OFF ON A COMET or HECTOR SERVADAC
WORKS of JULES VERNE
Edited By Charles F. Horne, Ph.D.
Professor of English, College of the City of New York; Author of “The
Technique of the Novel,” etc.
[colophon omitted]
F. Tyler Daniels Company, Inc.
New York :::: London
Copyright, 1911 By Vincent Parke And Company
INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME NINE
-Among so many effective and artistic tales, it is difficult to give a
preference to one over all the rest. Yet, certainly, even amid Verne’s
remarkable works, his “Off on a Comet” must be given high rank. Perhaps
this story will be remembered when even “Round the World in Eighty Days”
and “Michael Strogoff” have been obliterated by centuries of time. At
least, of the many books since written upon the same theme as Verne’s,
no one has yet succeeded in equaling or even approaching it.
In one way “Off on a Comet” shows a marked contrast to Verne’s earlier
books. Not only does it invade a region more remote than even the
“Trip to the Moon,” but the author here abandons his usual scrupulously
scientific attitude. In order that he may escort us through the depths
of immeasurable space, show us what astronomy really knows of conditions
there and upon the other planets, Verne asks us to accept a situation
frankly impossible. The earth and a comet are brought twice into
collision without mankind in general, or even our astronomers, becoming
conscious of the fact. Moreover several people from widely scattered
places are carried off by the comet and returned uninjured. Yet further,
the comet snatches for the convenience of its travelers, both air and
water. Little, useful tracts of earth are picked up and, as it were,
turned over and clapped down right side up again upon the comet’s
surface. Even ships pass uninjured through this remarkable somersault.
These events all belong frankly to the realm of fairyland.
If the situation were reproduced in actuality, if ever a comet should
come into collision with the earth, we can conceive two scientifically
possible results. If the comet were of such attenuation, such almost
infinitesimal mass as some of these celestial wanderers seem to be, we
can imagine our earth self-protective and possibly unharmed. If, on the
other hand, the comet had even a hundredth part of the size and solidity
and weight which Verne confers upon his monster so as to give his
travelers a home--in that case the collision would be unspeakably
disastrous--especially to the unlucky individuals who occupied the exact
point of contact.
But once granted the initial and the closing extravagance, the departure
and return of his characters, the alpha and omega of his tale, how
closely the author clings to facts between! How closely he follows, and
imparts to his readers, the scientific probabilities of the universe
beyond our earth, the actual knowledge so hard won by our astronomers!
Other authors who, since Verne, have told of trips through the planetary
and stellar universe have given free rein to fancy, to dreams of what
might be found. Verne has endeavored to impart only what is known to
exist.
In the same year with “Off on a Comet,” 1877, was published also
the tale variously named and translated as “The Black Indies,” “The
Underground City,” and “The Child of the Cavern.” This story, like
“Round the World in Eighty Days” was first issued in “feuilleton” by the
noted Paris newspaper “Le Temps.” Its success did not equal that of its
predecessor in this style. Some critics indeed have pointed to this work
as marking the beginning of a decline in the author’s power of awaking
interest. Many of his best works were, however, still to follow. And, as
regards imagination and the elements of mystery and awe, surely in the
“Underground City” with its cavern world, its secret, undiscoverable,
unrelenting foe, the “Harfang,” bird of evil omen, and the “fire
maidens” of the ruined castle, surely with all these “imagination” is
anything but lacking.
From the realistic side, the work is painstaking and exact as all the
author’s works. The sketches of mines and miners, their courage and
their dangers, their lives and their hopes, are carefully studied. So
also is the emotional aspect of the deeps under ground, the blackness,
the endless wandering passages, the silence, and the awe.-
OFF ON A COMET OR HECTOR SERVADAC
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I. A CHALLENGE
“Nothing, sir, can induce me to surrender my claim.”
“I am sorry, count, but in such a matter your views cannot modify mine.”
“But allow me to point out that my seniority unquestionably gives me a
prior right.”
“Mere seniority, I assert, in an affair of this kind, cannot possibly
entitle you to any prior claim whatever.”
“Then, captain, no alternative is left but for me to compel you to yield
at the sword’s point.”
“As you please, count; but neither sword nor pistol can force me to
forego my pretensions. Here is my card.”
“And mine.”
This rapid altercation was thus brought to an end by the formal
interchange of the names of the disputants. On one of the cards was
inscribed:
-Captain Hector Servadac,
Staff Officer, Mostaganem.-
On the other was the title:
-Count Wassili Timascheff,
On board the Schooner “Dobryna.”-
It did not take long to arrange that seconds should be appointed, who
would meet in Mostaganem at two o’clock that day; and the captain and
the count were on the point of parting from each other, with a salute of
punctilious courtesy, when Timascheff, as if struck by a sudden thought,
said abruptly: “Perhaps it would be better, captain, not to allow the
real cause of this to transpire?”
“Far better,” replied Servadac; “it is undesirable in every way for any
names to be mentioned.”
“In that case, however,” continued the count, “it will be necessary to
assign an ostensible pretext of some kind. Shall we allege a musical
dispute? a contention in which I feel bound to defend Wagner, while you
are the zealous champion of Rossini?”
“I am quite content,” answered Servadac, with a smile; and with another
low bow they parted.
The scene, as here depicted, took place upon the extremity of a little
cape on the Algerian coast, between Mostaganem and Tenes, about two
miles from the mouth of the Shelif. The headland rose more than sixty
feet above the sea-level, and the azure waters of the Mediterranean, as
they softly kissed the strand, were tinged with the reddish hue of the
ferriferous rocks that formed its base. It was the 31st of December. The
noontide sun, which usually illuminated the various projections of the
coast with a dazzling brightness, was hidden by a dense mass of cloud,
and the fog, which for some unaccountable cause, had hung for the
last two months over nearly every region in the world, causing serious
interruption to traffic between continent and continent, spread its
dreary veil across land and sea.
After taking leave of the staff-officer, Count Wassili Timascheff wended
his way down to a small creek, and took his seat in the stern of a light
four-oar that had been awaiting his return; this was immediately pushed
off from shore, and was soon alongside a pleasure-yacht, that was lying
to, not many cable lengths away.
At a sign from Servadac, an orderly, who had been standing at a
respectful distance, led forward a magnificent Arabian horse; the
captain vaulted into the saddle, and followed by his attendant, well
mounted as himself, started off towards Mostaganem. It was half-past
twelve when the two riders crossed the bridge that had been recently
erected over the Shelif, and a quarter of an hour later their steeds,
flecked with foam, dashed through the Mascara Gate, which was one of
five entrances opened in the embattled wall that encircled the town.
At that date, Mostaganem contained about fifteen thousand inhabitants,
three thousand of whom were French. Besides being one of the principal
district towns of the province of Oran, it was also a military station.
Mostaganem rejoiced in a well-sheltered harbor, which enabled her to
utilize all the rich products of the Mina and the Lower Shelif. It was
the existence of so good a harbor amidst the exposed cliffs of this
coast that had induced the owner of the -Dobryna- to winter in these
parts, and for two months the Russian standard had been seen floating
from her yard, whilst on her mast-head was hoisted the pennant of
the French Yacht Club, with the distinctive letters M. C. W. T., the
initials of Count Timascheff.
Having entered the town, Captain Servadac made his way towards Matmore,
the military quarter, and was not long in finding two friends on whom
he might rely--a major of the 2nd Fusileers, and a captain of the
8th Artillery. The two officers listened gravely enough to Servadac’s
request that they would act as his seconds in an affair of honor, but
could not resist a smile on hearing that the dispute between him and the
count had originated in a musical discussion. Surely, they suggested,
the matter might be easily arranged; a few slight concessions on either
side, and all might be amicably adjusted. But no representations on
their part were of any avail. Hector Servadac was inflexible.
“No concession is possible,” he replied, resolutely. “Rossini has been
deeply injured, and I cannot suffer the injury to be unavenged. Wagner
is a fool. I shall keep my word. I am quite firm.”
“Be it so, then,” replied one of the officers; “and after all, you know,
a sword-cut need not be a very serious affair.”
“Certainly not,” rejoined Servadac; “and especially in my case, when I
have not the slightest intention of being wounded at all.”
Incredulous as they naturally were as to the assigned cause of the
quarrel, Servadac’s friends had no alternative but to accept his
explanation, and without farther parley they started for the staff
office, where, at two o’clock precisely, they were to meet the seconds
of Count Timascheff. Two hours later they had returned. All the
preliminaries had been arranged; the count, who like many Russians
abroad was an aide-de-camp of the Czar, had of course proposed swords
as the most appropriate weapons, and the duel was to take place on the
following morning, the first of January, at nine o’clock, upon the cliff
at a spot about a mile and a half from the mouth of the Shelif. With
the assurance that they would not fail to keep their appointment with
military punctuality, the two officers cordially wrung their friend’s
hand and retired to the Zulma Cafe for a game at piquet. Captain
Servadac at once retraced his steps and left the town.
For the last fortnight Servadac had not been occupying his proper
lodgings in the military quarters; having been appointed to make a local
levy, he had been living in a gourbi, or native hut, on the Mostaganem
coast, between four and five miles from the Shelif. His orderly was his
sole companion, and by any other man than the captain the enforced exile
would have been esteemed little short of a severe penance.
On his way to the gourbi, his mental occupation was a very laborious
effort to put together what he was pleased to call a rondo, upon a model
of versification all but obsolete. This rondo, it is unnecessary to
conceal, was to be an ode addressed to a young widow by whom he had been
captivated, and whom he was anxious to marry, and the tenor of his muse
was intended to prove that when once a man has found an object in
all respects worthy of his affections, he should love her “in all
simplicity.” Whether the aphorism were universally true was not very
material to the gallant captain, whose sole ambition at present was to
construct a roundelay of which this should be the prevailing sentiment.
He indulged the fancy that he might succeed in producing a composition
which would have a fine effect here in Algeria, where poetry in that
form was all but unknown.
“I know well enough,” he said repeatedly to himself, “what I want to
say. I want to tell her that I love her sincerely, and wish to marry
her; but, confound it! the words won’t rhyme. Plague on it! Does nothing
rhyme with ‘simplicity’? Ah! I have it now:
‘Lovers should, whoe’er they be,
Love in all simplicity.’
But what next? how am I to go on? I say, Ben Zoof,” he called aloud to
his orderly, who was trotting silently close in his rear, “did you ever
compose any poetry?”
“No, captain,” answered the man promptly: “I have never made any verses,
but I have seen them made fast enough at a booth during the fete of
Montmartre.”
“Can you remember them?”
“Remember them! to be sure I can. This is the way they began:
‘Come in! come in! you’ll not repent
The entrance money you have spent;
The wondrous mirror in this place
Reveals your future sweetheart’s face.’”
“Bosh!” cried Servadac in disgust; “your verses are detestable trash.”
“As good as any others, captain, squeaked through a reed pipe.”
“Hold your tongue, man,” said Servadac peremptorily; “I have made
another couplet.
‘Lovers should, whoe’er they be,
Love in all simplicity;
Lover, loving honestly,
Offer I myself to thee.’”
Beyond this, however, the captain’s poetical genius was impotent to
carry him; his farther efforts were unavailing, and when at six o’clock
he reached the gourbi, the four lines still remained the limit of his
composition.
CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN SERVADAC AND HIS ORDERLY
At the time of which I write, there might be seen in the registers of
the Minister of War the following entry:
SERVADAC (-Hector-), born at St. Trelody in the district of Lesparre,
department of the Gironde, July 19th, 18--.
-Property:- 1200 francs in rentes.
-Length of service:- Fourteen years, three months, and five days.
-Service:- Two years at school at St. Cyr; two years at L’Ecole
d’Application; two years in the 8th Regiment of the Line; two years in
the 3rd Light Cavalry; seven years in Algeria.
-Campaigns:- Soudan and Japan.
-Rank:- Captain on the staff at Mostaganem.
-Decorations:- Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, March 13th, 18--.
Hector Servadac was thirty years of age, an orphan without lineage and
almost without means. Thirsting for glory rather than for gold, slightly
scatter-brained, but warm-hearted, generous, and brave, he was eminently
formed to be the protege of the god of battles.
For the first year and a half of his existence he had been the
foster-child of the sturdy wife of a vine-dresser of Medoc--a lineal
descendant of the heroes of ancient prowess; in a word, he was one of
those individuals whom nature seems to have predestined for remarkable
things, and around whose cradle have hovered the fairy godmothers of
adventure and good luck.
In appearance Hector Servadac was quite the type of an officer; he was
rather more than five feet six inches high, slim and graceful, with dark
curling hair and mustaches, well-formed hands and feet, and a clear blue
eye. He seemed born to please without being conscious of the power he
possessed. It must be owned, and no one was more ready to confess it
than himself, that his literary attainments were by no means of a high
order. “We don’t spin tops” is a favorite saying amongst artillery
officers, indicating that they do not shirk their duty by frivolous
pursuits; but it must be confessed that Servadac, being naturally idle,
was very much given to “spinning tops.” His good abilities, however,
and his ready intelligence had carried him successfully through the
curriculum of his early career. He was a good draughtsman, an excellent
rider--having thoroughly mastered the successor to the famous “Uncle
Tom” at the riding-school of St. Cyr--and in the records of his military
service his name had several times been included in the order of the
day.
The following episode may suffice, in a certain degree, to illustrate
his character. Once, in action, he was leading a detachment of infantry
through an intrenchment. They came to a place where the side-work of the
trench had been so riddled by shell that a portion of it had actually
fallen in, leaving an aperture quite unsheltered from the grape-shot
that was pouring in thick and fast. The men hesitated. In an instant
Servadac mounted the side-work, laid himself down in the gap, and thus
filling up the breach by his own body, shouted, “March on!”
And through a storm of shot, not one of which touched the prostrate
officer, the troop passed in safety.
Since leaving the military college, Servadac, with the exception of
his two campaigns in the Soudan and Japan, had been always stationed in
Algeria. He had now a staff appointment at Mostaganem, and had lately
been entrusted with some topographical work on the coast between Tenes
and the Shelif. It was a matter of little consequence to him that the
gourbi, in which of necessity he was quartered, was uncomfortable and
ill-contrived; he loved the open air, and the independence of his life
suited him well. Sometimes he would wander on foot upon the sandy shore,
and sometimes he would enjoy a ride along the summit of the cliff;
altogether being in no hurry at all to bring his task to an end. His
occupation, moreover, was not so engrossing but that he could find
leisure for taking a short railway journey once or twice a week; so
that he was ever and again putting in an appearance at the general’s
receptions at Oran, and at the fetes given by the governor at Algiers.
It was on one of these occasions that he had first met Madame de L----,
the lady to whom he was desirous of dedicating the rondo, the first four
lines of which had just seen the light. She was a colonel’s widow,
young and handsome, very reserved, not to say haughty in her manner, and
either indifferent or impervious to the admiration which she inspired.
Captain Servadac had not yet ventured to declare his attachment; of
rivals he was well aware he had not a few, and amongst these not the
least formidable was the Russian Count Timascheff. And although the
young widow was all unconscious of the share she had in the matter, it
was she, and she alone, who was the cause of the challenge just given
and accepted by her two ardent admirers.
During his residence in the gourbi, Hector Servadac’s sole companion
was his orderly, Ben Zoof. Ben Zoof was devoted, body and soul, to his
superior officer. His own personal ambition was so entirely absorbed in
his master’s welfare, that it is certain no offer of promotion--even had
it been that of aide-de-camp to the Governor-General of Algiers--would
have induced him to quit that master’s service. His name might seem
to imply that he was a native of Algeria; but such was by no means the
case. His true name was Laurent; he was a native of Montmartre in Paris,
and how or why he had obtained his patronymic was one of those anomalies
which the most sagacious of etymologists would find it hard to explain.
Born on the hill of Montmartre, between the Solferino tower and the
mill of La Galette, Ben Zoof had ever possessed the most unreserved
admiration for his birthplace; and to his eyes the heights and district
of Montmartre represented an epitome of all the wonders of the world.
In all his travels, and these had been not a few, he had never
beheld scenery which could compete with that of his native home.
No cathedral--not even Burgos itself--could vie with the church at
Montmartre. Its race-course could well hold its own against that at
Pentelique; its reservoir would throw the Mediterranean into the shade;
its forests had flourished long before the invasion of the Celts; and
its very mill produced no ordinary flour, but provided material
for cakes of world-wide renown. To crown all, Montmartre boasted a
mountain--a veritable mountain; envious tongues indeed might pronounce
it little more than a hill; but Ben Zoof would have allowed himself
to be hewn in pieces rather than admit that it was anything less than
fifteen thousand feet in height.
Ben Zoof’s most ambitious desire was to induce the captain to go with
him and end his days in his much-loved home, and so incessantly were
Servadac’s ears besieged with descriptions of the unparalleled beauties
and advantages of this eighteenth arrondissement of Paris, that he
could scarcely hear the name of Montmartre without a conscious thrill
of aversion. Ben Zoof, however, did not despair of ultimately converting
the captain, and meanwhile had resolved never to leave him. When a
private in the 8th Cavalry, he had been on the point of quitting
the army at twenty-eight years of age, but unexpectedly he had been
appointed orderly to Captain Servadac. Side by side they fought in two
campaigns. Servadac had saved Ben Zoof’s life in Japan; Ben Zoof had
rendered his master a like service in the Soudan. The bond of union thus
effected could never be severed; and although Ben Zoof’s achievements
had fairly earned him the right of retirement, he firmly declined all
honors or any pension that might part him from his superior officer. Two
stout arms, an iron constitution, a powerful frame, and an indomitable
courage were all loyally devoted to his master’s service, and fairly
entitled him to his -soi-disant- designation of “The Rampart of
Montmartre.” Unlike his master, he made no pretension to any gift
of poetic power, but his inexhaustible memory made him a living
encyclopaedia; and for his stock of anecdotes and trooper’s tales he was
matchless.
Thoroughly appreciating his servant’s good qualities, Captain Servadac
endured with imperturbable good humor those idiosyncrasies, which in
a less faithful follower would have been intolerable, and from time
to time he would drop a word of sympathy that served to deepen his
subordinate’s devotion.
On one occasion, when Ben Zoof had mounted his hobby-horse, and
was indulging in high-flown praises about his beloved eighteenth
arrondissement, the captain had remarked gravely, “Do you know, Ben
Zoof, that Montmartre only requires a matter of some thirteen thousand
feet to make it as high as Mont Blanc?”
Ben Zoof’s eyes glistened with delight; and from that moment Hector
Servadac and Montmartre held equal places in his affection.
CHAPTER III. INTERRUPTED EFFUSIONS
Composed of mud and loose stones, and covered with a thatch of turf and
straw, known to the natives by the name of “driss,” the gourbi, though a
grade better than the tents of the nomad Arabs, was yet far inferior
to any habitation built of brick or stone. It adjoined an old stone
hostelry, previously occupied by a detachment of engineers, and which
now afforded shelter for Ben Zoof and the two horses. It still
contained a considerable number of tools, such as mattocks, shovels, and
pick-axes.
Uncomfortable as was their temporary abode, Servadac and his attendant
made no complaints; neither of them was dainty in the matter either of
board or lodging. After dinner, leaving his orderly to stow away the
remains of the repast in what he was pleased to term the “cupboard of
his stomach.” Captain Servadac turned out into the open air to smoke his
pipe upon the edge of the cliff. The shades of night were drawing on.
An hour previously, veiled in heavy clouds, the sun had sunk below the
horizon that bounded the plain beyond the Shelif.
The sky presented a most singular appearance. Towards the north,
although the darkness rendered it impossible to see beyond a quarter
of a mile, the upper strata of the atmosphere were suffused with a
rosy glare. No well-defined fringe of light, nor arch of luminous rays,
betokened a display of aurora borealis, even had such a phenomenon been
possible in these latitudes; and the most experienced meteorologist
would have been puzzled to explain the cause of this striking
illumination on this 31st of December, the last evening of the passing
year.
But Captain Servadac was no meteorologist, and it is to be doubted
whether, since leaving school, he had ever opened his “Course of
Cosmography.” Besides, he had other thoughts to occupy his mind. The
prospects of the morrow offered serious matter for consideration. The
captain was actuated by no personal animosity against the count; though
rivals, the two men regarded each other with sincere respect; they had
simply reached a crisis in which one of them was -de trop;- which of
them, fate must decide.
At eight o’clock, Captain Servadac re-entered the gourbi, the single
apartment of which contained his bed, a small writing-table, and some
trunks that served instead of cupboards. The orderly performed his
culinary operations in the adjoining building, which he also used as a
bed-room, and where, extended on what he called his “good oak mattress,”
he would sleep soundly as a dormouse for twelve hours at a stretch. Ben
Zoof had not yet received his orders to retire, and ensconcing himself
in a corner of the gourbi, he endeavored to doze--a task which the
unusual agitation of his master rendered somewhat difficult. Captain
Servadac was evidently in no hurry to betake himself to rest, but
seating himself at his table, with a pair of compasses and a sheet of
tracing-paper, he began to draw, with red and blue crayons, a variety
of colored lines, which could hardly be supposed to have much connection
with a topographical survey. In truth, his character of staff-officer
was now entirely absorbed in that of Gascon poet. Whether he imagined
that the compasses would bestow upon his verses the measure of a
mathematical accuracy, or whether he fancied that the parti-colored
lines would lend variety to his rhythm, it is impossible to determine;
be that as it may, he was devoting all his energies to the compilation
of his rondo, and supremely difficult he found the task.
“Hang it!” he ejaculated, “whatever induced me to choose this meter? It
is as hard to find rhymes as to rally fugitive in a battle. But, by all
the powers! it shan’t be said that a French officer cannot cope with a
piece of poetry. One battalion has fought--now for the rest!”
Perseverance had its reward. Presently two lines, one red, the other
blue, appeared upon the paper, and the captain murmured:
“Words, mere words, cannot avail,
Telling true heart’s tender tale.”
“What on earth ails my master?” muttered Ben Zoof; “for the last hour he
has been as fidgety as a bird returning after its winter migration.”
Servadac suddenly started from his seat, and as he paced the room with
all the frenzy of poetic inspiration, read out:
“Empty words cannot convey
All a lover’s heart would say.”
“Well, to be sure, he is at his everlasting verses again!” said Ben Zoof
to himself, as he roused himself in his corner. “Impossible to sleep in
such a noise;” and he gave vent to a loud groan.
“How now, Ben Zoof?” said the captain sharply. “What ails you?”
“Nothing, sir, only the nightmare.”
“Curse the fellow, he has quite interrupted me!” ejaculated the captain.
“Ben Zoof!” he called aloud.
“Here, sir!” was the prompt reply; and in an instant the orderly
was upon his feet, standing in a military attitude, one hand to his
forehead, the other closely pressed to his trouser-seam.
“Stay where you are! don’t move an inch!” shouted Servadac; “I have
just thought of the end of my rondo.” And in a voice of inspiration,
accompanying his words with dramatic gestures, Servadac began to
declaim:
“Listen, lady, to my vows--
O, consent to be my spouse;
Constant ever I will be,
Constant....”
No closing lines were uttered. All at once, with unutterable violence,
the captain and his orderly were dashed, face downwards, to the ground.
CHAPTER IV. A CONVULSION OF NATURE
Whence came it that at that very moment the horizon underwent so strange
and sudden a modification, that the eye of the most practiced mariner
could not distinguish between sea and sky?
Whence came it that the billows raged and rose to a height hitherto
unregistered in the records of science?
Whence came it that the elements united in one deafening crash; that the
earth groaned as though the whole framework of the globe were ruptured;
that the waters roared from their innermost depths; that the air
shrieked with all the fury of a cyclone?
Whence came it that a radiance, intenser than the effulgence of the
Northern Lights, overspread the firmament, and momentarily dimmed the
splendor of the brightest stars?
Whence came it that the Mediterranean, one instant emptied of its
waters, was the next flooded with a foaming surge?
Whence came it that in the space of a few seconds the moon’s disc
reached a magnitude as though it were but a tenth part of its ordinary
distance from the earth?
Whence came it that a new blazing spheroid, hitherto unknown to
astronomy, now appeared suddenly in the firmament, though it were but to
lose itself immediately behind masses of accumulated cloud?
What phenomenon was this that had produced a cataclysm so tremendous in
effect upon earth, sky, and sea?
Was it possible that a single human being could have survived the
convulsion? and if so, could he explain its mystery?
CHAPTER V. A MYSTERIOUS SEA
Violent as the commotion had been, that portion of the Algerian coast
which is bounded on the north by the Mediterranean, and on the west by
the right bank of the Shelif, appeared to have suffered little change.
It is true that indentations were perceptible in the fertile plain,
and the surface of the sea was ruffled with an agitation that was quite
unusual; but the rugged outline of the cliff was the same as heretofore,
and the aspect of the entire scene appeared unaltered. The stone
hostelry, with the exception of some deep clefts in its walls, had
sustained little injury; but the gourbi, like a house of cards destroyed
by an infant’s breath, had completely subsided, and its two inmates lay
motionless, buried under the sunken thatch.
It was two hours after the catastrophe that Captain Servadac regained
consciousness; he had some trouble to collect his thoughts, and the
first sounds that escaped his lips were the concluding words of the
rondo which had been so ruthlessly interrupted;
“Constant ever I will be,
Constant....”
His next thought was to wonder what had happened; and in order to find
an answer, he pushed aside the broken thatch, so that his head appeared
above the -debris-. “The gourbi leveled to the ground!” he exclaimed,
“surely a waterspout has passed along the coast.”
He felt all over his body to perceive what injuries he had sustained,
but not a sprain nor a scratch could he discover. “Where are you, Ben
Zoof?” he shouted.
“Here, sir!” and with military promptitude a second head protruded from
the rubbish.
“Have you any notion what has happened, Ben Zoof?”
“I’ve a notion, captain, that it’s all up with us.”
“Nonsense, Ben Zoof; it is nothing but a waterspout!”
“Very good, sir,” was the philosophical reply, immediately followed by
the query, “Any bones broken, sir?”
“None whatever,” said the captain.
Both men were soon on their feet, and began to make a vigorous clearance
of the ruins, beneath which they found that their arms, cooking
utensils, and other property, had sustained little injury.
“By-the-by, what o’clock is it?” asked the captain.
“It must be eight o’clock, at least,” said Ben Zoof, looking at the sun,
which was a considerable height above the horizon. “It is almost time
for us to start.”
“To start! what for?”
“To keep your appointment with Count Timascheff.”
“By Jove! I had forgotten all about it!” exclaimed Servadac. Then
looking at his watch, he cried, “What are you thinking of, Ben Zoof? It
is scarcely two o’clock.”
“Two in the morning, or two in the afternoon?” asked Ben Zoof, again
regarding the sun.
Servadac raised his watch to his ear. “It is going,” said he; “but, by
all the wines of Medoc, I am puzzled. Don’t you see the sun is in the
west? It must be near setting.”
“Setting, captain! Why, it is rising finely, like a conscript at the
sound of the reveille. It is considerably higher since we have been
talking.”
Incredible as it might appear, the fact was undeniable that the sun was
rising over the Shelif from that quarter of the horizon behind which
it usually sank for the latter portion of its daily round. They were
utterly bewildered. Some mysterious phenomenon must not only have
altered the position of the sun in the sidereal system, but must even
have brought about an important modification of the earth’s rotation on
her axis.
Captain Servadac consoled himself with the prospect of reading an
explanation of the mystery in next week’s newspapers, and turned his
attention to what was to him of more immediate importance. “Come, let
us be off,” said he to his orderly; “though heaven and earth be
topsy-turvy, I must be at my post this morning.”
“To do Count Timascheff the honor of running him through the body,”
added Ben Zoof.
If Servadac and his orderly had been less preoccupied, they would have
noticed that a variety of other physical changes besides the apparent
alteration in the movement of the sun had been evolved during the
atmospheric disturbances of that New Year’s night. As they descended
the steep footpath leading from the cliff towards the Shelif, they were
unconscious that their respiration became forced and rapid, like that of
a mountaineer when he has reached an altitude where the air has become
less charged with oxygen. They were also unconscious that their voices
were thin and feeble; either they must themselves have become rather
deaf, or it was evident that the air had become less capable of
transmitting sound.
The weather, which on the previous evening had been very foggy, had
entirely changed. The sky had assumed a singular tint, and was soon
covered with lowering clouds that completely hid the sun. There were,
indeed, all the signs of a coming storm, but the vapor, on account of
the insufficient condensation, failed to fall.
The sea appeared quite deserted, a most unusual circumstance along this
coast, and not a sail nor a trail of smoke broke the gray monotony
of water and sky. The limits of the horizon, too, had become much
circumscribed. On land, as well as on sea, the remote distance had
completely disappeared, and it seemed as though the globe had assumed a
more decided convexity.
At the pace at which they were walking, it was very evident that the
captain and his attendant would not take long to accomplish the three
miles that lay between the gourbi and the place of rendezvous. They
did not exchange a word, but each was conscious of an unusual buoyancy,
which appeared to lift up their bodies and give as it were, wings to
their feet. If Ben Zoof had expressed his sensations in words, he would
have said that he felt “up to anything,” and he had even forgotten to
taste so much as a crust of bread, a lapse of memory of which the worthy
soldier was rarely guilty.
As these thoughts were crossing his mind, a harsh bark was heard to the
left of the footpath, and a jackal was seen emerging from a large grove
of lentisks. Regarding the two wayfarers with manifest uneasiness, the
beast took up its position at the foot of a rock, more than thirty feet
in height. It belonged to an African species distinguished by a
black spotted skin, and a black line down the front of the legs. At
night-time, when they scour the country in herds, the creatures are
somewhat formidable, but singly they are no more dangerous than a dog.
Though by no means afraid of them, Ben Zoof had a particular aversion
to jackals, perhaps because they had no place among the fauna of his
beloved Montmartre. He accordingly began to make threatening gestures,
when, to the unmitigated astonishment of himself and the captain, the
animal darted forward, and in one single bound gained the summit of the
rock.
“Good Heavens!” cried Ben Zoof, “that leap must have been thirty feet at
least.”
“True enough,” replied the captain; “I never saw such a jump.”
Meantime the jackal had seated itself upon its haunches, and was staring
at the two men with an air of impudent defiance. This was too much for
Ben Zoof’s forbearance, and stooping down he caught up a huge stone,
when to his surprise, he found that it was no heavier than a piece of
petrified sponge. “Confound the brute!” he exclaimed, “I might as well
throw a piece of bread at him. What accounts for its being as light as
this?”
Nothing daunted, however, he hurled the stone into the air. It missed
its aim; but the jackal, deeming it on the whole prudent to decamp,
disappeared across the trees and hedges with a series of bounds, which
could only be likened to those that might be made by an india-rubber
kangaroo. Ben Zoof was sure that his own powers of propelling must equal
those of a howitzer, for his stone, after a lengthened flight through
the air, fell to the ground full five hundred paces the other side of
the rock.
The orderly was now some yards ahead of his master, and had reached
a ditch full of water, and about ten feet wide. With the intention of
clearing it, he made a spring, when a loud cry burst from Servadac. “Ben
Zoof, you idiot! What are you about? You will break your back!”
And well might he be alarmed, for Ben Zoof had sprung to a height of
forty feet into the air. Fearful of the consequences that would attend
the descent of his servant to -terra firma-, Servadac bounded forwards,
to be on the other side of the ditch in time to break his fall. But the
muscular effort that he made carried him in his turn to an altitude of
thirty feet; in his ascent he passed Ben Zoof, who had already commenced
his downward course; and then, obedient to the laws of gravitation, he
descended with increasing rapidity, and alighted upon the earth without
experiencing a shock greater than if he had merely made a bound of four
or five feet high.
Ben Zoof burst into a roar of laughter. “Bravo!” he said, “we should
make a good pair of clowns.”
But the captain was inclined to take a more serious view of the matter.
For a few seconds he stood lost in thought, then said solemnly, “Ben
Zoof, I must be dreaming. Pinch me hard; I must be either asleep or
mad.”
“It is very certain that something has happened to us,” said Ben Zoof.
“I have occasionally dreamed that I was a swallow flying over the
Montmartre, but I never experienced anything of this kind before; it
must be peculiar to the coast of Algeria.”
Servadac was stupefied; he felt instinctively that he was not dreaming,
and yet was powerless to solve the mystery. He was not, however, the man
to puzzle himself for long over any insoluble problem. “Come what may,”
he presently exclaimed, “we will make up our minds for the future to be
surprised at nothing.”
“Right, captain,” replied Ben Zoof; “and, first of all, let us settle
our little score with Count Timascheff.”
Beyond the ditch lay a small piece of meadow land, about an acre in
extent. A soft and delicious herbage carpeted the soil, whilst trees
formed a charming framework to the whole. No spot could have been chosen
more suitable for the meeting between the two adversaries.
Servadac cast a hasty glance round. No one was in sight. “We are the
first on the field,” he said.
“Not so sure of that, sir,” said Ben Zoof.
“What do you mean?” asked Servadac, looking at his watch, which he had
set as nearly as possible by the sun before leaving the gourbi; “it is
not nine o’clock yet.”
“Look up there, sir. I am much mistaken if that is not the sun;” and as
Ben Zoof spoke, he pointed directly overhead to where a faint white disc
was dimly visible through the haze of clouds.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Servadac. “How can the sun be in the zenith, in
the month of January, in lat. 39 degrees N.?”
“Can’t say, sir. I only know the sun is there; and at the rate he has
been traveling, I would lay my cap to a dish of couscous that in less
than three hours he will have set.”
Hector Servadac, mute and motionless, stood with folded arms. Presently
he roused himself, and began to look about again. “What means all this?”
he murmured. “Laws of gravity disturbed! Points of the compass reversed!
The length of day reduced one half! Surely this will indefinitely
postpone my meeting with the count. Something has happened; Ben Zoof and
I cannot both be mad!”
The orderly, meantime, surveyed his master with the greatest equanimity;
no phenomenon, however extraordinary, would have drawn from him a
single exclamation of surprise. “Do you see anyone, Ben Zoof?” asked the
captain, at last.
“No one, sir; the count has evidently been and gone.” “But supposing
that to be the case,” persisted the captain, “my seconds would have
waited, and not seeing me, would have come on towards the gourbi. I can
only conclude that they have been unable to get here; and as for Count
Timascheff--”
Without finishing his sentence. Captain Servadac, thinking it just
probable that the count, as on the previous evening, might come by
water, walked to the ridge of rock that overhung the shore, in order
to ascertain if the -Dobryna- were anywhere in sight. But the sea was
deserted, and for the first time the captain noticed that, although
the wind was calm, the waters were unusually agitated, and seethed and
foamed as though they were boiling. It was very certain that the yacht
would have found a difficulty in holding her own in such a swell.
Another thing that now struck Servadac was the extraordinary contraction
of the horizon. Under ordinary circumstances, his elevated position
would have allowed him a radius of vision at least five and twenty miles
in length; but the terrestrial sphere seemed, in the course of the last
few hours, to have become considerably reduced in volume, and he could
now see for a distance of only six miles in every direction.
Meantime, with the agility of a monkey, Ben Zoof had clambered to the
top of a eucalyptus, and from his lofty perch was surveying the
country to the south, as well as towards both Tenes and Mostaganem. On
descending, be informed the captain that the plain was deserted.
“We will make our way to the river, and get over into Mostaganem,” said
the captain.
The Shelif was not more than a mile and a half from the meadow, but
no time was to be lost if the two men were to reach the town before
nightfall. Though still hidden by heavy clouds, the sun was evidently
declining fast; and what was equally inexplicable, it was not following
the oblique curve that in these latitudes and at this time of year might
be expected, but was sinking perpendicularly on to the horizon.
As he went along, Captain Servadac pondered deeply. Perchance some
unheard-of phenomenon had modified the rotary motion of the globe; or
perhaps the Algerian coast had been transported beyond the equator
into the southern hemisphere. Yet the earth, with the exception of the
alteration in its convexity, in this part of Africa at least, seemed to
have undergone no change of any very great importance. As far as the eye
could reach, the shore was, as it had ever been, a succession of
cliffs, beach, and arid rocks, tinged with a red ferruginous hue. To
the south--if south, in this inverted order of things, it might still
be called--the face of the country also appeared unaltered, and some
leagues away, the peaks of the Merdeyah mountains still retained their
accustomed outline.
Presently a rift in the clouds gave passage to an oblique ray of light
that clearly proved that the sun was setting in the east.
“Well, I am curious to know what they think of all this at Mostaganem,”
said the captain. “I wonder, too, what the Minister of War will say when
he receives a telegram informing him that his African colony has become,
not morally, but physically disorganized; that the cardinal points
are at variance with ordinary rules, and that the sun in the month of
January is shining down vertically upon our heads.”
Ben Zoof, whose ideas of discipline were extremely rigid, at once
suggested that the colony should be put under the surveillance of the
police, that the cardinal points should be placed under restraint, and
that the sun should be shot for breach of discipline.
Meantime, they were both advancing with the utmost speed. The
decompression of the atmosphere made the specific gravity of their
bodies extraordinarily light, and they ran like hares and leaped like
chamois. Leaving the devious windings of the footpath, they went as
a crow would fly across the country. Hedges, trees, and streams were
cleared at a bound, and under these conditions Ben Zoof felt that he
could have overstepped Montmartre at a single stride. The earth seemed
as elastic as the springboard of an acrobat; they scarcely touched it
with their feet, and their only fear was lest the height to which they
were propelled would consume the time which they were saving by their
short cut across the fields.
It was not long before their wild career brought them to the right bank
of the Shelif. Here they were compelled to stop, for not only had the
bridge completely disappeared, but the river itself no longer existed.
Of the left bank there was not the slightest trace, and the right bank,
which on the previous evening had bounded the yellow stream, as it
murmured peacefully along the fertile plain, had now become the shore of
a tumultuous ocean, its azure waters extending westwards far as the eye
could reach, and annihilating the tract of country which had hitherto
formed the district of Mostaganem. The shore coincided exactly with what
had been the right bank of the Shelif, and in a slightly curved line
ran north and south, whilst the adjacent groves and meadows all retained
their previous positions. But the river-bank had become the shore of an
unknown sea.
Eager to throw some light upon the mystery, Servadac hurriedly made his
way through the oleander bushes that overhung the shore, took up some
water in the hollow of his hand, and carried it to his lips. “Salt
as brine!” he exclaimed, as soon as he had tasted it. “The sea has
undoubtedly swallowed up all the western part of Algeria.”
“It will not last long, sir,” said Ben Zoof. “It is, probably, only a
severe flood.”
The captain shook his head. “Worse than that, I fear, Ben Zoof,” he
replied with emotion. “It is a catastrophe that may have very
serious consequences. What can have become of all my friends and
fellow-officers?”
Ben Zoof was silent. Rarely had he seen his master so much agitated;
and though himself inclined to receive these phenomena with philosophic
indifference, his notions of military duty caused his countenance to
reflect the captain’s expression of amazement.
But there was little time for Servadac to examine the changes which a
few hours had wrought. The sun had already reached the eastern horizon,
and just as though it were crossing the ecliptic under the tropics,
it sank like a cannon ball into the sea. Without any warning, day gave
place to night, and earth, sea, and sky were immediately wrapped in
profound obscurity.
CHAPTER VI. THE CAPTAIN MAKES AN EXPLORATION
Hector Servadac was not the man to remain long unnerved by any untoward
event. It was part of his character to discover the why and the
wherefore of everything that came under his observation, and he would
have faced a cannon ball the more unflinchingly from understanding the
dynamic force by which it was propelled. Such being his temperament, it
may well be imagined that he was anxious not to remain long in ignorance
of the cause of the phenomena which had been so startling in their
consequences.
“We must inquire into this to-morrow,” he exclaimed, as darkness fell
suddenly upon him. Then, after a pause, he added: “That is to say, if
there is to be a to-morrow; for if I were to be put to the torture, I
could not tell what has become of the sun.”
“May I ask, sir, what we are to do now?” put in Ben Zoof.
“Stay where we are for the present; and when daylight appears--if it
ever does appear--we will explore the coast to the west and south, and
return to the gourbi. If we can find out nothing else, we must at least
discover where we are.”
“Meanwhile, sir, may we go to sleep?”
“Certainly, if you like, and if you can.”
Nothing loath to avail himself of his master’s permission, Ben Zoof
crouched down in an angle of the shore, threw his arms over his eyes,
and very soon slept the sleep of the ignorant, which is often sounder
than the sleep of the just. Overwhelmed by the questions that crowded
upon his brain, Captain Servadac could only wander up and down the
shore. Again and again he asked himself what the catastrophe could
portend. Had the towns of Algiers, Oran, and Mostaganem escaped the
inundation? Could he bring himself to believe that all the inhabitants,
his friends, and comrades had perished; or was it not more probable
that the Mediterranean had merely invaded the region of the mouth of
the Shelif? But this supposition did not in the least explain the other
physical disturbances. Another hypothesis that presented itself to his
mind was that the African coast might have been suddenly transported to
the equatorial zone. But although this might get over the difficulty
of the altered altitude of the sun and the absence of twilight, yet
it would neither account for the sun setting in the east, nor for the
length of the day being reduced to six hours.
“We must wait till to-morrow,” he repeated; adding, for he had become
distrustful of the future, “that is to say, if to-morrow ever comes.”
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