answered Servadac, and he appealed to the count for confirmation of his
opinion.
The count assented, but Procope looked doubtful.
“Your enterprise is generous,” he said, “and I should be most unwilling
to throw any unnecessary obstacle in the way of its execution; but,
pardon me, if I submit to you a few considerations which to my mind
are very important. First of all, the thermometer is already down to
22 degrees below zero, and the keen wind from the south is making the
temperature absolutely unendurable; in the second place, supposing you
travel at the rate of twenty leagues a day, you would be exposed for
at least six consecutive days; and thirdly, your expedition will be of
small avail unless you convey provisions not only for yourselves, but
for those whom you hope to relieve.”
“We can carry our own provisions on our backs in knapsacks,” interposed
Servadac, quickly, unwilling to recognize any difficulty in the way.
“Granted that you can,” answered the lieutenant, quietly; “but where, on
this level ice-field, will you find shelter in your periods of rest?
You must perish with cold; you will not have the chance of digging out
ice-huts like the Esquimaux.”
“As to rest,” said Servadac, “we shall take none; we shall keep on our
way continuously; by traveling day and night without intermission, we
shall not be more than three days in reaching Formentera.”
“Believe me,” persisted the lieutenant, calmly, “your enthusiasm is
carrying you too far; the feat you propose is impossible; but even
conceding the possibility of your success in reaching your destination,
what service do you imagine that you, half-starved and half-frozen
yourself, could render to those who are already perishing by want and
exposure? you would only bring them away to die.”
The obvious and dispassionate reasoning of the lieutenant could not fail
to impress the minds of those who listened to him; the impracticability
of the journey became more and more apparent; unprotected on that drear
expanse, any traveler must assuredly succumb to the snow-drifts that
were continually being whirled across it. But Hector Servadac, animated
by the generous desire of rescuing a suffering fellow-creature, could
scarcely be brought within the bounds of common sense. Against his
better judgment he was still bent upon the expedition, and Ben Zoof
declared himself ready to accompany his master in the event of Count
Timascheff hesitating to encounter the peril which the undertaking
involved. But the count entirely repudiated all idea of shrinking from
what, quite as much as the captain, he regarded as a sacred duty, and
turning to Lieutenant Procope, told him that unless some better plan
could be devised, he was prepared to start off at once and make the
attempt to skate across to Formentera. The lieutenant, who was lost in
thought, made no immediate reply.
“I wish we had a sledge,” said Ben Zoof.
“I dare say that a sledge of some sort could be contrived,” said the
count; “but then we should have no dogs or reindeers to draw it.”
“Why not rough-shoe the two horses?”
“They would never be able to endure the cold,” objected the count.
“Never mind,” said Servadac, “let us get our sledge and put them to the
test. Something must be done!”
“I think,” said Lieutenant Procope, breaking his thoughtful silence,
“that I can tell you of a sledge already provided for your hand, and I
can suggest a motive power surer and swifter than horses.”
“What do you mean?” was the eager inquiry.
“I mean the -Dobryna-‘s yawl,” answered the lieutenant; “and I have no
doubt that the wind would carry her rapidly along the ice.”
The idea seemed admirable. Lieutenant Procope was well aware to what
marvelous perfection the Americans had brought their sail-sledges, and
had heard how in the vast prairies of the United States they had been
known to outvie the speed of an express train, occasionally attaining
a rate of more than a hundred miles an hour. The wind was still blowing
hard from the south, and assuming that the yawl could be propelled
with a velocity of about fifteen or at least twelve leagues an hour, he
reckoned that it was quite possible to reach Formentera within twelve
hours, that is to say, in a single day between the intervals of sunrise
and sunrise.
The yawl was about twelve feet long, and capable of holding five or six
people. The addition of a couple of iron runners would be all that was
requisite to convert it into an excellent sledge, which, if a sail
were hoisted, might be deemed certain to make a rapid progress over the
smooth surface of the ice. For the protection of the passengers it was
proposed to erect a kind of wooden roof lined with strong cloth; beneath
this could be packed a supply of provisions, some warm furs, some
cordials, and a portable stove to be heated by spirits of wine.
For the outward journey the wind was as favorable as could be desired;
but it was to be apprehended that, unless the direction of the wind
should change, the return would be a matter of some difficulty; a system
of tacking might be carried out to a certain degree, but it was not
likely that the yawl would answer her helm in any way corresponding to
what would occur in the open sea. Captain Servadac, however, would not
listen to any representation of probable difficulties; the future, he
said, must provide for itself.
The engineer and several of the sailors set vigorously to work, and
before the close of the day the yawl was furnished with a pair of stout
iron runners, curved upwards in front, and fitted with a metal scull
designed to assist in maintaining the directness of her course; the roof
was put on, and beneath it were stored the provisions, the wraps, and
the cooking utensils.
A strong desire was expressed by Lieutenant Procope that he should be
allowed to accompany Captain Servadac instead of Count Timascheff. It
was unadvisable for all three of them to go, as, in case of there being
several persons to be rescued, the space at their command would be
quite inadequate. The lieutenant urged that he was the most experienced
seaman, and as such was best qualified to take command of the sledge
and the management of the sails; and as it was not to be expected that
Servadac would resign his intention of going in person to relieve his
fellow-countryman, Procope submitted his own wishes to the count. The
count was himself very anxious to have his share in the philanthropic
enterprise, and demurred considerably to the proposal; he yielded,
however, after a time, to Servadac’s representations that in the event
of the expedition proving disastrous, the little colony would need his
services alike as governor and protector, and overcoming his reluctance
to be left out of the perilous adventure, was prevailed upon to remain
behind for the general good of the community at Nina’s Hive.
At sunrise on the following morning, the 16th of April, Captain Servadac
and the lieutenant took their places in the yawl. The thermometer was
more than 20 degrees below zero, and it was with deep emotion that their
companions beheld them thus embarking upon the vast white plain. Ben
Zoof’s heart was too full for words; Count Timascheff could not forbear
pressing his two brave friends to his bosom; the Spaniards and the
Russian sailors crowded round for a farewell shake of the hand, and
little Nina, her great eyes flooded with tears, held up her face for a
parting kiss. The sad scene was not permitted to be long. The sail was
quickly hoisted, and the sledge, just as if it had expanded a huge white
wing, was in a little while carried far away beyond the horizon.
Light and unimpeded, the yawl scudded on with incredible speed. Two
sails, a brigantine and a jib, were arranged to catch the wind to the
greatest advantage, and the travelers estimated that their progress
would be little under the rate of twelve leagues an hour. The motion of
their novel vehicle was singularly gentle, the oscillation being less
than that of an ordinary railway-carriage, while the diminished force of
gravity contributed to the swiftness. Except that the clouds of ice-dust
raised by the metal runners were an evidence that they had not actually
left the level surface of the ice, the captain and lieutenant might
again and again have imagined that they were being conveyed through the
air in a balloon.
Lieutenant Procope, with his head all muffled up for fear of frost-bite,
took an occasional peep through an aperture that had been intentionally
left in the roof, and by the help of a compass, maintained a proper and
straight course for Formentera. Nothing could be more dejected than the
aspect of that frozen sea; not a single living creature relieved the
solitude; both the travelers, Procope from a scientific point of view,
Servadac from an aesthetic, were alike impressed by the solemnity of the
scene, and where the lengthened shadow of the sail cast upon the ice by
the oblique rays of the setting sun had disappeared, and day had
given place to night, the two men, drawn together as by an involuntary
impulse, mutually held each other’s hands in silence.
There had been a new moon on the previous evening; but, in the absence
of moonlight, the constellations shone with remarkable brilliancy.
The new pole-star close upon the horizon was resplendent, and even had
Lieutenant Procope been destitute of a compass, he would have had no
difficulty in holding his course by the guidance of that alone. However
great was the distance that separated Gallia from the sun, it was after
all manifestly insignificant in comparison with the remoteness of the
nearest of the fixed stars.
Observing that Servadac was completely absorbed in his own thoughts,
Lieutenant Procope had leisure to contemplate some of the present
perplexing problems, and to ponder over the true astronomical position.
The last of the three mysterious documents had represented that Gallia,
in conformity with Kepler’s second law, had traveled along her orbit
during the month of March twenty millions of leagues less than she had
done in the previous month; yet, in the same time, her distance from the
sun had nevertheless been increased by thirty-two millions of leagues.
She was now, therefore, in the center of the zone of telescopic planets
that revolve between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter, and had captured
for herself a satellite which, according to the document, was Nerina,
one of the asteroids most recently identified. If thus, then, it was
within the power of the unknown writer to estimate with such apparent
certainty Gallia’s exact position, was it not likely that his
mathematical calculations would enable him to arrive at some definite
conclusion as to the date at which she would begin again to approach the
sun? Nay, was it not to be expected that he had already estimated, with
sufficient approximation to truth, what was to be the true length of the
Gallian year?
So intently had they each separately been following their own train of
thought, that daylight reappeared almost before the travelers were aware
of it. On consulting their instruments, they found that they must have
traveled close upon a hundred leagues since they started, and they
resolved to slacken their speed. The sails were accordingly taken in
a little, and in spite of the intensity of the cold, the explorers
ventured out of their shelter, in order that they might reconnoiter
the plain, which was apparently as boundless as ever. It was completely
desert; not so much as a single point of rock relieved the bare
uniformity of its surface.
“Are we not considerably to the west of Formentera?” asked Servadac,
after examining the chart.
“Most likely,” replied Procope. “I have taken the same course as I
should have done at sea, and I have kept some distance to windward of
the island; we can bear straight down upon it whenever we like.”
“Bear down then, now; and as quickly as you can.”
The yawl was at once put with her head to the northeast and Captain
Servadac, in defiance of the icy blast, remained standing at the bow,
his gaze fixed on the horizon.
All at once his eye brightened.
“Look! look!” he exclaimed, pointing to a faint outline that broke the
monotony of the circle that divided the plain from the sky.
In an instant the lieutenant had seized his telescope.
“I see what you mean,” said he; “it is a pylone that has been used for
some geodesic survey.”
The next moment the sail was filled, and the yawl was bearing down upon
the object with inconceivable swiftness, both Captain Servadac and the
lieutenant too excited to utter a word. Mile after mile the distance
rapidly grew less, and as they drew nearer the pylone they could
see that it was erected on a low mass of rocks that was the sole
interruption to the dull level of the field of ice. No wreath of
smoke rose above the little island; it was manifestly impossible, they
conceived, that any human being could there have survived the cold; the
sad presentiment forced itself upon their minds that it was a mere cairn
to which they had been hurrying.
Ten minutes later, and they were so near the rock that the lieutenant
took in his sail, convinced that the impetus already attained would
be sufficient to carry him to the land. Servadac’s heart bounded as he
caught sight of a fragment of blue canvas fluttering in the wind from
the top of the pylone: it was all that now remained of the French
national standard. At the foot of the pylone stood a miserable shed, its
shutters tightly closed. No other habitation was to be seen; the entire
island was less than a quarter of a mile in circumference; and the
conclusion was irresistible that it was the sole surviving remnant of
Formentera, once a member of the Balearic Archipelago.
To leap on shore, to clamber over the slippery stones, and to reach the
cabin was but the work of a few moments. The worm-eaten door was bolted
on the inside. Servadac began to knock with all his might. No answer.
Neither shouting nor knocking could draw forth a reply.
“Let us force it open, Procope!” he said.
The two men put their shoulders to the door, which soon yielded to their
vigorous efforts, and they found themselves inside the shed, and in
almost total darkness. By opening a shutter they admitted what daylight
they could. At first sight the wretched place seemed to be deserted; the
little grate contained the ashes of a fire long since extinguished; all
looked black and desolate. Another instant’s investigation, however,
revealed a bed in the extreme corner, and extended on the bed a human
form.
“Dead!” sighed Servadac; “dead of cold and hunger!”
Lieutenant Procope bent down and anxiously contemplated the body.
“No; he is alive!” he said, and drawing a small flask from his pocket he
poured a few drops of brandy between the lips of the senseless man.
There was a faint sigh, followed by a feeble voice, which uttered the
one word, “Gallia?”
“Yes, yes! Gallia!” echoed Servadac, eagerly.
“My comet, my comet!” said the voice, so low as to be almost inaudible,
and the unfortunate man relapsed again into unconsciousness.
“Where have I seen this man?” thought Servadac to himself; “his face is
strangely familiar to me.”
But it was no time for deliberation. Not a moment was to be lost in
getting the unconscious astronomer away from his desolate quarters.
He was soon conveyed to the yawl; his books, his scanty wardrobe, his
papers, his instruments, and the blackboard which had served for
his calculations, were quickly collected; the wind, by a fortuitous
Providence, had shifted into a favorable quarter; they set their sail
with all speed, and ere long were on their journey back from Formentera.
Thirty-six hours later, the brave travelers were greeted by the
acclamations of their fellow-colonists, who had been most anxiously
awaiting their reappearance, and the still senseless -savant-, who had
neither opened his eyes nor spoken a word throughout the journey, was
safely deposited in the warmth and security of the great hall of Nina’s
Hive.
END OF FIRST BOOK
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I. THE ASTRONOMER
By the return of the expedition, conveying its contribution from
Formentera, the known population of Gallia was raised to a total of
thirty-six.
On learning the details of his friends’ discoveries, Count Timascheff
did not hesitate in believing that the exhausted individual who was
lying before him was the author alike of the two unsigned documents
picked up at sea, and of the third statement so recently brought to hand
by the carrier-pigeon. Manifestly, he had arrived at some knowledge of
Gallia’s movements: he had estimated her distance from the sun; he had
calculated the diminution of her tangential speed; but there was nothing
to show that he had arrived at the conclusions which were of the most
paramount interest to them all. Had he ascertained the true character of
her orbit? had he established any data from which it would be possible
to reckon what time must elapse before she would again approach the
earth?
The only intelligible words which the astronomer had uttered had been,
“My comet!”
To what could the exclamation refer? Was it to be conjectured that a
fragment of the earth had been chipped off by the collision of a comet?
and if so, was it implied that the name of the comet itself was Gallia,
and were they mistaken in supposing that such was the name given by the
-savant- to the little world that had been so suddenly launched
into space? Again and again they discussed these questions; but no
satisfactory answer could be found. The only man who was able to throw
any light upon the subject was lying amongst them in an unconscious and
half-dying condition.
Apart from motives of humanity, motives of self-interest made it a
matter of the deepest concern to restore animation to that senseless
form. Ben Zoof, after making the encouraging remark that -savants- have
as many lives as a cat, proceeded, with Negrete’s assistance, to give
the body such a vigorous rubbing as would have threatened serious
injury to any ordinary mortal, whilst they administered cordials and
restoratives from the -Dobryna’s- medical stores powerful enough, one
might think, to rouse the very dead.
Meanwhile the captain was racking his brain in his exertions to recall
what were the circumstances of his previous acquaintance with the
Frenchman upon whose features he was gazing; he only grew more and more
convinced that he had once been familiar with them. Perhaps it was not
altogether surprising that he had almost forgotten him; he had never
seen him since the days of his youth, that time of life which, with a
certain show of justice, has been termed the age of ingratitude; for,
in point of fact, the astronomer was none other than Professor Palmyrin
Rosette, Servadac’s old science-master at the Lycee Charlemagne.
After completing his year of elementary studies, Hector Servadac had
entered the school at Saint Cyr, and from that time he and his former
tutor had never met, so that naturally they would well-nigh pass from
each other’s recollection. One thing, however, on the other hand, might
conduce to a mutual and permanent impression on their memories; during
the year at the Lycee, young Servadac, never of a very studious turn
of mind, had contrived, as the ringleader of a set of like caliber as
himself, to lead the poor professor a life of perpetual torment. On the
discovery of each delinquency he would fume and rage in a manner that
was a source of unbounded delight to his audience.
Two years after Servadac left the Lycee, Professor Rosette had thrown
up all educational employment in order that he might devote himself
entirely to the study of astronomy. He endeavored to obtain a post
at the Observatory, but his ungenial character was so well known in
scientific circles that he failed in his application; however, having
some small private means, he determined on his own account to carry on
his researches without any official salary. He had really considerable
genius for the science that he had adopted; besides discovering three of
the latest of the telescopic planets, he had worked out the elements of
the three hundred and twenty-fifth comet in the catalogue; but his chief
delight was to criticize the publications of other astronomers, and
he was never better pleased than when he detected a flaw in their
reckonings.
When Ben Zoof and Negrete had extricated their patient from the envelope
of furs in which he had been wrapped by Servadac and the lieutenant,
they found themselves face to face with a shrivelled little man, about
five feet two inches high, with a round bald head, smooth and shiny as
an ostrich’s egg, no beard unless the unshorn growth of a week could
be so described, and a long hooked nose that supported a huge pair of
spectacles such as with many near-sighted people seems to have become
a part of their individuality. His nervous system was remarkably
developed, and his body might not inaptly be compared to one of the
Rhumkorff’s bobbins of which the thread, several hundred yards in
length, is permeated throughout by electric fluid. But whatever he was,
his life, if possible, must be preserved. When he had been partially
divested of his clothing, his heart was found to be still beating,
though very feebly. Asserting that while there was life there was hope,
Ben Zoof recommenced his friction with more vigor than ever.
When the rubbing had been continued without a moment’s intermission for
the best part of half an hour, the astronomer heaved a faint sigh, which
ere long was followed by another and another. He half opened his eyes,
closed them again, then opened them completely, but without exhibiting
any consciousness whatever of his situation. A few words seemed to
escape his lips, but they were quite unintelligible. Presently he raised
his right hand to his forehead as though instinctively feeling for
something that was missing; then, all of a sudden, his features became
contracted, his face flushed with apparent irritation, and he exclaimed
fretfully, “My spectacles!--where are my spectacles?”
In order to facilitate his operations, Ben Zoof had removed the
spectacles in spite of the tenacity with which they seemed to adhere
to the temples of his patient; but he now rapidly brought them back
and readjusted them as best he could to what seemed to be their natural
position on the aquiline nose. The professor heaved a long sigh of
relief, and once more closed his eyes.
Before long the astronomer roused himself a little more, and glanced
inquiringly about him, but soon relapsed into his comatose condition.
When next he opened his eyes, Captain Servadac happened to be bending
down closely over him, examining his features with curious scrutiny.
The old man darted an angry look at him through the spectacles, and said
sharply, “Servadac, five hundred lines to-morrow!”
It was an echo of days of old. The words were few, but they were enough
to recall the identity which Servadac was trying to make out.
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed. “Here is my old tutor, Mr. Rosette, in
very flesh and blood.”
“Can’t say much for the flesh,” muttered Ben Zoof.
The old man had again fallen back into a torpid slumber. Ben Zoof
continued, “His sleep is getting more composed. Let him alone; he will
come round yet. Haven’t I heard of men more dried up than he is, being
brought all the way from Egypt in cases covered with pictures?”
“You idiot!--those were mummies; they had been dead for ages.”
Ben Zoof did not answer a word. He went on preparing a warm bed, into
which he managed to remove his patient, who soon fell into a calm and
natural sleep.
Too impatient to await the awakening of the astronomer and to hear what
representations he had to make, Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant,
constituting themselves what might be designated “the Academy of
Sciences” of the colony, spent the whole of the remainder of the day in
starting and discussing the wildest conjectures about their situation.
The hypothesis, to which they had now accustomed themselves for so
long, that a new asteroid had been formed by a fracture of the earth’s
surface, seemed to fall to the ground when they found that Professor
Palmyrin Rosette had associated the name of Gallia, not with their
present home, but with what he called “my comet”; and that theory being
abandoned, they were driven to make the most improbable speculations to
replace it.
Alluding to Rosette, Servadac took care to inform his companions
that, although the professor was always eccentric, and at times very
irascible, yet he was really exceedingly good-hearted; his bark was
worse than his bite; and if suffered to take their course without
observation, his outbreaks of ill-temper seldom lasted long.
“We will certainly do our best to get on with him,” said the count. “He
is no doubt the author of the papers, and we must hope that he will be
able to give us some valuable information.”
“Beyond a question the documents have originated with him,” assented
the lieutenant. “Gallia was the word written at the top of every one of
them, and Gallia was the first word uttered by him in our hearing.”
The astronomer slept on. Meanwhile, the three together had no
hesitation in examining his papers, and scrutinizing the figures on his
extemporized blackboard. The handwriting corresponded with that of the
papers already received; the blackboard was covered with algebraical
symbols traced in chalk, which they were careful not to obliterate;
and the papers, which consisted for the most part of detached scraps,
presented a perfect wilderness of geometrical figures, conic sections of
every variety being repeated in countless profusion.
Lieutenant Procope pointed out that these curves evidently had reference
to the orbits of comets, which are variously parabolic, hyperbolic, or
elliptic. If either of the first two, the comet, after once appearing
within the range of terrestrial vision, would vanish forever in the
outlying regions of space; if the last, it would be sure, sooner or
later, after some periodic interval, to return.
From the -prima facie- appearance of his papers, then, it seemed
probable that the astronomer, during his sojourn at Formentera, had been
devoting himself to the study of cometary orbits; and as calculations of
this kind are ordinarily based upon the assumption that the orbit is a
parabola, it was not unlikely that he had been endeavoring to trace the
path of some particular comet.
“I wonder whether these calculations were made before or after the 1st
of January; it makes all the difference,” said Lieutenant Procope.
“We must bide our time and hear,” replied the count.
Servadac paced restlessly up and down. “I would give a month of my
life,” he cried, impetuously, “for every hour that the old fellow goes
sleeping on.”
“You might be making a bad bargain,” said Procope, smiling. “Perhaps
after all the comet has had nothing to do with the convulsion that we
have experienced.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the captain; “I know better than that, and so do
you. Is it not as clear as daylight that the earth and this comet have
been in collision, and the result has been that our little world has
been split off and sent flying far into space?”
Count Timascheff and the lieutenant looked at each other in silence. “I
do not deny your theory,” said Procope after a while. “If it be correct,
I suppose we must conclude that the enormous disc we observed on the
night of the catastrophe was the comet itself; and the velocity with
which it was traveling must have been so great that it was hardly
arrested at all by the attraction of the earth.”
“Plausible enough,” answered Count Timascheff; “and it is to this comet
that our scientific friend here has given the name of Gallia.”
It still remained a puzzle to them all why the astronomer should
apparently be interested in the comet so much more than in the new
little world in which their strange lot was cast.
“Can you explain this?” asked the count.
“There is no accounting for the freaks of philosophers, you know,” said
Servadac; “and have I not told you that this philosopher in particular
is one of the most eccentric beings in creation?”
“Besides,” added the lieutenant, “it is exceedingly likely that his
observations had been going on for some considerable period before the
convulsion happened.”
Thus, the general conclusion arrived at by the Gallian Academy of
Science was this: That on the night of the 31st of December, a comet,
crossing the ecliptic, had come into collision with the earth, and that
the violence of the shock had separated a huge fragment from the
globe, which fragment from that date had been traversing the remote
inter-planetary regions. Palmyrin Rosette would doubtless confirm their
solution of the phenomenon.
CHAPTER II. A REVELATION
To the general population of the colony the arrival of the stranger was
a matter of small interest. The Spaniards were naturally too indolent
to be affected in any way by an incident that concerned themselves so
remotely; while the Russians felt themselves simply reliant on their
master, and as long as they were with him were careless as to where or
how they spent their days. Everything went on with them in an accustomed
routine; and they lay down night after night, and awoke to their
avocations morning after morning, just as if nothing extraordinary had
occurred.
All night long Ben Zoof would not leave the professor’s bedside. He had
constituted himself sick nurse, and considered his reputation at stake
if he failed to set his patient on his feet again. He watched every
movement, listened to every breath, and never failed to administer
the strongest cordials upon the slightest pretext. Even in his sleep
Rosette’s irritable nature revealed itself. Ever and again, sometimes
in a tone of uneasiness, and sometimes with the expression of positive
anger, the name of Gallia escaped his lips, as though he were dreaming
that his claim to the discovery of the comet was being contested or
denied; but although his attendant was on the alert to gather all he
could, he was able to catch nothing in the incoherent sentences that
served to throw any real light upon the problem that they were all eager
to solve.
When the sun reappeared on the western horizon the professor was still
sound asleep; and Ben Zoof, who was especially anxious that the repose
which promised to be so beneficial should not be disturbed, felt
considerable annoyance at hearing a loud knocking, evidently of some
blunt heavy instrument against a door that had been placed at the
entrance of the gallery, more for the purpose of retaining internal
warmth than for guarding against intrusion from without.
“Confound it!” said Ben Zoof. “I must put a stop to this;” and he made
his way towards the door.
“Who’s there?” he cried, in no very amiable tone.
“I.” replied the quavering voice.
“Who are you?”
“Isaac Hakkabut. Let me in; do, please, let me in.”
“Oh, it is you, old Ashtaroth, is it? What do you want? Can’t you get
anybody to buy your stuffs?”
“Nobody will pay me a proper price.”
“Well, old Shimei, you won’t find a customer here. You had better be
off.”
“No; but do, please--do, please, let me in,” supplicated the Jew. “I
want to speak to his Excellency, the governor.”
“The governor is in bed, and asleep.”
“I can wait until he awakes.”
“Then wait where you are.”
And with this inhospitable rejoinder the orderly was about to return to
his place at the side of his patient, when Servadac, who had been roused
by the sound of voices, called out, “What’s the matter, Ben Zoof?”
“Oh, nothing, sir; only that hound of a Hakkabut says he wants to speak
to you.”
“Let him in, then.”
Ben Zoof hesitated.
“Let him in, I say,” repeated the captain, peremptorily.
However reluctantly, Ben Zoof obeyed. The door was unfastened, and Isaac
Hakkabut, enveloped in an old overcoat, shuffled into the gallery. In a
few moments Servadac approached, and the Jew began to overwhelm him with
the most obsequious epithets. Without vouchsafing any reply, the captain
beckoned to the old man to follow him, and leading the way to the
central hall, stopped, and turning so as to look him steadily in the
face, said, “Now is your opportunity. Tell me what you want.”
“Oh, my lord, my lord,” whined Isaac, “you must have some news to tell
me.”
“News? What do you mean?”
“From my little tartan yonder, I saw the yawl go out from the rock here
on a journey, and I saw it come back, and it brought a stranger; and I
thought--I thought--I thought--”
“Well, you thought--what did you think?”
“Why, that perhaps the stranger had come from the northern shores of the
Mediterranean, and that I might ask him--”
He paused again, and gave a glance at the captain.
“Ask him what? Speak out, man?”
“Ask him if he brings any tidings of Europe,” Hakkabut blurted out at
last.
Servadac shrugged his shoulders in contempt and turned away. Here was
a man who had been resident three months in Gallia, a living witness
of all the abnormal phenomena that had occurred, and yet refusing to
believe that his hope of making good bargains with European traders was
at an end. Surely nothing, thought the captain, will convince the old
rascal now; and he moved off in disgust. The orderly, however, who
had listened with much amusement, was by no means disinclined for the
conversation to be continued. “Are you satisfied, old Ezekiel?” he
asked.
“Isn’t it so? Am I not right? Didn’t a stranger arrive here last night?”
inquired the Jew.
“Yes, quite true.”
“Where from?”
“From the Balearic Isles.”
“The Balearic Isles?” echoed Isaac.
“Yes.”
“Fine quarters for trade! Hardly twenty leagues from Spain! He must have
brought news from Europe!”
“Well, old Manasseh, what if he has?”
“I should like to see him.”
“Can’t be.”
The Jew sidled close up to Ben Zoof, and laying his hand on his arm,
said in a low and insinuating tone, “I am poor, you know; but I would
give you a few reals if you would let me talk to this stranger.”
But as if he thought he was making too liberal an offer, he added, “Only
it must be at once.”
“He is too tired; he is worn out; he is fast asleep,” answered Ben Zoof.
“But I would pay you to wake him.”
The captain had overheard the tenor of the conversation, and interposed
sternly, “Hakkabut! if you make the least attempt to disturb our
visitor, I shall have you turned outside that door immediately.”
“No offense, my lord, I hope,” stammered out the Jew. “I only meant--”
“Silence!” shouted Servadac. The old man hung his head, abashed.
“I will tell you what,” said Servadac after a brief interval; “I will
give you leave to hear what this stranger has to tell as soon as he is
able to tell us anything; at present we have not heard a word from his
lips.”
The Jew looked perplexed.
“Yes,” said Servadac; “when we hear his story, you shall hear it too.”
“And I hope it will be to your liking, old Ezekiel!” added Ben Zoof in a
voice of irony.
They had none of them long to wait, for within a few minutes Rosette’s
peevish voice was heard calling, “Joseph! Joseph!”
The professor did not open his eyes, and appeared to be slumbering on,
but very shortly afterwards called out again, “Joseph! Confound the
fellow! where is he?” It was evident that he was half dreaming about
a former servant now far away on the ancient globe. “Where’s my
blackboard, Joseph?”
“Quite safe, sir,” answered Ben Zoof, quickly.
Rosette unclosed his eyes and fixed them full upon the orderly’s face.
“Are you Joseph?” he asked.
“At your service, sir,” replied Ben Zoof with imperturbable gravity.
“Then get me my coffee, and be quick about it.”
Ben Zoof left to go into the kitchen, and Servadac approached the
professor in order to assist him in rising to a sitting posture.
“Do you recognize your quondam pupil, professor?” he asked.
“Ah, yes, yes; you are Servadac,” replied Rosette. “It is twelve years
or more since I saw you; I hope you have improved.”
“Quite a reformed character, sir, I assure you,” said Servadac, smiling.
“Well, that’s as it should be; that’s right,” said the astronomer with
fussy importance. “But let me have my coffee,” he added impatiently; “I
cannot collect my thoughts without my coffee.”
Fortunately, Ben Zoof appeared with a great cup, hot and strong. After
draining it with much apparent relish, the professor got out of bed,
walked into the common hall, round which he glanced with a pre-occupied
air, and proceeded to seat himself in an armchair, the most comfortable
which the cabin of the -Dobryna- had supplied. Then, in a voice full
of satisfaction, and that involuntarily recalled the exclamations of
delight that had wound up the two first of the mysterious documents that
had been received, he burst out, “Well, gentlemen, what do you think of
Gallia?”
There was no time for anyone to make a reply before Isaac Hakkabut had
darted forward.
“By the God--”
“Who is that?” asked the startled professor; and he frowned, and made a
gesture of repugnance.
Regardless of the efforts that were made to silence him, the Jew
continued, “By the God of Abraham, I beseech you, give me some tidings
of Europe!”
“Europe?” shouted the professor, springing from his seat as if he were
electrified; “what does the man want with Europe?”
“I want to get there!” screeched the Jew; and in spite of every exertion
to get him away, he clung most tenaciously to the professor’s chair, and
again and again implored for news of Europe.
Rosette made no immediate reply. After a moment or two’s reflection, he
turned to Servadac and asked him whether it was not the middle of April.
“It is the twentieth,” answered the captain.
“Then to-day,” said the astronomer, speaking with the greatest
deliberation--“to-day we are just three millions of leagues away from
Europe.”
The Jew was utterly crestfallen.
“You seem here,” continued the professor, “to be very ignorant of the
state of things.”
“How far we are ignorant,” rejoined Servadac, “I cannot tell. But I will
tell you all that we do know, and all that we have surmised.” And
as briefly as he could, he related all that had happened since
the memorable night of the thirty-first of December; how they had
experienced the shock; how the -Dobryna- had made her voyage; how they
had discovered nothing except the fragments of the old continent at
Tunis, Sardinia, Gibraltar, and now at Formentera; how at intervals
the three anonymous documents had been received; and, finally, how
the settlement at Gourbi Island had been abandoned for their present
quarters at Nina’s Hive.
The astronomer had hardly patience to hear him to the end. “And what do
you say is your surmise as to your present position?” he asked.
“Our supposition,” the captain replied, “is this. We imagine that we
are on a considerable fragment of the terrestrial globe that has been
detached by collision with a planet to which you appear to have given
the name of Gallia.”
“Better than that!” cried Rosette, starting to his feet with excitement.
“How? Why? What do you mean?” cried the voices of the listeners.
“You are correct to a certain degree,” continued the professor. “It is
quite true that at 47’ 35.6” after two o’clock on the morning of the
first of January there was a collision; my comet grazed the earth; and
the bits of the earth which you have named were carried clean away.”
They were all fairly bewildered.
“Where, then,” cried Servadac eagerly, “where are we?”
“You are on my comet, on Gallia itself!”
And the professor gazed around him with a perfect air of triumph.
CHAPTER III. THE PROFESSOR’S EXPERIENCES
“Yes, my comet!” repeated the professor, and from time to time he
knitted his brows, and looked around him with a defiant air, as though
he could not get rid of the impression that someone was laying an
unwarranted claim to its proprietorship, or that the individuals before
him were intruders upon his own proper domain.
But for a considerable while, Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant
remained silent and sunk in thought. Here then, at last, was the
unriddling of the enigma they had been so long endeavoring to solve;
both the hypotheses they had formed in succession had now to give way
before the announcement of the real truth. The first supposition, that
the rotatory axis of the earth had been subject to some accidental
modification, and the conjecture that replaced it, namely, that a
certain portion of the terrestrial sphere had been splintered off and
carried into space, had both now to yield to the representation that
the earth had been grazed by an unknown comet, which had caught up some
scattered fragments from its surface, and was bearing them far away into
sidereal regions. Unfolded lay the past and the present before them; but
this only served to awaken a keener interest about the future. Could the
professor throw any light upon that? they longed to inquire, but did not
yet venture to ask him.
Meanwhile Rosette assumed a pompous professional air, and appeared to
be waiting for the entire party to be ceremoniously introduced to him.
Nothing unwilling to humor the vanity of the eccentric little man,
Servadac proceeded to go through the expected formalities.
“Allow me to present to you my excellent friend, the Count Timascheff,”
he said.
“You are very welcome,” said Rosette, bowing to the count with a smile
of condescension.
“Although I am not precisely a voluntary resident on your comet, Mr.
Professor, I beg to acknowledge your courteous reception,” gravely
responded Timascheff.
Servadac could not quite conceal his amusement at the count’s irony, but
continued, “This is Lieutenant Procope, the officer in command of the
-Dobryna-.”
The professor bowed again in frigid dignity.
“His yacht has conveyed us right round Gallia,” added the captain.
“Round Gallia?” eagerly exclaimed the professor.
“Yes, entirely round it,” answered Servadac, and without allowing time
for reply, proceeded, “And this is my orderly, Ben Zoof.”
“Aide-de-camp to his Excellency the Governor of Gallia,” interposed Ben
Zoof himself, anxious to maintain his master’s honor as well as his own.
Rosette scarcely bent his head.
The rest of the population of the Hive were all presented in succession:
the Russian sailors, the Spaniards, young Pablo, and little Nina, on
whom the professor, evidently no lover of children, glared fiercely
through his formidable spectacles. Isaac Hakkabut, after his
introduction, begged to be allowed to ask one question.
“How soon may we hope to get back?” he inquired.
“Get back!” rejoined Rosette, sharply; “who talks of getting back? We
have hardly started yet.”
Seeing that the professor was inclined to get angry, Captain Servadac
adroitly gave a new turn to the conversation by asking him whether
he would gratify them by relating his own recent experiences. The
astronomer seemed pleased with the proposal, and at once commenced a
verbose and somewhat circumlocutory address, of which the following
summary presents the main features.
The French Government, being desirous of verifying the measurement
already made of the arc of the meridian of Paris, appointed a scientific
commission for that purpose. From that commission the name of Palmyrin
Rosette was omitted, apparently for no other reason than his personal
unpopularity. Furious at the slight, the professor resolved to set to
work independently on his own account, and declaring that there were
inaccuracies in the previous geodesic operations, he determined to
re-examine the results of the last triangulation which had united
Formentera to the Spanish coast by a triangle, one of the sides of which
measured over a hundred miles, the very operation which had already been
so successfully accomplished by Arago and Biot.
Accordingly, leaving Paris for the Balearic Isles, he placed his
observatory on the highest point of Formentera, and accompanied as he
was only by his servant, Joseph, led the life of a recluse. He secured
the services of a former assistant, and dispatched him to a high peak on
the coast of Spain, where he had to superintend a reverberator, which,
with the aid of a glass, could be seen from Formentera. A few books and
instruments, and two months’ victuals, was all the baggage he took with
him, except an excellent astronomical telescope, which was, indeed,
almost part and parcel of himself, and with which he assiduously scanned
the heavens, in the sanguine anticipation of making some discovery which
would immortalize his name.
The task he had undertaken demanded the utmost patience. Night after
night, in order to fix the apex of his triangle, he had to linger on the
watch for the assistant’s signal-light, but he did not forget that
his predecessors, Arago and Biot, had had to wait sixty-one days for a
similar purpose. What retarded the work was the dense fog which, it has
been already mentioned, at that time enveloped not only that part of
Europe, but almost the entire world.
Never failing to turn to the best advantage the few intervals when the
mist lifted a little, the astronomer would at the same time cast an
inquiring glance at the firmament, as he was greatly interested in the
revision of the chart of the heavens, in the region contiguous to the
constellation Gemini.
To the naked eye this constellation consists of only six stars, but
through a telescope ten inches in diameter, as many as six thousand
are visible. Rosette, however, did not possess a reflector of this
magnitude, and was obliged to content himself with the good but
comparatively small instrument he had.
On one of these occasions, whilst carefully gauging the recesses of
Gemini, he espied a bright speck which was unregistered in the chart,
and which at first he took for a small star that had escaped being
entered in the catalogue. But the observation of a few separate nights
soon made it manifest that the star was rapidly changing its position
with regard to the adjacent stars, and the astronomer’s heart began to
leap at the thought that the renown of the discovery of a new planet
would be associated with his name.
Redoubling his attention, he soon satisfied himself that what he saw was
not a planet; the rapidity of its displacement rather forced him to
the conjecture that it must be a comet, and this opinion was soon
strengthened by the appearance of a coma, and subsequently confirmed, as
the body approached the sun, by the development of a tail.
A comet! The discovery was fatal to all further progress in the
triangulation. However conscientiously the assistant on the Spanish
coast might look to the kindling of the beacon, Rosette had no glances
to spare for that direction; he had no eyes except for the one object of
his notice, no thoughts apart from that one quarter of the firmament.
A comet! No time must be lost in calculating its elements.
Now, in order to calculate the elements of a comet, it is always deemed
the safest mode of procedure to assume the orbit to be a parabola.
Ordinarily, comets are conspicuous at their perihelia, as being their
shortest distances from the sun, which is the focus of their orbit,
and inasmuch as a parabola is but an ellipse with its axis indefinitely
produced, for some short portion of its pathway the orbit may be
indifferently considered either one or the other; but in this particular
case the professor was right in adopting the supposition of its being
parabolic.
Just as in a circle, it is necessary to know three points to determine
the circumference; so in ascertaining the elements of a comet, three
different positions must be observed before what astronomers call its
“ephemeris” can be established.
But Professor Rosette did not content himself with three positions;
taking advantage of every rift in the fog he made ten, twenty, thirty
observations both in right ascension and in declination, and succeeded
in working out with the most minute accuracy the five elements of the
comet which was evidently advancing with astounding rapidity towards the
earth.
These elements were:
1. The inclination of the plane of the cometary orbit to the plane of
the ecliptic, an angle which is generally considerable, but in this case
the planes were proved to coincide.
2. The position of the ascending node, or the point where the comet
crossed the terrestrial orbit.
These two elements being obtained, the position in space of the comet’s
orbit was determined.
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