion.
Palmyrin Rosette was in a furious rage. He had completed all his
calculations about Nerina, but that perfidious satellite had totally
disappeared. The astronomer was frantic at the loss of his moon.
Captured probably by some larger body, it was revolving in its proper
zone of the minor planets.
CHAPTER XVI. A BOLD PROPOSITION
On his return Servadac communicated to the count the result of his
expedition, and, though perfectly silent on the subject of his personal
project, did not conceal the fact that the Spaniards, without the
smallest right, had sold Ceuta to the English.
Having refused to quit their post, the Englishmen had virtually excluded
themselves from any further consideration; they had had their warning,
and must now take the consequences of their own incredulity.
Although it had proved that not a single creature either at Gourbi
Island, Gibraltar, Ceuta, Madalena, or Formentera had received any
injury whatever at the time of the first concussion, there was nothing
in the least to make it certain that a like immunity from harm would
attend the second. The previous escape was doubtless owing to some
slight, though unaccountable, modification in the rate of motion; but
whether the inhabitants of the earth had fared so fortunately, was a
question that had still to be determined.
The day following Servadac’s return, he and the count and Lieutenant
Procope met by agreement in the cave, formally to discuss what would be
the most advisable method of proceeding under their present prospects.
Ben Zoof was, as a matter of course, allowed to be present, and
Professor Rosette had been asked to attend; but he declined on the plea
of taking no interest in the matter. Indeed, the disappearance of his
moon had utterly disconcerted him, and the probability that he should
soon lose his comet also, plunged him into an excess of grief which he
preferred to bear in solitude.
Although the barrier of cool reserve was secretly increasing between the
captain and the count, they scrupulously concealed any outward token of
their inner feelings, and without any personal bias applied their best
energies to the discussion of the question which was of such mutual,
nay, of such universal interest.
Servadac was the first to speak. “In fifty-one days, if Professor
Rosette has made no error in his calculations, there is to be a
recurrence of collision between this comet and the earth. The inquiry
that we have now to make is whether we are prepared for the coming
shock. I ask myself, and I ask you, whether it is in our power, by
any means, to avert the evil consequences that are only too likely to
follow?”
Count Timascheff, in a voice that seemed to thrill with solemnity, said:
“In such events we are at the disposal of an over-ruling Providence;
human precautions cannot sway the Divine will.”
“But with the most profound reverence for the will of Providence,”
replied the captain, “I beg to submit that it is our duty to devise
whatever means we can to escape the threatening mischief. Heaven helps
them that help themselves.”
“And what means have you to suggest, may I ask?” said the count, with a
faint accent of satire.
Servadac was forced to acknowledge that nothing tangible had hitherto
presented itself to his mind.
“I don’t want to intrude,” observed Ben Zoof, “but I don’t understand
why such learned gentlemen as you cannot make the comet go where you
want it to go.”
“You are mistaken, Ben Zoof, about our learning,” said the captain;
“even Professor Rosette, with all his learning, has not a shadow of
power to prevent the comet and the earth from knocking against each
other.”
“Then I cannot see what is the use of all this learning,” the orderly
replied.
“One great use of learning,” said Count Timascheff with a smile, “is to
make us know our own ignorance.”
While this conversation had been going on, Lieutenant Procope had been
sitting in thoughtful silence. Looking up, he now said, “Incident to
this expected shock, there may be a variety of dangers. If, gentlemen,
you will allow me, I will enumerate them; and we shall, perhaps, by
taking them -seriatim-, be in a better position to judge whether we
can successfully grapple with them, or in any way mitigate their
consequences.”
There was a general attitude of attention. It was surprising how calmly
they proceeded to discuss the circumstances that looked so threatening
and ominous.
“First of all,” resumed the lieutenant, “we will specify the different
ways in which the shock may happen.”
“And the prime fact to be remembered,” interposed Servadac, “is that the
combined velocity of the two bodies will be about 21,000 miles an hour.”
“Express speed, and no mistake!” muttered Ben Zoof.
“Just so,” assented Procope. “Now, the two bodies may impinge either
directly or obliquely. If the impact is sufficiently oblique, Gallia may
do precisely what she did before: she may graze the earth; she may,
or she may not, carry off a portion of the earth’s atmosphere and
substance, and so she may float away again into space; but her orbit
would undoubtedly be deranged, and if we survive the shock, we
shall have small chance of ever returning to the world of our
fellow-creatures.”
“Professor Rosette, I suppose,” Ben Zoof remarked, “would pretty soon
find out all about that.”
“But we will leave this hypothesis,” said the lieutenant; “our
own experience has sufficiently shown us its advantages and its
disadvantages. We will proceed to consider the infinitely more serious
alternative of direct impact; of a shock that would hurl the comet
straight on to the earth, to which it would become attached.”
“A great wart upon her face!” said Ben Zoof, laughing.
The captain held up his finger to his orderly, making him understand
that he should hold his tongue.
“It is, I presume, to be taken for granted,” continued Lieutenant
Procope, “that the mass of the earth is comparatively so large that, in
the event of a direct collision, her own motion would not be sensibly
retarded, and that she would carry the comet along with her, as part of
herself.”
“Very little question of that, I should think,” said Servadac.
“Well, then,” the lieutenant went on, “what part of this comet of ours
will be the part to come into collision with the earth? It may be the
equator, where we are; it may be at the exactly opposite point, at our
antipodes; or it may be at either pole. In any case, it seems hard to
foresee whence there is to come the faintest chance of deliverance.”
“Is the case so desperate?” asked Servadac.
“I will tell you why it seems so. If the side of the comet on which we
are resident impinges on the earth, it stands to reason that we must be
crushed to atoms by the violence of the concussion.”
“Regular mincemeat!” said Ben Zoof, whom no admonitions could quite
reduce to silence.
“And if,” said the lieutenant, after a moment’s pause, and the slightest
possible frown at the interruption--“and if the collision should occur
at our antipodes, the sudden check to the velocity of the comet would be
quite equivalent to a shock -in situ-; and, another thing, we should run
the risk of being suffocated, for all our comet’s atmosphere would be
assimilated with the terrestrial atmosphere, and we, supposing we were
not dashed to atoms, should be left as it were upon the summit of an
enormous mountain (for such to all intents and purposes Gallia would
be), 450 miles above the level of the surface of the globe, without a
particle of air to breathe.”
“But would not our chances of escape be considerably better,” asked
Count Timascheff, “in the event of either of the comet’s poles being the
point of contact?”
“Taking the combined velocity into account,” answered the lieutenant,
“I confess that I fear the violence of the shock will be too great to
permit our destruction to be averted.”
A general silence ensued, which was broken by the lieutenant himself.
“Even if none of these contingencies occur in the way we have
contemplated, I am driven to the suspicion that we shall be burnt
alive.”
“Burnt alive!” they all exclaimed in a chorus of horror.
“Yes. If the deductions of modern science be true, the speed of the
comet, when suddenly checked, will be transmuted into heat, and that
heat will be so intense that the temperature of the comet will be raised
to some millions of degrees.”
No one having anything definite to allege in reply to Lieutenant
Procope’s forebodings, they all relapsed into silence. Presently Ben
Zoof asked whether it was not possible for the comet to fall into the
middle of the Atlantic.
Procope shook his head. “Even so, we should only be adding the fate of
drowning to the list of our other perils.”
“Then, as I understand,” said Captain Servadac, “in whatever way or
in whatever place the concussion occurs, we must be either crushed,
suffocated, roasted, or drowned. Is that your conclusion, lieutenant?”
“I confess I see no other alternative,” answered Procope, calmly.
“But isn’t there another thing to be done?” said Ben Zoof.
“What do you mean?” his master asked.
“Why, to get off the comet before the shock comes.”
“How could you get off Gallia?”
“That I can’t say,” replied the orderly.
“I am not sure that that could not be accomplished,” said the
lieutenant.
All eyes in a moment were riveted upon him, as, with his head resting
on his hands, he was manifestly cogitating a new idea. “Yes, I think
it could be accomplished,” he repeated. “The project may appear
extravagant, but I do not know why it should be impossible. Ben Zoof has
hit the right nail on the head; we must try and leave Gallia before the
shock.”
“Leave Gallia! How?” said Count Timascheff.
The lieutenant did not at once reply. He continued pondering for a time,
and at last said, slowly and distinctly, “By making a balloon!”
Servadac’s heart sank.
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