3. The direction of the axis major of the orbit, which was found by
calculating the longitude of the comet’s perihelion.
4. The perihelion distance from the sun, which settled the precise form
of the parabola.
5. The motion of the comet, as being retrograde, or, unlike the planets,
from east to west.
Rosette thus found himself able to calculate the date at which the comet
would reach its perihelion, and, overjoyed at his discovery, without
thinking of calling it Palmyra or Rosette, after his own name, he
resolved that it should be known as Gallia.
His next business was to draw up a formal report. Not only did he at
once recognize that a collision with the earth was possible, but he soon
foresaw that it was inevitable, and that it must happen on the night of
the 31st of December; moreover, as the bodies were moving in opposite
directions, the shock could hardly fail to be violent.
To say that he was elated at the prospect was far below the truth; his
delight amounted almost to delirium. Anyone else would have hurried from
the solitude of Formentera in sheer fright; but, without communicating
a word of his startling discovery, he remained resolutely at his post.
From occasional newspapers which he had received, he had learnt that
fogs, dense as ever, continued to envelop both hemispheres, so that
he was assured that the existence of the comet was utterly unknown
elsewhere; and the ignorance of the world as to the peril that
threatened it averted the panic that would have followed the publication
of the facts, and left the philosopher of Formentera in sole possession
of the great secret. He clung to his post with the greater persistency,
because his calculations had led him to the conclusion that the comet
would strike the earth somewhere to the south of Algeria, and as it had
a solid nucleus, he felt sure that, as he expressed it, the effect would
be “unique,” and he was anxious to be in the vicinity.
The shock came, and with it the results already recorded. Palmyrin
Rosette was suddenly separated from his servant Joseph, and when, after
a long period of unconsciousness, he came to himself, he found that
he was the solitary occupant of the only fragment that survived of the
Balearic Archipelago.
Such was the substance of the narrative which the professor gave
with sundry repetitions and digressions; while he was giving it, he
frequently paused and frowned as if irritated in a way that seemed by
no means justified by the patient and good-humored demeanor of his
audience.
“But now, gentlemen,” added the professor, “I must tell you something
more. Important changes have resulted from the collision; the cardinal
points have been displaced; gravity has been diminished: not that I ever
supposed for a minute, as you did, that I was still upon the earth. No!
the earth, attended by her moon, continued to rotate along her proper
orbit. But we, gentlemen, have nothing to complain of; our destiny might
have been far worse; we might all have been crushed to death, or the
comet might have remained in adhesion to the earth; and in neither of
these cases should we have had the satisfaction of making this marvelous
excursion through untraversed solar regions. No, gentlemen, I repeat it,
we have nothing to regret.”
And as the professor spoke, he seemed to kindle with the emotion of such
supreme contentment that no one had the heart to gainsay his assertion.
Ben Zoof alone ventured an unlucky remark to the effect that if the
comet had happened to strike against Montmartre, instead of a bit of
Africa, it would have met with some resistance.
“Pshaw!” said Rosette, disdainfully. “A mole-hill like Montmartre would
have been ground to powder in a moment.”
“Mole-hill!” exclaimed Ben Zoof, stung to the quick. “I can tell you it
would have caught up your bit of a comet and worn it like a feather in a
cap.”
The professor looked angry, and Servadac having imposed silence upon
his orderly, explained the worthy soldier’s sensitiveness on all that
concerned Montmartre. Always obedient to his master, Ben Zoof held his
tongue; but he felt that he could never forgive the slight that had been
cast upon his beloved home.
It was now all-important to learn whether the astronomer had been able
to continue his observations, and whether he had learned sufficient of
Gallia’s path through space to make him competent to determine, at least
approximately, the period of its revolution round the sun. With as much
tact and caution as he could, Lieutenant Procope endeavored to intimate
the general desire for some information on this point.
“Before the shock, sir,” answered the professor, “I had conclusively
demonstrated the path of the comet; but, in consequence of the
modifications which that shock has entailed upon my comet’s orbit, I
have been compelled entirely to recommence my calculations.”
The lieutenant looked disappointed.
“Although the orbit of the earth was unaltered,” continued the
professor, “the result of the collision was the projection of the comet
into a new orbit altogether.”
“And may I ask,” said Procope, deferentially, “whether you have got the
elements of the fresh orbit?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you know--”
“I know this, sir, that at 47 minutes 35.6 seconds after two o’clock on
the morning of the 1st of January last, Gallia, in passing its ascending
node, came in contact with the earth; that on the 10th of January it
crossed the orbit of Venus; that it reached its perihelion on the 15th;
that it re-crossed the orbit of Venus; that on the 1st of February
it passed its descending node; on the 13th crossed the orbit of Mars;
entered the zone of the telescopic planets on the 10th of March, and,
attracting Nerina, carried it off as a satellite.”
Servadac interposed:
“We are already acquainted with well-nigh all these extraordinary facts;
many of them, moreover, we have learned from documents which we have
picked up, and which, although unsigned, we cannot entertain a doubt
have originated with you.”
Professor Rosette drew himself up proudly and said: “Of course, they
originated with me. I sent them off by hundreds. From whom else could
they come?”
“From no one but yourself, certainly,” rejoined the count, with grave
politeness.
Hitherto the conversation had thrown no light upon the future movements
of Gallia, and Rosette was disposed apparently to evade, or at least to
postpone, the subject. When, therefore, Lieutenant Procope was about to
press his inquiries in a more categorical form, Servadac, thinking
it advisable not prematurely to press the little -savant- too far,
interrupted him by asking the professor how he accounted for the earth
having suffered so little from such a formidable concussion.
“I account for it in this way,” answered Rosette: “the earth was
traveling at the rate of 28,000 leagues an hour, and Gallia at the rate
of 57,000 leagues an hour, therefore the result was the same as though
a train rushing along at a speed of about 86,000 leagues an hour had
suddenly encountered some obstacle. The nucleus of the comet, being
excessively hard, has done exactly what a ball would do fired with that
velocity close to a pane of glass. It has crossed the earth without
cracking it.”
“It is possible you may be right,” said Servadac, thoughtfully.
“Right! of course I am right!” replied the snappish professor. Soon,
however, recovering his equanimity, he continued: “It is fortunate
that the earth was only touched obliquely; if the comet had impinged
perpendicularly, it must have plowed its way deep below the surface, and
the disasters it might have caused are beyond reckoning. Perhaps,”
he added, with a smile, “even Montmartre might not have survived the
calamity.”
“Sir!” shouted Ben Zoof, quite unable to bear the unprovoked attack.
“Quiet, Ben Zoof!” said Servadac sternly.
Fortunately for the sake of peace, Isaac Hakkabut, who at length was
beginning to realize something of the true condition of things, came
forward at this moment, and in a voice trembling with eagerness,
implored the professor to tell him when they would all be back again
upon the earth.
“Are you in a great hurry?” asked the professor coolly.
The Jew was about to speak again, when Captain Servadac interposed:
“Allow me to say that, in somewhat more scientific terms, I was about to
ask you the same question. Did I not understand you to say that, as the
consequence of the collision, the character of the comet’s orbit has
been changed?”
“You did, sir.”
“Did you imply that the orbit has ceased to be a parabola?”
“Just so.”
“Is it then an hyperbola? and are we to be carried on far and away into
remote distance, and never, never to return?”
“I did not say an hyperbola.”
“And is it not?”
“It is not.”
“Then it must be an ellipse?”
“Yes.”
“And does its plane coincide with the plane of the earth?”
“Yes.”
“Then it must be a periodic comet?”
“It is.”
Servadac involuntarily raised a ringing shout of joy that echoed again
along the gallery.
“Yes,” continued the professor, “Gallia is a periodic comet, and
allowing for the perturbations to which it is liable from the attraction
of Mars and Jupiter and Saturn, it will return to the earth again in two
years precisely.”
“You mean that in two years after the first shock, Gallia will meet the
earth at the same point as they met before?” said Lieutenant Procope.
“I am afraid so,” said Rosette.
“Why afraid?”
“Because we are doing exceedingly well as we are.” The professor stamped
his foot upon the ground, by way of emphasis, and added, “If I had my
will, Gallia should never return to the earth again!”
CHAPTER IV. A REVISED CALENDAR
All previous hypotheses, then, were now forgotten in the presence of the
one great fact that Gallia was a comet and gravitating through remote
solar regions. Captain Servadac became aware that the huge disc that
had been looming through the clouds after the shock was the form of the
retreating earth, to the proximity of which the one high tide they had
experienced was also to be attributed.
As to the fulfillment of the professor’s prediction of an ultimate
return to the terrestrial sphere, that was a point on which it must
be owned that the captain, after the first flush of his excitement was
over, was not without many misgivings.
The next day or two were spent in providing for the accommodation of the
new comer. Fortunately his desires were very moderate; he seemed to live
among the stars, and as long as he was well provided with coffee, he
cared little for luxuries, and paid little or no regard to the ingenuity
with which all the internal arrangements of Nina’s Hive had been
devised. Anxious to show all proper respect to his former tutor,
Servadac proposed to leave the most comfortable apartment of the place
at his disposal; but the professor resolutely declined to occupy it,
saying that what he required was a small chamber, no matter how small,
provided that it was elevated and secluded, which he could use as
an observatory and where he might prosecute his studies without
disturbance. A general search was instituted, and before long they were
lucky enough to find, about a hundred feet above the central grotto, a
small recess or reduct hollowed, as it were, in the mountain side, which
would exactly answer their purpose. It contained room enough for a bed,
a table, an arm-chair, a chest of drawers, and, what was of still more
consequence, for the indispensable telescope. One small stream of
lava, an off-shoot of the great torrent, sufficed to warm the apartment
enough.
In these retired quarters the astronomer took up his abode. It was on
all hands acknowledged to be advisable to let him go on entirely in his
own way. His meals were taken to him at stated intervals; he slept but
little; carried on his calculations by day, his observations by night,
and very rarely made his appearance amongst the rest of the little
community.
The cold now became very intense, the thermometer registering 30 degrees
F. below zero. The mercury, however, never exhibited any of those
fluctuations that are ever and again to be observed in variable
climates, but continued slowly and steadily to fall, and in all
probability would continue to do so until it reached the normal
temperature of the regions of outlying space.
This steady sinking of the mercury was accompanied by a complete
stillness of the atmosphere; the very air seemed to be congealed; no
particle of it stirred; from zenith to horizon there was never a cloud;
neither were there any of the damp mists or dry fogs which so often
extend over the polar regions of the earth; the sky was always clear;
the sun shone by day and the stars by night without causing any
perceptible difference in the temperature.
These peculiar conditions rendered the cold endurable even in the open
air. The cause of so many of the diseases that prove fatal to Arctic
explorers resides in the cutting winds, unwholesome fogs, or terrible
snow drifts, which, by drying up, relaxing, or otherwise affecting the
lungs, make them incapable of fulfilling their proper functions. But
during periods of calm weather, when the air has been absolutely still,
many polar navigators, well-clothed and properly fed, have been known
to withstand a temperature when the thermometer has fallen to 60 degrees
below zero. It was the experience of Parry upon Melville Island, of
Kane beyond latitude 81 degrees north, and of Hall and the crew of the
-Polaris-, that, however intense the cold, in the absence of the wind
they could always brave its rigor.
Notwithstanding, then, the extreme lowness of the temperature, the
little population found that they were able to move about in the open
air with perfect immunity. The governor general made it his special care
to see that his people were all well fed and warmly clad. Food was
both wholesome and abundant, and besides the furs brought from the
-Dobryna’s- stores, fresh skins could very easily be procured and
made up into wearing apparel. A daily course of out-door exercise was
enforced upon everyone; not even Pablo and Nina were exempted from the
general rule; the two children, muffled up in furs, looking like little
Esquimeaux, skated along together, Pablo ever at his companion’s
side, ready to give her a helping hand whenever she was weary with her
exertions.
After his interview with the newly arrived astronomer, Isaac Hakkabut
slunk back again to his tartan. A change had come over his ideas; he
could no longer resist the conviction that he was indeed millions and
millions of miles away from the earth, where he had carried on so varied
and remunerative a traffic. It might be imagined that this realization
of his true position would have led him to a better mind, and that,
in some degree at least, he would have been induced to regard the few
fellow-creatures with whom his lot had been so strangely cast, otherwise
than as mere instruments to be turned to his own personal and pecuniary
advantage; but no--the desire of gain was too thoroughly ingrained into
his hard nature ever to be eradicated, and secure in his knowledge that
he was under the protection of a French officer, who, except under the
most urgent necessity, would not permit him to be molested in retaining
his property, he determined to wait for some emergency to arise which
should enable him to use his present situation for his own profit.
On the one hand, the Jew took it into account that although the chances
of returning to the earth might be remote, yet from what he had heard
from the professor he could not believe that they were improbable; on
the other, he knew that a considerable sum of money, in English and
Russian coinage, was in the possession of various members of the little
colony, and this, although valueless now, would be worth as much as ever
if the proper condition of things should be restored; accordingly, he
set his heart on getting all the monetary wealth of Gallia into his
possession, and to do this he must sell his goods. But he would not
sell them yet; there might come a time when for many articles the supply
would not be equal to the demand; that would be the time for him;
by waiting he reckoned he should be able to transact some lucrative
business.
Such in his solitude were old Isaac’s cogitations, whilst the universal
population of Nina’s Hive were congratulating themselves upon being rid
of his odious presence.
As already stated in the message brought by the carrier pigeon, the
distance traveled by Gallia in April was 39,000,000 leagues, and at the
end of the month she was 110,000,000 leagues from the sun. A diagram
representing the elliptical orbit of the planet, accompanied by
an ephemeris made out in minute detail, had been drawn out by the
professor. The curve was divided into twenty-four sections of unequal
length, representing respectively the distance described in the
twenty-four months of the Gallian year, the twelve former divisions,
according to Kepler’s law, gradually diminishing in length as they
approached the point denoting the aphelion and increasing as they neared
the perihelion.
It was on the 12th of May that Rosette exhibited this result of his
labors to Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant, who visited his
apartment and naturally examined the drawing with the keenest interest.
Gallia’s path, extending beyond the orbit of Jupiter, lay clearly
defined before their eyes, the progress along the orbit and the solar
distances being inserted for each month separately. Nothing could look
plainer, and if the professor’s calculations were correct (a point upon
which they dared not, if they would, express the semblance of a doubt),
Gallia would accomplish her revolution in precisely two years, and would
meet the earth, which would in the same period of time have completed
two annual revolutions, in the very same spot as before. What would be
the consequences of a second collision they scarcely ventured to think.
Without lifting his eye from the diagram, which he was still carefully
scrutinizing, Servadac said, “I see that during the month of May, Gallia
will only travel 30,400,000 leagues, and that this will leave her about
140,000,000 leagues distant from the sun.”
“Just so,” replied the professor.
“Then we have already passed the zone of the telescopic planets, have we
not?” asked the count.
“Can you not use your eyes?” said the professor, testily. “If you will
look you will see the zone marked clearly enough upon the map.”
Without noticing the interruption, Servadac continued his own remarks,
“The comet then, I see, is to reach its aphelion on the 15th of January,
exactly a twelvemonth after passing its perihelion.”
“A twelvemonth! Not a Gallian twelvemonth?” exclaimed Rosette.
Servadac looked bewildered. Lieutenant Procope could not suppress a
smile.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded the professor, turning round upon
him angrily.
“Nothing, sir; only it amuses me to see how you want to revise the
terrestrial calendar.”
“I want to be logical, that’s all.”
“By all manner of means, my dear professor, let us be logical.”
“Well, then, listen to me,” resumed the professor, stiffly. “I presume
you are taking it for granted that the Gallian year--by which I mean
the time in which Gallia makes one revolution round the sun--is equal in
length to two terrestrial years.”
They signified their assent.
“And that year, like every other year, ought to be divided into twelve
months.”
“Yes, certainly, if you wish it,” said the captain, acquiescing.
“If I wish it!” exclaimed Rosette. “Nothing of the sort! Of course a
year must have twelve months!”
“Of course,” said the captain.
“And how many days will make a month?” asked the professor.
“I suppose sixty or sixty-two, as the case may be. The days now are only
half as long as they used to be,” answered the captain.
“Servadac, don’t be thoughtless!” cried Rosette, with all the petulant
impatience of the old pedagogue. “If the days are only half as long
as they were, sixty of them cannot make up a twelfth part of Gallia’s
year--cannot be a month.”
“I suppose not,” replied the confused captain.
“Do you not see, then,” continued the astronomer, “that if a Gallian
month is twice as long as a terrestrial month, and a Gallian day is only
half as long as a terrestrial day, there must be a hundred and twenty
days in every month?”
“No doubt you are right, professor,” said Count Timascheff; “but do you
not think that the use of a new calendar such as this would practically
be very troublesome?”
“Not at all! not at all! I do not intend to use any other,” was the
professor’s bluff reply.
After pondering for a few moments, the captain spoke again. “According,
then, to this new calendar, it isn’t the middle of May at all; it must
now be some time in March.”
“Yes,” said the professor, “to-day is the 26th of March. It is the
266th day of the Gallian year. It corresponds with the 133d day of the
terrestrial year. You are quite correct, it is the 26th of March.”
“Strange!” muttered Servadac.
“And a month, a terrestrial month, thirty old days, sixty new days
hence, it will be the 86th of March.”
“Ha, ha!” roared the captain; “this is logic with a vengeance!”
The old professor had an undefined consciousness that his former pupil
was laughing at him; and as it was growing late, he made an excuse
that he had no more leisure. The visitors accordingly quitted the
observatory.
It must be owned that the revised calendar was left to the professor’s
sole use, and the colony was fairly puzzled whenever he referred to such
unheard-of dates as the 47th of April or the 118th of May.
According to the old calendar, June had now arrived; [illustration
omitted] [page intentionally blank] and by the professor’s tables Gallia
during the month would have advanced 27,500,000 leagues farther along
its orbit, and would have attained a distance of 155,000,000 leagues
from the sun. The thermometer continued to fall; the atmosphere remained
clear as heretofore. The population performed their daily avocations
with systematic routine; and almost the only thing that broke the
monotony of existence was an occasional visit from the blustering,
nervous, little professor, when some sudden fancy induced him to throw
aside his astronomical studies for a time, and pay a visit to the common
hall. His arrival there was generally hailed as the precursor of a
little season of excitement. Somehow or other the conversation would
eventually work its way round to the topic of a future collision between
the comet and the earth; and in the same degree as this was a matter
of sanguine anticipation to Captain Servadac and his friends, it was a
matter of aversion to the astronomical enthusiast, who had no desire to
quit his present quarters in a sphere which, being of his own discovery,
he could hardly have cared for more if it had been of his own creation.
The interview would often terminate in a scene of considerable
animation.
On the 27th of June (old calendar) the professor burst like a
cannon-ball into the central hall, where they were all assembled, and
without a word of salutation or of preface, accosted the lieutenant in
the way in which in earlier days he had been accustomed to speak to an
idle school-boy, “Now, lieutenant! no evasions! no shufflings! Tell me,
have you or have you not circumnavigated Gallia?”
The lieutenant drew himself up stiffly. “Evasions! shufflings! I am not
accustomed, sir--” he began in a tone evidencing no little resentment;
but catching a hint from the count he subdued his voice, and simply
said, “We have.”
“And may I ask,” continued the professor, quite unaware of his previous
discourtesy, “whether, when you made your voyage, you took any account
of distances?”
“As approximately as I could,” replied the lieutenant; “I did what I
could by log and compass. I was unable to take the altitude of sun or
star.”
“At what result did you arrive? What is the measurement of our equator?”
“I estimate the total circumference of the equator to be about 1,400
miles.”
“Ah!” said the professor, more than half speaking to himself, “a
circumference of 1,400 miles would give a diameter of about 450 miles.
That would be approximately about one-sixteenth of the diameter of the
earth.”
Raising his voice, he continued, “Gentlemen, in order to complete my
account of my comet Gallia, I require to know its area, its mass, its
volume, its density, its specific gravity.”
“Since we know the diameter,” remarked the lieutenant, “there can be no
difficulty in finding its surface and its volume.”
“And did I say there was any difficulty?” asked the professor, fiercely.
“I have been able to reckon that ever since I was born.”
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” cried Ben Zoof, delighted at any opportunity of
paying off his old grudge.
The professor looked at him, but did not vouchsafe a word. Addressing
the captain, he said, “Now, Servadac, take your paper and a pen, and
find me the surface of Gallia.”
With more submission than when he was a school-boy, the captain sat down
and endeavored to recall the proper formula.
“The surface of a sphere? Multiply circumference by diameter.”
“Right!” cried Rosette; “but it ought to be done by this time.”
“Circumference, 1,400; diameter, 450; area of surface, 630,000,” read
the captain.
“True,” replied Rosette, “630,000 square miles; just 292 times less than
that of the earth.”
“Pretty little comet! nice little comet!” muttered Ben Zoof.
The astronomer bit his lip, snorted, and cast at him a withering look,
but did not take any further notice.
“Now, Captain Servadac,” said the professor, “take your pen again, and
find me the volume of Gallia.”
The captain hesitated.
“Quick, quick!” cried the professor, impatiently; “surely you have not
forgotten how to find the volume of a sphere!”
“A moment’s breathing time, please.”
“Breathing time, indeed! A mathematician should not want breathing
time! Come, multiply the surface by the third of the radius. Don’t you
recollect?”
Captain Servadac applied himself to his task while the by-standers
waited, with some difficulty suppressing their inclination to laugh.
There was a short silence, at the end of which Servadac announced that
the volume of the comet was 47,880,000 cubic miles.
“Just about 5,000 times less than the earth,” observed the lieutenant.
“Nice little comet! pretty little comet!” said Ben Zoof.
The professor scowled at him, and was manifestly annoyed at having the
insignificant dimensions of his comet pointed out in so disparaging
a manner. Lieutenant Procope further remarked that from the earth
he supposed it to be about as conspicuous as a star of the seventh
magnitude, and would require a good telescope to see it.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the orderly, aloud; “charming little comet! so pretty;
and so modest!”
“You rascal!” roared the professor, and clenched his hand in passion, as
if about to strike him. Ben Zoof laughed the more, and was on the point
of repeating his satirical comments, when a stern order from the captain
made him hold his tongue. The truth was that the professor was just as
sensitive about his comet as the orderly was about Montmartre, and if
the contention between the two had been allowed to go on unchecked, it
is impossible to say what serious quarrel might not have arisen.
When Professor Rosette’s equanimity had been restored, he said, “Thus,
then, gentlemen, the diameter, the surface, the volume of my comet are
settled; but there is more to be done. I shall not be satisfied until,
by actual measurement, I have determined its mass, its density, and the
force of gravity at its surface.”
“A laborious problem,” remarked Count Timascheff.
“Laborious or not, it has to be accomplished. I am resolved to find out
what my comet weighs.”
“Would it not be of some assistance, if we knew of what substance it is
composed?” asked the lieutenant.
“That is of no moment at all,” replied the professor; “the problem is
independent of it.”
“Then we await your orders,” was the captain’s reply.
“You must understand, however,” said Rosette, “that there are various
preliminary calculations to be made; you will have to wait till they are
finished.”
“As long as you please,” said the count.
“No hurry at all,” observed the captain, who was not in the least
impatient to continue his mathematical exercises.
“Then, gentlemen,” said the astronomer, “with your leave we will for
this purpose make an appointment a few weeks hence. What do you say to
the 62d of April?”
Without noticing the general smile which the novel date provoked, the
astronomer left the hall, and retired to his observatory.
CHAPTER V. WANTED: A STEELYARD
Under the still diminishing influence of the sun’s attraction, but
without let or hindrance, Gallia continued its interplanetary course,
accompanied by Nerina, its captured satellite, which performed its
fortnightly revolutions with unvarying regularity.
Meanwhile, the question beyond all others important was ever recurring
to the minds of Servadac and his two companions: were the astronomer’s
calculations correct, and was there a sound foundation for his
prediction that the comet would again touch the earth? But whatever
might be their doubts or anxieties, they were fain to keep all their
misgivings to themselves; the professor was of a temper far too
cross-grained for them to venture to ask him to revise or re-examine the
results of his observations.
The rest of the community by no means shared in their uneasiness.
Negrete and his fellow-countrymen yielded to their destiny with
philosophical indifference. Happier and better provided for than they
had ever been in their lives, it did not give them a passing thought,
far less cause any serious concern, whether they were still circling
round the sun, or whether they were being carried right away within the
limits of another system. Utterly careless of the future, the majos,
light-hearted as ever, carolled out their favorite songs, just as if
they had never quitted the shores of their native land.
Happiest of all were Pablo and Nina. Racing through the galleries of the
Hive, clambering over the rocks upon the shore, one day skating far
away across the frozen ocean, the next fishing in the lake that was kept
liquid by the heat of the lava-torrent, the two children led a life of
perpetual enjoyment. Nor was their recreation allowed to interfere with
their studies. Captain Servadac, who in common with the count really
liked them both, conceived that the responsibilities of a parent in
some degree had devolved upon him, and took great care in superintending
their daily lessons, which he succeeded in making hardly less pleasant
than their sports.
Indulged and loved by all, it was little wonder that young Pablo had no
longing for the scorching plains of Andalusia, or that little Nina
had lost all wish to return with her pet goat to the barren rocks of
Sardinia. They had now a home in which they had nothing to desire.
“Have you no father nor mother?” asked Pablo, one day.
“No,” she answered.
“No more have I,” said the boy, “I used to run along by the side of the
diligences when I was in Spain.”
“I used to look after goats at Madalena,” said Nina; “but it is much
nicer here--I am so happy here. I have you for a brother, and everybody
is so kind. I am afraid they will spoil us, Pablo,” she added, smiling.
“Oh, no, Nina; you are too good to be spoiled, and when I am with you,
you make me good too,” said Pablo, gravely.
July had now arrived. During the month Gallia’s advance along its orbit
would be reduced to 22,000,000 leagues, the distance from the sun at the
end being 172,000,000 leagues, about four and a half times as great as
the average distance of the earth from the sun. It was traveling now
at about the same speed as the earth, which traverses the ecliptic at a
rate of 21,000,000 leagues a month, or 28,800 leagues an hour.
In due time the 62d April, according to the revised Gallian calendar,
dawned; and in punctual fulfillment of the professor’s appointment, a
note was delivered to Servadac to say that he was ready, and hoped that
day to commence operations for calculating the mass and density of his
comet, as well as the force of gravity at its surface.
A point of far greater interest to Captain Servadac and his friends
would have been to ascertain the nature of the substance of which the
comet was composed, but they felt pledged to render the professor
any aid they could in the researches upon which he had set his heart.
Without delay, therefore, they assembled in the central hall, where they
were soon joined by Rosette, who seemed to be in fairly good temper.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “I propose to-day to endeavor to complete our
observations of the elements of my comet. Three matters of investigation
are before us. First, the measure of gravity at its surface; this
attractive force we know, by the increase of our own muscular force,
must of course be considerably less than that at the surface of the
earth. Secondly, its mass, that is, the quality of its matter. And
thirdly, its density or quantity of matter in a unit of its volume. We
will proceed, gentlemen, if you please, to weigh Gallia.”
Ben Zoof, who had just entered the hall, caught the professor’s last
sentence, and without saying a word, went out again and was absent for
some minutes. When he returned, he said, “If you want to weigh this
comet of yours, I suppose you want a pair of scales; but I have been
to look, and I cannot find a pair anywhere. And what’s more,” he added
mischievously, “you won’t get them anywhere.”
A frown came over the professor’s countenance. Servadac saw it, and gave
his orderly a sign that he should desist entirely from his bantering.
“I require, gentlemen,” resumed Rosette, “first of all to know by how
much the weight of a kilogramme here differs from its weight upon the
earth; the attraction, as we have said, being less, the weight will
proportionately be less also.”
“Then an ordinary pair of scales, being under the influence of
attraction, I suppose, would not answer your purpose,” submitted the
lieutenant.
“And the very kilogramme weight you used would have become lighter,” put
in the count, deferentially.
“Pray, gentlemen, do not interrupt me,” said the professor,
authoritatively, as if -ex cathedra-. “I need no instruction on these
points.”
Procope and Timascheff demurely bowed their heads.
The professor resumed. “Upon a steelyard, or spring-balance, dependent
upon mere tension or flexibility, the attraction will have no influence.
If I suspend a weight equivalent to the weight of a kilogramme, the
index will register the proper weight on the surface of Gallia. Thus
I shall arrive at the difference I want: the difference between the
earth’s attraction and the comet’s. Will you, therefore, have
the goodness to provide me at once with a steelyard and a tested
kilogramme?”
The audience looked at one another, and then at Ben Zoof, who was
thoroughly acquainted with all their resources. “We have neither one nor
the other,” said the orderly.
The professor stamped with vexation.
“I believe old Hakkabut has a steelyard on board his tartan,” said Ben
Zoof, presently.
“Then why didn’t you say so before, you idiot?” roared the excitable
little man.
Anxious to pacify him, Servadac assured him that every exertion should
be made to procure the instrument, and directed Ben Zoof to go to the
Jew and borrow it.
“No, stop a moment,” he said, as Ben Zoof was moving away on his,
errand; “perhaps I had better go with you myself; the old Jew may make a
difficulty about lending us any of his property.”
“Why should we not all go?” asked the count; “we should see what kind of
a life the misanthrope leads on board the -Hansa-.”
The proposal met with general approbation. Before they started,
Professor Rosette requested that one of the men might be ordered to cut
him a cubic decimeter out of the solid substance of Gallia. “My engineer
is the man for that,” said the count; “he will do it well for you if you
will give him the precise measurement.”
“What! you don’t mean,” exclaimed the professor, again going off into a
passion, “that you haven’t a proper measure of length?”
Ben Zoof was sent off to ransack the stores for the article in question,
but no measure was forthcoming. “Most likely we shall find one on the
tartan,” said the orderly.
“Then let us lose no time in trying,” answered the professor, as he
hustled with hasty strides into the gallery.
The rest of the party followed, and were soon in the open air upon the
rocks that overhung the shore. They descended to the level of the frozen
water and made their way towards the little creek where the -Dobryna-
and the -Hansa- lay firmly imprisoned in their icy bonds.
The temperature was low beyond previous experience; but well muffled up
in fur, they all endured it without much actual suffering. Their breath
issued in vapor, which was at once congealed into little crystals upon
their whiskers, beards, eyebrows, and eyelashes, until their faces,
covered with countless snow-white prickles, were truly ludicrous. The
little professor, most comical of all, resembled nothing so much as the
cub of an Arctic bear.
It was eight o’clock in the morning. The sun was rapidly approaching the
zenith; but its disc, from the extreme remoteness, was proportionately
dwarfed; its beams being all but destitute of their proper warmth and
radiance. The volcano to its very summit and the surrounding rocks were
still covered with the unsullied mantle of snow that had fallen while
the atmosphere was still to some extent charged with vapor; but on the
north side the snow had given place to the cascade of fiery lava, which,
making its way down the sloping rocks as far as the vaulted opening of
the central cavern, fell thence perpendicularly into the sea. Above
the cavern, 130 feet up the mountain, was a dark hole, above which
the stream of lava made a bifurcation in its course. From this hole
projected the case of an astronomer’s telescope; it was the opening of
Palmyrin Rosette’s observatory.
Sea and land seemed blended into one dreary whiteness, to which the pale
blue sky offered scarcely any contrast. The shore was indented with the
marks of many footsteps left by the colonists either on their way to
collect ice for drinking purposes, or as the result of their skating
expeditions; the edges of the skates had cut out a labyrinth of curves
complicated as the figures traced by aquatic insects upon the surface of
a pool.
Across the quarter of a mile of level ground that lay between the
mountain and the creek, a series of footprints, frozen hard into the
snow, marked the course taken by Isaac Hakkabut on his last return from
Nina’s Hive.
On approaching the creek, Lieutenant Procope drew his companions’
attention to the elevation of the -Dobryna’s- and -Hansa’s- waterline,
both vessels being now some fifteen feet above the level of the sea.
“What a strange phenomenon!” exclaimed the captain.
“It makes me very uneasy,” rejoined the lieutenant; “in shallow places
like this, as the crust of ice thickens, it forces everything upwards
with irresistible force.”
“But surely this process of congelation must have a limit!” said the
count.
“But who can say what that limit will be? Remember that we have not yet
reached our maximum of cold,” replied Procope.
“Indeed, I hope not!” exclaimed the professor; “where would be the use
of our traveling 200,000,000 leagues from the sun, if we are only to
experience the same temperature as we should find at the poles of the
earth?”
“Fortunately for us, however, professor,” said the lieutenant, with a
smile, “the temperature of the remotest space never descends beyond 70
degrees below zero.”
“And as long as there is no wind,” added Servadac, “we may pass
comfortably through the winter, without a single attack of catarrh.”
Lieutenant Procope proceeded to impart to the count his anxiety
about the situation of his yacht. He pointed out that by the constant
superposition of new deposits of ice, the vessel would be elevated to
a great height, and consequently in the event of a thaw, it must
be exposed to a calamity similar to those which in polar seas cause
destruction to so many whalers.
There was no time now for concerting measures offhand to prevent the
disaster, for the other members of the party had already reached the
spot where the -Hansa- lay bound in her icy trammels. A flight of steps,
recently hewn by Hakkabut himself, gave access for the present to the
gangway, but it was evident that some different contrivance would
have to be resorted to when the tartan should be elevated perhaps to a
hundred feet.
A thin curl of blue smoke issued from the copper funnel that projected
above the mass of snow which had accumulated upon the deck of the
-Hansa-. The owner was sparing of his fuel, and it was only the
non-conducting layer of ice enveloping the tartan that rendered the
internal temperature endurable.
“Hi! old Nebuchadnezzar, where are you?” shouted Ben Zoof, at the full
strength of his lungs.
At the sound of his voice, the cabin door opened, and the Jew’s head and
shoulders protruded onto the deck.
CHAPTER VI. MONEY AT A PREMIUM
“Who’s there? I have nothing here for anyone. Go away!” Such was the
inhospitable greeting with which Isaac Hakkabut received his visitors.
“Hakkabut! do you take us for thieves?” asked Servadac, in tones of
stern displeasure.
“Oh, your Excellency, my lord, I did not know that it was you,” whined
the Jew, but without emerging any farther from his cabin.
“Now, old Hakkabut, come out of your shell! Come and show the governor
proper respect, when he gives you the honor of his company,” cried Ben
Zoof, who by this time had clambered onto the deck.
After considerable hesitation, but still keeping his hold upon the
cabin-door, the Jew made up his mind to step outside. “What do you
want?” he inquired, timorously.
“I want a word with you,” said Servadac, “but I do not want to stand
talking out here in the cold.”
Followed by the rest of the party, he proceeded to mount the steps. The
Jew trembled from head to foot. “But I cannot let you into my cabin. I
am a poor man; I have nothing to give you,” he moaned piteously.
“Here he is!” laughed Ben Zoof, contemptuously; “he is beginning his
chapter of lamentations over again. But standing out here will never do.
Out of the way, old Hakkabut, I say! out of the way!” and, without more
ado, he thrust the astonished Jew on one side and opened the door of the
cabin.
Servadac, however, declined to enter until he had taken the pains to
explain to the owner of the tartan that he had no intention of laying
violent hands upon his property, and that if the time should ever come
that his cargo was in requisition for the common use, he should receive
a proper price for his goods, the same as he would in Europe.
“Europe, indeed!” muttered the Jew maliciously between his teeth.
“European prices will not do for me. I must have Gallian prices--and of
my own fixing, too!”
So large a portion of the vessel had been appropriated to the cargo that
the space reserved for the cabin was of most meager dimensions. In one
corner of the compartment stood a small iron stove, in which smoldered a
bare handful of coals; in another was a trestle-board which served as a
bed; two or three stools and a rickety deal table, together with a few
cooking utensils, completed a stock of furniture which was worthy of its
proprietor.
On entering the cabin, Ben Zoof’s first proceeding was to throw on the
fire a liberal supply of coals, utterly regardless of the groans of poor
Isaac, who would almost as soon have parted with his own bones as submit
to such reckless expenditure of his fuel. The perishing temperature
of the cabin, however, was sufficient justification for the orderly’s
conduct, and by a little skillful manipulation he soon succeeded in
getting up a tolerable fire.
The visitors having taken what seats they could, Hakkabut closed the
door, and, like a prisoner awaiting his sentence, stood with folded
hands, expecting the captain to speak.
“Listen,” said Servadac; “we have come to ask a favor.”
Imagining that at least half his property was to be confiscated, the
Jew began to break out into his usual formula about being a poor man and
having nothing to spare; but Servadac, without heeding his complainings,
went on: “We are not going to ruin you, you know.”
Hakkabut looked keenly into the captain’s face.
“We have only come to know whether you can lend us a steelyard.”
So far from showing any symptom of relief, the old miser exclaimed,
with a stare of astonishment, as if he had been asked for some thousand
francs: “A steelyard?”
“Yes!” echoed the professor, impatiently; “a steelyard.”
“Have you not one?” asked Servadac.
“To be sure he has!” said Ben Zoof.
Old Isaac stammered and stuttered, but at last confessed that perhaps
there might be one amongst the stores.
“Then, surely, you will not object to lend it to us?” said the captain.
“Only for one day,” added the professor.
The Jew stammered again, and began to object. “It is a very delicate
instrument, your Excellency. The cold, you know, the cold may do injury
to the spring; and perhaps you are going to use it to weigh something
very heavy.”
“Why, old Ephraim, do you suppose we are going to weigh a mountain with
it?” said Ben Zoof.
“Better than that!” cried out the professor, triumphantly; “we are going
to weigh Gallia with it; my comet.”
“Merciful Heaven!” shrieked Isaac, feigning consternation at the bare
suggestion.
Servadac knew well enough that the Jew was holding out only for a good
bargain, and assured him that the steelyard was required for no other
purpose than to weigh a kilogramme, which (considering how much lighter
everything had become) could not possibly put the slightest strain upon
the instrument.
The Jew still spluttered, and moaned, and hesitated.
“Well, then,” said Servadac, “if you do not like to lend us your
steelyard, do you object to sell it to us?”
Isaac fairly shrieked aloud. “God of Israel!” he ejaculated, “sell my
steelyard? Would you deprive me of one of the most indispensable of
my means of livelihood? How should I weigh my merchandise without my
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