“I do not mean,” he began timidly, “to cast the least imputation of

inaccuracy upon any of your calculations, but would you allow me, my

dear professor, to suggest that you should revise your estimate of the

duration of Gallia’s period of revolution. It is so important, you know,

so all important; the difference of one half minute, you know, would so

certainly mar the expectation of reunion with the earth--”

And seeing a cloud gathering on Rosette’s face, he added:

“I am sure Lieutenant Procope would be only too happy to render you any

assistance in the revision.”

“Sir,” said the professor, bridling up, “I want no assistant; my

calculations want no revision. I never make an error. I have made my

reckoning as far as Gallia is concerned. I am now making a like estimate

of the elements of Nerina.”

Conscious how impolitic it would be to press this matter further, the

captain casually remarked that he should have supposed that all the

elements of Nerina had been calculated long since by astronomers on the

earth. It was about as unlucky a speech as he could possibly have made.

The professor glared at him fiercely.

“Astounding, sir!” he exclaimed. “Yes! Nerina was a planet then;

everything that appertained to the planet was determined; but Nerina is

a moon now. And do you not think, sir, that we have a right to know as

much about our moon as those _terrestrials_”--and he curled his lip as

he spoke with a contemptuous emphasis--“know of theirs?”

“I beg pardon,” said the corrected captain.

“Well then, never mind,” replied the professor, quickly appeased; “only

will you have the goodness to get me a proper place for study?”

“I will, as I promised, do all I can,” answered Servadac.

“Very good,” said the professor. “No immediate hurry; an hour hence will

do.”

But in spite of this condescension on the part of the man of science,

some hours had to elapse before any place of retreat could be discovered

likely to suit his requirements; but at length a little nook was found

in the side of the cavern just large enough to hold an armchair and

a table, and in this the astronomer was soon ensconced to his entire

satisfaction.

Buried thus, nearly 900 feet below ground, the Gallians ought to have

had unbounded mental energy to furnish an adequate reaction to the

depressing monotony of their existence; but many days would often elapse

without any one of them ascending to the surface of the soil, and had

it not been for the necessity of obtaining fresh water, it seemed almost

probable that there would never have been an effort made to leave the

cavern at all.

A few excursions, it is true, were made in the downward direction. The

three leaders, with Ben Zoof, made their way to the lower depths of the

crater, not with the design of making any further examination as to

the nature of the rock--for although it might be true enough that it

contained thirty per cent. of gold, it was as valueless to them as

granite--but with the intention of ascertaining whether the subterranean

fire still retained its activity. Satisfied upon this point, they came

to the conclusion that the eruption which had so suddenly ceased in one

spot had certainly broken out in another.

February, March, April, May, passed wearily by; but day succeeded to day

with such gloomy sameness that it was little wonder that no notice was

taken of the lapse of time. The people seemed rather to vegetate than

to live, and their want of vigor became at times almost alarming. The

readings around the long table ceased to be attractive, and the debates,

sustained by few, became utterly wanting in animation. The Spaniards

could hardly be roused to quit their beds, and seemed to have scarcely

energy enough to eat. The Russians, constitutionally of more enduring

temperament, did not give way to the same extent, but the long and drear

confinement was beginning to tell upon them all. Servadac, the count,

and the lieutenant all knew well enough that it was the want of air and

exercise that was the cause of much of this mental depression; but

what could they do? The most serious remonstrances on their part were

entirely in vain. In fact, they themselves occasionally fell a prey

to the same lassitude both of body and mind. Long fits of drowsiness,

combined with an utter aversion to food, would come over them. It almost

seemed as if their entire nature had become degenerate, and that, like

tortoises, they could sleep and fast till the return of summer.

Strange to say, little Nina bore her hardships more bravely than any

of them. Flitting about, coaxing one to eat, another to drink, rousing

Pablo as often as he seemed yielding to the common languor, the child

became the life of the party. Her merry prattle enlivened the gloom of

the grim cavern like the sweet notes of a bird; her gay Italian songs

broke the monotony of the depressing silence; and almost unconscious as

the half-dormant population of Gallia were of her influence, they still

would have missed her bright presence sorely. The months still glided

on; how, it seemed impossible for the inhabitants of the living tomb to

say. There was a dead level of dullness.

At the beginning of June the general torpor appeared slightly to relax

its hold upon its victims. This partial revival was probably due to the

somewhat increased influence of the sun, still far, far away. During

the first half of the Gallian year, Lieutenant Procope had taken careful

note of Rosette’s monthly announcements of the comet’s progress, and he

was able now, without reference to the professor, to calculate the rate

of advance on its way back towards the sun. He found that Gallia had

re-crossed the orbit of Jupiter, but was still at the enormous distance

of 197,000,000 leagues from the sun, and he reckoned that in about four

months it would have entered the zone of the telescopic planets.

Gradually, but uninterruptedly, life and spirits continued to revive,

and by the end of the month Servadac and his little colony had regained

most of their ordinary physical and mental energies. Ben Zoof, in

particular, roused himself with redoubled vigor, like a giant refreshed

from his slumbers. The visits, consequently, to the long-neglected

galleries of Nina’s Hive became more and more frequent.

One day an excursion was made to the shore. It was still bitterly cold,

but the atmosphere had lost nothing of its former stillness, and not a

cloud was visible from horizon to zenith. The old footmarks were all as

distinct as on the day in which they had been imprinted, and the only

portion of the shore where any change was apparent was in the little

creek. Here the elevation of the ice had gone on increasing, until the

schooner and the tartan had been uplifted to a height of 150 feet, not

only rendering them quite inaccessible, but exposing them to all but

certain destruction in the event of a thaw.

Isaac Hakkabut, immovable from the personal oversight of his property

in the cavern, had not accompanied the party, and consequently was in

blissful ignorance of the fate that threatened his vessel. “A good thing

the old fellow wasn’t there to see,” observed Ben Zoof; “he would have

screamed like a peacock. What a misfortune it is,” he added, speaking to

himself, “to have a peacock’s voice, without its plumage!”

During the months of July and August, Gallia advanced 164,000,000

leagues along her orbit. At night the cold was still intense, but in

the daytime the sun, here full upon the equator, caused an appreciable

difference of 20 degrees in the temperature. Like birds, the population

spent whole days exposed to its grateful warmth, rarely returning till

nightfall to the shade of their gloomy home.

This spring-time, if such it may be called, had a most enlivening

influence upon all. Hope and courage revived as day by day the sun’s

disc expanded in the heavens, and every evening the earth assumed a

greater magnitude amongst the fixed stars. It was distant yet, but the

goal was cheeringly in view.

“I can’t believe that yonder little speck of light contains my mountain

of Montmartre,” said Ben Zoof, one night, after he had been gazing long

and steadily at the far-off world.

“You will, I hope, some day find out that it does,” answered his master.

“I hope so,” said the orderly, without moving his eye from the distant

sphere. After meditating a while, he spoke again. “I suppose Professor

Rosette couldn’t make his comet go straight back, could he?”

“Hush!” cried Servadac.

Ben Zoof understood the correction.

“No,” continued the captain; “it is not for man to disturb the order of

the universe. That belongs to a Higher Power than ours!”

CHAPTER XIV. THE PROFESSOR PERPLEXED

Another month passed away, and it was now September, but it was still

impossible to leave the warmth of the subterranean retreat for the

more airy and commodious quarters of the Hive, where “the bees” would

certainly have been frozen to death in their cells. It was altogether

quite as much a matter of congratulation as of regret that the volcano

showed no symptoms of resuming its activity; for although a return of

the eruption might have rendered their former resort again habitable,

any sudden outbreak would have been disastrous to them where they were,

the crater being the sole outlet by which the burning lava could escape.

“A wretched time we have had for the last seven months,” said the

orderly one day to his master; “but what a comfort little Nina has been

to us all!”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Servadac; “she is a charming little creature. I

hardly know how we should have got on without her.”

“What is to become of her when we arrive back at the earth?”

“Not much fear, Ben Zoof, but that she will be well taken care of.

Perhaps you and I had better adopt her.”

“Ay, yes,” assented the orderly. “You can be her father, and I can be

her mother.”

Servadac laughed. “Then you and I shall be man and wife.”

“We have been as good as that for a long time,” observed Ben Zoof,

gravely.

By the beginning of October, the temperature had so far moderated that

it could scarcely be said to be intolerable. The comet’s distance was

scarcely three times as great from the sun as the earth from the sun, so

that the thermometer rarely sunk beyond 35 degrees below zero. The whole

party began to make almost daily visits to the Hive, and frequently

proceeded to the shore, where they resumed their skating exercise,

rejoicing in their recovered freedom like prisoners liberated from a

dungeon. Whilst the rest were enjoying their recreation, Servadac and

the count would hold long conversations with Lieutenant Procope about

their present position and future prospects, discussing all manner of

speculations as to the results of the anticipated collision with

the earth, and wondering whether any measures could be devised for

mitigating the violence of a shock which might be terrible in its

consequences, even if it did not entail a total annihilation of

themselves.

There was no visitor to the Hive more regular than Rosette. He

had already directed his telescope to be moved back to his former

observatory, where, as much as the cold would permit him, he persisted

in making his all-absorbing studies of the heavens.

The result of these studies no one ventured to inquire; but it became

generally noticed that something was very seriously disturbing

the professor’s equanimity. Not only would he be seen toiling more

frequently up the arduous way that lay between his nook below and his

telescope above, but he would be heard muttering in an angry tone that

indicated considerable agitation.

One day, as he was hurrying down to his study, he met Ben Zoof, who,

secretly entertaining a feeling of delight at the professor’s manifest

discomfiture, made some casual remark about things not being very

straight. The way in which his advance was received the good orderly

never divulged, but henceforward he maintained the firm conviction that

there was something very much amiss up in the sky.

To Servadac and his friends this continual disquietude and ill-humor on

the part of the professor occasioned no little anxiety. From what, they

asked, could his dissatisfaction arise? They could only conjecture that

he had discovered some flaw in his reckonings; and if this were so,

might there not be reason to apprehend that their anticipations of

coming into contact with the earth, at the settled time, might all be

falsified?

Day followed day, and still there was no cessation of the professor’s

discomposure. He was the most miserable of mortals. If really his

calculations and his observations were at variance, this, in a man of

his irritable temperament, would account for his perpetual perturbation.

But he entered into no explanation; he only climbed up to his telescope,

looking haggard and distressed, and when compelled by the frost to

retire, he would make his way back to his study more furious than ever.

At times he was heard giving vent to his vexation. “Confound it! what

does it mean? what is she doing? All behind! Is Newton a fool? Is the

law of universal gravitation the law of universal nonsense?” And the

little man would seize his head in both his hands, and tear away at the

scanty locks which he could ill afford to lose.

Enough was overheard to confirm the suspicion that there was some

irreconcilable discrepancy between the results of his computation and

what he had actually observed; and yet, if he had been called upon to

say, he would have sooner insisted that there was derangement in

the laws of celestial mechanism, than have owned there was the least

probability of error in any of his own calculations. Assuredly, if the

poor professor had had any flesh to lose he would have withered away to

a shadow.

But this state of things was before long to come to an end. On the 12th,

Ben Zoof, who was hanging about outside the great hall of the cavern,

heard the professor inside utter a loud cry. Hurrying in to ascertain

the cause, he found Rosette in a state of perfect frenzy, in which

ecstasy and rage seemed to be struggling for the predominance.

“Eureka! Eureka!” yelled the excited astronomer.

“What, in the name of peace, do you mean?” bawled Ben Zoof, in

open-mouthed amazement.

“Eureka!” again shrieked the little man.

“How? What? Where?” roared the bewildered orderly.

“Eureka! I say,” repeated Rosette; “and if you don’t understand me, you

may go to the devil!”

Without availing himself of this polite invitation, Ben Zoof betook

himself to his master. “Something has happened to the professor,”

he said; “he is rushing about like a madman, screeching and yelling

‘Eureka!’”

“Eureka?” exclaimed Servadac. “That means he has made a discovery;” and,

full of anxiety, he hurried off to meet the professor.

But, however great was his desire to ascertain what this discovery

implied, his curiosity was not yet destined to be gratified. The

professor kept muttering in incoherent phrases: “Rascal! he shall pay

for it yet. I will be even with him! Cheat! Thrown me out!” But he did

not vouchsafe any reply to Servadac’s inquiries, and withdrew to his

study.

From that day Rosette, for some reason at present incomprehensible,

quite altered his behavior to Isaac Hakkabut, a man for whom he had

always hitherto evinced the greatest repugnance and contempt. All at

once he began to show a remarkable interest in the Jew and his affairs,

paying several visits to the dark little storehouse, making inquiries as

to the state of business and expressing some solicitude about the state

of the exchequer.

The wily Jew was taken somewhat by surprise, but came to an immediate

conclusion that the professor was contemplating borrowing some money; he

was consequently very cautious in all his replies.

It was not Hakkabut’s habit ever to advance a loan except at an

extravagant rate of interest, or without demanding far more than an

adequate security. Count Timascheff, a Russian nobleman, was evidently

rich; to him perhaps, for a proper consideration, a loan might be made:

Captain Servadac was a Gascon, and Gascons are proverbially poor; it

would never do to lend any money to him; but here was a professor,

a mere man of science, with circumscribed means; did _he_ expect to

borrow? Certainly Isaac would as soon think of flying, as of lending

money to him. Such were the thoughts that made him receive all Rosette’s

approaches with a careful reservation.

It was not long, however, before Hakkabut was to be called upon to apply

his money to a purpose for which he had not reckoned. In his eagerness

to effect sales, he had parted with all the alimentary articles in his

cargo without having the precautionary prudence to reserve enough for

his own consumption. Amongst other things that failed him was his stock

of coffee, and as coffee was a beverage without which he deemed it

impossible to exist, he found himself in considerable perplexity.

He pondered the matter over for a long time, and ultimately persuaded

himself that, after all, the stores were the common property of all,

and that he had as much right to a share as anyone else. Accordingly, he

made his way to Ben Zoof, and, in the most amiable tone he could assume,

begged as a favor that he would let him have a pound of coffee.

The orderly shook his head dubiously.

“A pound of coffee, old Nathan? I can’t say.”

“Why not? You have some?” said Isaac.

“Oh yes! plenty--a hundred kilogrammes.”

“Then let me have one pound. I shall be grateful.”

“Hang your gratitude!”

“Only one pound! You would not refuse anybody else.”

“That’s just the very point, old Samuel; if you were anybody else,

I should know very well what to do. I must refer the matter to his

Excellency.”

“Oh, his Excellency will do me justice.”

“Perhaps you will find his justice rather too much for you.” And with

this consoling remark, the orderly went to seek his master.

Rosette meanwhile had been listening to the conversation, and secretly

rejoicing that an opportunity for which he had been watching had

arrived. “What’s the matter, Master Isaac? Have you parted with all your

coffee?” he asked, in a sympathizing voice, when Ben Zoof was gone.

“Ah! yes, indeed,” groaned Hakkabut, “and now I require some for my own

use. In my little black hole I cannot live without my coffee.”

“Of course you cannot,” agreed the professor.

“And don’t you think the governor ought to let me have it?”

“No doubt.”

“Oh, I must have coffee,” said the Jew again.

“Certainly,” the professor assented. “Coffee is nutritious; it warms the

blood. How much do you want?”

“A pound. A pound will last me for a long time.”

“And who will weigh it for you?” asked Rosette, scarcely able to conceal

the eagerness that prompted the question.

“Why, they will weigh it with my steelyard, of course. There is no other

balance here.” And as the Jew spoke, the professor fancied he could

detect the faintest of sighs.

“Good, Master Isaac; all the better for you! You will get your seven

pounds instead of one!”

“Yes; well, seven, or thereabouts--thereabouts,” stammered the Jew with

considerable hesitation.

Rosette scanned his countenance narrowly, and was about to probe him

with further questions, when Ben Zoof returned. “And what does his

Excellency say?” inquired Hakkabut.

“Why, Nehemiah, he says he shan’t give you any.”

“Merciful heavens!” began the Jew.

“He says he doesn’t mind selling you a little.”

“But, by the holy city, why does he make me pay for what anybody else

could have for nothing?”

“As I told you before, you are not anybody else; so, come along. You

can afford to buy what you want. We should like to see the color of your

money.”

“Merciful heavens!” the old man whined once more.

“Now, none of that! Yes or no? If you are going to buy, say so at once;

if not, I shall shut up shop.”

Hakkabut knew well enough that the orderly was not a man to be trifled

with, and said, in a tremulous voice, “Yes, I will buy.”

The professor, who had been looking on with much interest, betrayed

manifest symptoms of satisfaction.

“How much do you want? What will you charge for it?” asked Isaac,

mournfully, putting his hand into his pocket and chinking his money.

“Oh, we will deal gently with you. We will not make any profit. You

shall have it for the same price that we paid for it. Ten francs a

pound, you know.”

The Jew hesitated.

“Come now, what is the use of your hesitating? Your gold will have no

value when you go back to the world.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hakkabut, startled.

“You will find out some day,” answered Ben Zoof, significantly.

Hakkabut drew out a small piece of gold from his pocket, took it close

under the lamp, rolled it over in his hand, and pressed it to his

lips. “Shall you weigh me the coffee with my steelyard?” he asked, in a

quavering voice that confirmed the professor’s suspicions.

“There is nothing else to weigh it with; you know that well enough, old

Shechem,” said Ben Zoof. The steelyard was then produced; a tray was

suspended to the hook, and upon this coffee was thrown until the needle

registered the weight of one pound. Of course, it took seven pounds of

coffee to do this.

“There you are! There’s your coffee, man!” Ben Zoof said.

“Are you sure?” inquired Hakkabut, peering down close to the dial. “Are

you quite sure that the needle touches the point?”

“Yes; look and see.”

“Give it a little push, please.”

“Why?”

“Because--because--”

“Well, because of what?” cried the orderly, impatiently.

“Because I think, perhaps--I am not quite sure--perhaps the steelyard is

not quite correct.”

The words were not uttered before the professor, fierce as a tiger, had

rushed at the Jew, had seized him by the throat, and was shaking him

till he was black in the face.

“Help! help!” screamed Hakkabut. “I shall be strangled.”

“Rascal! consummate rascal! thief! villain!” the professor reiterated,

and continued to shake the Jew furiously.

Ben Zoof looked on and laughed, making no attempt to interfere; he had

no sympathy with either of the two.

The sound of the scuffling, however, drew the attention of Servadac,

who, followed by his companions, hastened to the scene. The combatants

were soon parted. “What is the meaning of all this?” demanded the

captain.

As soon as the professor had recovered his breath, exhausted by his

exertions, he said, “The old reprobate, the rascal has cheated us! His

steelyard is wrong! He is a thief!”

Captain Servadac looked sternly at Hakkabut.

“How is this, Hakkabut? Is this a fact?”

“No, no--yes--no, your Excellency, only--”

“He is a cheat, a thief!” roared the excited astronomer. “His weights

deceive!”

“Stop, stop!” interposed Servadac; “let us hear. Tell me, Hakkabut--”

“The steelyard lies! It cheats! it lies!” roared the irrepressible

Rosette.

“Tell me, Hakkabut, I say,” repeated Servadac.

The Jew only kept on stammering, “Yes--no--I don’t know.”

But heedless of any interruption, the professor continued, “False

weights! That confounded steelyard! It gave a false result! The mass was

wrong! The observations contradicted the calculations; they were wrong!

She was out of place! Yes, out of place entirely.”

“What!” cried Servadac and Procope in a breath, “out of place?”

“Yes, completely,” said the professor.

“Gallia out of place?” repeated Servadac, agitated with alarm.

“I did not say Gallia,” replied Rosette, stamping his foot impetuously;

“I said Nerina.”

“Oh, Nerina,” answered Servadac. “But what of Gallia?” he inquired,

still nervously.

“Gallia, of course, is on her way to the earth. I told you so. But that

Jew is a rascal!”

CHAPTER XV. A JOURNEY AND A DISAPPOINTMENT

It was as the professor had said. From the day that Isaac Hakkabut had

entered upon his mercantile career, his dealings had all been carried

on by a system of false weight. That deceitful steelyard had been the

mainspring of his fortune. But when it had become his lot to be the

purchaser instead of the vendor, his spirit had groaned within him at

being compelled to reap the fruits of his own dishonesty. No one who had

studied his character could be much surprised at the confession that was

extorted from him, that for every supposed kilogramme that he had ever

sold the true weight was only 750 grammes, or just five and twenty per

cent. less than it ought to have been.

The professor, however, had ascertained all that he wanted to know. By

estimating his comet at a third as much again as its proper weight,

he had found that his calculations were always at variance with the

observed situation of the satellite, which was immediately influenced by

the mass of its primary.

But now, besides enjoying the satisfaction of having punished old

Hakkabut, Rosette was able to recommence his calculations with reference

to the elements of Nerina upon a correct basis, a task to which he

devoted himself with redoubled energy.

It will be easily imagined that Isaac Hakkabut, thus caught in his own

trap, was jeered most unmercifully by those whom he had attempted to

make his dupes. Ben Zoof, in particular, was never wearied of telling

him how on his return to the world he would be prosecuted for using

false weights, and would certainly become acquainted with the inside

of a prison. Thus badgered, he secluded himself more than ever in his

dismal hole, never venturing, except when absolutely obliged, to face

the other members of the community.

On the 7th of October the comet re-entered the zone of the telescopic

planets, one of which had been captured as a satellite, and the origin

of the whole of which is most probably correctly attributed to the

disintegration of some large planet that formerly revolved between the

orbits of Mars and Jupiter. By the beginning of the following month half

of this zone had been traversed, and only two months remained before

the collision with the earth was to be expected. The temperature was now

rarely below 12 degrees below zero, but that was far too cold to permit

the slightest symptoms of a thaw. The surface of the sea remained as

frozen as ever, and the two vessels, high up on their icy pedestals,

remained unaltered in their critical position.

It was about this time that the question began to be mooted whether it

would not be right to reopen some communication with the Englishmen at

Gibraltar. Not that any doubt was entertained as to their having been

able successfully to cope with the rigors of the winter; but Captain

Servadac, in a way that did honor to his generosity, represented that,

however uncourteous might have been their former behavior, it was at

least due to them that they should be informed of the true condition of

things, which they had had no opportunity of learning; and, moreover,

that they should be invited to co-operate with the population of Nina’s

Hive, in the event of any measures being suggested by which the shock of

the approaching collision could be mitigated.

The count and the lieutenant both heartily concurred in Servadac’s

sentiments of humanity and prudence, and all agreed that if the

intercourse were to be opened at all, no time could be so suitable as

the present, while the surface of the sea presented a smooth and solid

footing. After a thaw should set in, neither the yacht nor the tartan

could be reckoned on for service, and it would be inexpedient to make

use of the steam launch, for which only a few tons of coal had been

reserved, just sufficient to convey them to Gourbi Island when the

occasion should arise; whilst as to the yawl, which, transformed into a

sledge, had performed so successful a trip to Formentera, the absence of

wind would make that quite unavailable. It was true that with the return

of summer temperature, there would be certain to be a derangement in the

atmosphere of Gallia, which would result in wind, but for the present

the air was altogether too still for the yawl to have any prospects of

making its way to Gibraltar.

The only question remaining was as to the possibility of going on foot.

The distance was somewhere about 240 miles. Captain Servadac declared

himself quite equal to the undertaking. To skate sixty or seventy miles

a day would be nothing, he said, to a practical skater like himself. The

whole journey there and back might be performed in eight days. Provided

with a compass, a sufficient supply of cold meat, and a spirit lamp, by

which he might boil his coffee, he was perfectly sure he should, without

the least difficulty, accomplish an enterprise that chimed in so exactly

with his adventurous spirit.

Equally urgent were both the count and the lieutenant to be allowed

to accompany him; nay, they even offered to go instead; but Servadac,

expressing himself as most grateful for their consideration, declined

their offer, and avowed his resolution of taking no other companion than

his own orderly.

Highly delighted at his master’s decision, Ben Zoof expressed his

satisfaction at the prospect of “stretching his legs a bit,” declaring

that nothing could induce him to permit the captain to go alone. There

was no delay. The departure was fixed for the following morning, the 2nd

of November.

Although it is not to be questioned that a genuine desire of doing

an act of kindness to his fellow-creatures was a leading motive of

Servadac’s proposed visit to Gibraltar, it must be owned that another

idea, confided to nobody, least of all to Count Timascheff, had been

conceived in the brain of the worthy Gascon. Ben Zoof had an inkling

that his master was “up to some other little game,” when, just before

starting, he asked him privately whether there was a French tricolor

among the stores. “I believe so,” said the orderly.

“Then don’t say a word to anyone, but fasten it up tight in your

knapsack.”

Ben Zoof found the flag, and folded it up as he was directed. Before

proceeding to explain this somewhat enigmatical conduct of Servadac,

it is necessary to refer to a certain physiological fact, coincident

but unconnected with celestial phenomena, originating entirely in the

frailty of human nature. The nearer that Gallia approached the earth,

the more a sort of reserve began to spring up between the captain and

Count Timascheff. Though they could not be said to be conscious of

it, the remembrance of their former rivalry, so completely buried in

oblivion for the last year and ten months, was insensibly recovering

its hold upon their minds, and the question was all but coming to

the surface as to what would happen if, on their return to earth, the

handsome Madame de L---- should still be free. From companions in peril,

would they not again be avowed rivals? Conceal it as they would, a

coolness was undeniably stealing over an intimacy which, though it could

never be called affectionate, had been uniformly friendly and courteous.

Under these circumstances, it was not surprising that Hector Servadac

should not have confided to the count a project which, wild as it was,

could scarcely have failed to widen the unacknowledged breach that was

opening in their friendship.

The project was the annexation of Ceuta to the French dominion. The

Englishmen, rightly enough, had continued to occupy the fragment of

Gibraltar, and their claim was indisputable. But the island of Ceuta,

which before the shock had commanded the opposite side of the strait,

and had been occupied by Spaniards, had since been abandoned, and was

therefore free to the first occupant who should lay claim to it. To

plant the tricolor upon it, in the name of France, was now the cherished

wish of Servadac’s heart.

“Who knows,” he said to himself, “whether Ceuta, on its return to earth,

may not occupy a grand and commanding situation? What a proud thing it

would be to have secured its possession to France!”

Next morning, as soon as they had taken their brief farewell of their

friends, and were fairly out of sight of the shore, Servadac imparted

his design to Ben Zoof, who entered into the project with the greatest

zest, and expressed himself delighted, not only at the prospect of

adding to the dominions of his beloved country, but of stealing a march

upon England.

Both travelers were warmly clad, the orderly’s knapsack containing all

the necessary provisions. The journey was accomplished without special

incident; halts were made at regular intervals, for the purpose of

taking food and rest. The temperature by night as well as by day was

quite endurable, and on the fourth afternoon after starting, thanks to

the straight course which their compass enabled them to maintain, the

adventurers found themselves within a few miles of Ceuta.

As soon as Ben Zoof caught sight of the rock on the western horizon, he

was all excitement. Just as if he were in a regiment going into action,

he talked wildly about “columns” and “squares” and “charges.” The

captain, although less demonstrative, was hardly less eager to reach the

rock. They both pushed forward with all possible speed till they were

within a mile and a half of the shore, when Ben Zoof, who had a very

keen vision, stopped suddenly, and said that he was sure he could see

something moving on the top of the island.

“Never mind, let us hasten on,” said Servadac. A few minutes carried

them over another mile, when Ben Zoof stopped again.

“What is it, Ben Zoof?” asked the captain.

“It looks to me like a man on a rock, waving his arms in the air,” said

the orderly.

“Plague on it!” muttered Servadac; “I hope we are not too late.” Again

they went on; but soon Ben Zoof stopped for the third time.

“It is a semaphore, sir; I see it quite distinctly.” And he was not

mistaken; it had been a telegraph in motion that had caught his eye.

“Plague on it!” repeated the captain.

“Too late, sir, do you think?” said Ben Zoof.

“Yes, Ben Zoof; if that’s a telegraph--and there is no doubt of

it--somebody has been before us and erected it; and, moreover, if it is

moving, there must be somebody working it now.”

He was keenly disappointed. Looking towards the north, he could

distinguish Gibraltar faintly visible in the extreme distance, and upon

the summit of the rock both Ben Zoof and himself fancied they could make

out another semaphore, giving signals, no doubt, in response to the one

here.

“Yes, it is only too clear; they have already occupied it, and

established their communications,” said Servadac.

“And what are we to do, then?” asked Ben Zoof.

“We must pocket our chagrin, and put as good a face on the matter as we

can,” replied the captain.

“But perhaps there are only four or five Englishmen to protect the

place,” said Ben Zoof, as if meditating an assault.

“No, no, Ben Zoof,” answered Servadac; “we must do nothing rash. We

have had our warning, and, unless our representations can induce them to

yield their position, we must resign our hope.”

Thus discomfited, they had reached the foot of the rock, when all at

once, like a “Jack-in-the-box,” a sentinel started up before them with

the challenge:

“Who goes there?”

“Friends. Vive la France!” cried the captain.

“Hurrah for England!” replied the soldier.

By this time four other men had made their appearance from the upper

part of the rock.

“What do you want?” asked one of them, whom Servadac remembered to have

seen before at Gibraltar.

“Can I speak to your commanding officer?” Servadac inquired.

“Which?” said the man. “The officer in command of Ceuta?”

“Yes, if there is one.”

“I will acquaint him with your arrival,” answered the Englishman, and

disappeared.

In a few minutes the commanding officer, attired in full uniform, was

seen descending to the shore. It was Major Oliphant himself.

Servadac could no longer entertain a doubt that the Englishmen had

forestalled him in the occupation of Ceuta. Provisions and fuel had

evidently been conveyed thither in the boat from Gibraltar before the

sea had frozen, and a solid casemate, hollowed in the rock, had afforded

Major Oliphant and his contingent ample protection from the rigor of

the winter. The ascending smoke that rose above the rock was sufficient

evidence that good fires were still kept up; the soldiers appeared to

have thriven well on what, no doubt, had been a generous diet, and the

major himself, although he would scarcely have been willing to allow it,

was slightly stouter than before.

Being only about twelve miles distant from Gibraltar, the little

garrison at Ceuta had felt itself by no means isolated in its position;

but by frequent excursions across the frozen strait, and by the constant

use of the telegraph, had kept up their communication with their

fellow-countrymen on the other island. Colonel Murphy and the major had

not even been forced to forego the pleasures of the chessboard. The game

that had been interrupted by Captain Servadac’s former visit was not yet

concluded; but, like the two American clubs that played their celebrated

game in 1846 between Washington and Baltimore, the two gallant officers

made use of the semaphore to communicate their well-digested moves.

The major stood waiting for his visitor to speak.

“Major Oliphant, I believe?” said Servadac, with a courteous bow.

“Yes, sir, Major Oliphant, officer in command of the garrison at Ceuta,”

was the Englishman’s reply. “And to whom,” he added, “may I have the

honor of speaking?”

“To Captain Servadac, the governor general of Gallia.”

“Indeed!” said the major, with a supercilious look.

“Allow me to express my surprise,” resumed the captain, “at seeing you

installed as commanding officer upon what I have always understood to be

Spanish soil. May I demand your claim to your position?”

“My claim is that of first occupant.”

“But do you not think that the party of Spaniards now resident with me

may at some future time assert a prior right to the proprietorship?”

“I think not, Captain Servadac.”

“But why not?” persisted the captain.

“Because these very Spaniards have, by formal contract, made over Ceuta,

in its integrity, to the British government.”

Servadac uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“And as the price of that important cession,” continued Major Oliphant,

“they have received a fair equivalent in British gold.”

“Ah!” cried Ben Zoof, “that accounts for that fellow Negrete and his

people having such a lot of money.”

Servadac was silent. It had become clear to his mind what had been the

object of that secret visit to Ceuta which he had heard of as being made

by the two English officers. The arguments that he had intended to use

had completely fallen through; all that he had now to do was carefully

to prevent any suspicion of his disappointed project.

“May I be allowed to ask, Captain Servadac, to what I am indebted for

the honor of this visit?” asked Major Oliphant presently.

“I have come, Major Oliphant, in the hope of doing you and your

companions a service,” replied Servadac, rousing himself from his

reverie.

“Ah, indeed!” replied the major, as though he felt himself quite

independent of all services from exterior sources.

“I thought, major, that it was not unlikely you were in ignorance of

the fact that both Ceuta and Gibraltar have been traversing the solar

regions on the surface of a comet.”

The major smiled incredulously; but Servadac, nothing daunted, went on

to detail the results of the collision between the comet and the earth,

adding that, as there was the almost immediate prospect of another

concussion, it had occurred to him that it might be advisable for the

whole population of Gallia to unite in taking precautionary measures for

the common welfare.

“In fact, Major Oliphant,” he said in conclusion, “I am here to inquire

whether you and your friends would be disposed to join us in our present

quarters.”

“I am obliged to you, Captain Servadac,” answered the major stiffly;

“but we have not the slightest intention of abandoning our post. We have

received no government orders to that effect; indeed, we have received

no orders at all. Our own dispatch to the First Lord of the Admiralty

still awaits the mail.”

“But allow me to repeat,” insisted Servadac, “that we are no longer on

the earth, although we expect to come in contact with it again in about

eight weeks.”

“I have no doubt,” the major answered, “that England will make every

effort to reclaim us.”

Servadac felt perplexed. It was quite evident that Major Oliphant had

not been convinced of the truth of one syllable of what he had been

saying.

“Then I am to understand that you are determined to retain your two

garrisons here and at Gibraltar?” asked Servadac, with one last effort

at persuasion.

“Certainly; these two posts command the entrance of the Mediterranean.”

“But supposing there is no longer any Mediterranean?” retorted the

captain, growing impatient.

“Oh, England will always take care of that,” was Major Oliphant’s cool

reply. “But excuse me,” he added presently; “I see that Colonel

Murphy has just telegraphed his next move. Allow me to wish you

good-afternoon.”

And without further parley, followed by his soldiers, he retired into

the casemate, leaving Captain Servadac gnawing his mustache with mingled

rage and mortification.

“A fine piece of business we have made of this!” said Ben Zoof, when he

found himself alone with his master.

“We will make our way back at once,” replied Captain Servadac.

“Yes, the sooner the better, with our tails between our legs,” rejoined

the orderly, who this time felt no inclination to start off to the march

of the Algerian zephyrs. And so the French tricolor returned as it had

set out--in Ben Zoof’s knapsack.

On the eighth evening after starting, the travelers again set foot on

the volcanic promontory just in time to witness a great commotion.

Palmyrin Rosette was in a furious rage. He had completed all his

calculations about Nerina, but that perfidious satellite had totally

disappeared. The astronomer was frantic at the loss of his moon.

Captured probably by some larger body, it was revolving in its proper

zone of the minor planets.

CHAPTER XVI. A BOLD PROPOSITION

On his return Servadac communicated to the count the result of his

expedition, and, though perfectly silent on the subject of his personal

project, did not conceal the fact that the Spaniards, without the

smallest right, had sold Ceuta to the English.

Having refused to quit their post, the Englishmen had virtually excluded

themselves from any further consideration; they had had their warning,

and must now take the consequences of their own incredulity.

Although it had proved that not a single creature either at Gourbi

Island, Gibraltar, Ceuta, Madalena, or Formentera had received any

injury whatever at the time of the first concussion, there was nothing

in the least to make it certain that a like immunity from harm would

attend the second. The previous escape was doubtless owing to some

slight, though unaccountable, modification in the rate of motion; but

whether the inhabitants of the earth had fared so fortunately, was a

question that had still to be determined.

The day following Servadac’s return, he and the count and Lieutenant

Procope met by agreement in the cave, formally to discuss what would be

the most advisable method of proceeding under their present prospects.

Ben Zoof was, as a matter of course, allowed to be present, and

Professor Rosette had been asked to attend; but he declined on the plea

of taking no interest in the matter. Indeed, the disappearance of his

moon had utterly disconcerted him, and the probability that he should

soon lose his comet also, plunged him into an excess of grief which he

preferred to bear in solitude.

Although the barrier of cool reserve was secretly increasing between the

captain and the count, they scrupulously concealed any outward token of

their inner feelings, and without any personal bias applied their best

energies to the discussion of the question which was of such mutual,

nay, of such universal interest.

Servadac was the first to speak. “In fifty-one days, if Professor

Rosette has made no error in his calculations, there is to be a

recurrence of collision between this comet and the earth. The inquiry

that we have now to make is whether we are prepared for the coming

shock. I ask myself, and I ask you, whether it is in our power, by

any means, to avert the evil consequences that are only too likely to

follow?”

Count Timascheff, in a voice that seemed to thrill with solemnity, said:

“In such events we are at the disposal of an over-ruling Providence;

human precautions cannot sway the Divine will.”

“But with the most profound reverence for the will of Providence,”

replied the captain, “I beg to submit that it is our duty to devise

whatever means we can to escape the threatening mischief. Heaven helps

them that help themselves.”

“And what means have you to suggest, may I ask?” said the count, with a

faint accent of satire.

Servadac was forced to acknowledge that nothing tangible had hitherto

presented itself to his mind.

“I don’t want to intrude,” observed Ben Zoof, “but I don’t understand

why such learned gentlemen as you cannot make the comet go where you

want it to go.”

“You are mistaken, Ben Zoof, about our learning,” said the captain;

“even Professor Rosette, with all his learning, has not a shadow of

power to prevent the comet and the earth from knocking against each

other.”

“Then I cannot see what is the use of all this learning,” the orderly

replied.

“One great use of learning,” said Count Timascheff with a smile, “is to

make us know our own ignorance.”

While this conversation had been going on, Lieutenant Procope had been

sitting in thoughtful silence. Looking up, he now said, “Incident to

this expected shock, there may be a variety of dangers. If, gentlemen,

you will allow me, I will enumerate them; and we shall, perhaps, by

taking them _seriatim_, be in a better position to judge whether we

can successfully grapple with them, or in any way mitigate their

consequences.”

There was a general attitude of attention. It was surprising how calmly

they proceeded to discuss the circumstances that looked so threatening

and ominous.

“First of all,” resumed the lieutenant, “we will specify the different

ways in which the shock may happen.”

“And the prime fact to be remembered,” interposed Servadac, “is that the

combined velocity of the two bodies will be about 21,000 miles an hour.”

“Express speed, and no mistake!” muttered Ben Zoof.

“Just so,” assented Procope. “Now, the two bodies may impinge either

directly or obliquely. If the impact is sufficiently oblique, Gallia may

do precisely what she did before: she may graze the earth; she may,

or she may not, carry off a portion of the earth’s atmosphere and

substance, and so she may float away again into space; but her orbit

would undoubtedly be deranged, and if we survive the shock, we

shall have small chance of ever returning to the world of our

fellow-creatures.”

“Professor Rosette, I suppose,” Ben Zoof remarked, “would pretty soon

find out all about that.”

“But we will leave this hypothesis,” said the lieutenant; “our

own experience has sufficiently shown us its advantages and its

disadvantages. We will proceed to consider the infinitely more serious

alternative of direct impact; of a shock that would hurl the comet

straight on to the earth, to which it would become attached.”

“A great wart upon her face!” said Ben Zoof, laughing.

The captain held up his finger to his orderly, making him understand

that he should hold his tongue.

“It is, I presume, to be taken for granted,” continued Lieutenant

Procope, “that the mass of the earth is comparatively so large that, in

the event of a direct collision, her own motion would not be sensibly

retarded, and that she would carry the comet along with her, as part of

herself.”

“Very little question of that, I should think,” said Servadac.

“Well, then,” the lieutenant went on, “what part of this comet of ours

will be the part to come into collision with the earth? It may be the

equator, where we are; it may be at the exactly opposite point, at our

antipodes; or it may be at either pole. In any case, it seems hard to

foresee whence there is to come the faintest chance of deliverance.”

“Is the case so desperate?” asked Servadac.

“I will tell you why it seems so. If the side of the comet on which we

are resident impinges on the earth, it stands to reason that we must be

crushed to atoms by the violence of the concussion.”

“Regular mincemeat!” said Ben Zoof, whom no admonitions could quite

reduce to silence.

“And if,” said the lieutenant, after a moment’s pause, and the slightest

possible frown at the interruption--“and if the collision should occur

at our antipodes, the sudden check to the velocity of the comet would be

quite equivalent to a shock _in situ_; and, another thing, we should run

the risk of being suffocated, for all our comet’s atmosphere would be

assimilated with the terrestrial atmosphere, and we, supposing we were

not dashed to atoms, should be left as it were upon the summit of an

enormous mountain (for such to all intents and purposes Gallia would

be), 450 miles above the level of the surface of the globe, without a

particle of air to breathe.”

“But would not our chances of escape be considerably better,” asked

Count Timascheff, “in the event of either of the comet’s poles being the

point of contact?”

“Taking the combined velocity into account,” answered the lieutenant,

“I confess that I fear the violence of the shock will be too great to

permit our destruction to be averted.”

A general silence ensued, which was broken by the lieutenant himself.

“Even if none of these contingencies occur in the way we have

contemplated, I am driven to the suspicion that we shall be burnt

alive.”

“Burnt alive!” they all exclaimed in a chorus of horror.

“Yes. If the deductions of modern science be true, the speed of the

comet, when suddenly checked, will be transmuted into heat, and that

heat will be so intense that the temperature of the comet will be raised

to some millions of degrees.”

No one having anything definite to allege in reply to Lieutenant

Procope’s forebodings, they all relapsed into silence. Presently Ben

Zoof asked whether it was not possible for the comet to fall into the

middle of the Atlantic.

Procope shook his head. “Even so, we should only be adding the fate of

drowning to the list of our other perils.”

“Then, as I understand,” said Captain Servadac, “in whatever way or

in whatever place the concussion occurs, we must be either crushed,

suffocated, roasted, or drowned. Is that your conclusion, lieutenant?”

“I confess I see no other alternative,” answered Procope, calmly.

“But isn’t there another thing to be done?” said Ben Zoof.

“What do you mean?” his master asked.

“Why, to get off the comet before the shock comes.”

“How could you get off Gallia?”

“That I can’t say,” replied the orderly.

“I am not sure that that could not be accomplished,” said the

lieutenant.

All eyes in a moment were riveted upon him, as, with his head resting

on his hands, he was manifestly cogitating a new idea. “Yes, I think

it could be accomplished,” he repeated. “The project may appear

extravagant, but I do not know why it should be impossible. Ben Zoof has

hit the right nail on the head; we must try and leave Gallia before the

shock.”

“Leave Gallia! How?” said Count Timascheff.

The lieutenant did not at once reply. He continued pondering for a time,

and at last said, slowly and distinctly, “By making a balloon!”

Servadac’s heart sank.

“A balloon!” he exclaimed. “Out of the question! Balloons are exploded

things. You hardly find them in novels. Balloon, indeed!”

“Listen to me,” replied Procope. “Perhaps I can convince you that my

idea is not so chimerical as you imagine.” And, knitting his brow, he

proceeded to establish the feasibility of his plan. “If we can ascertain

the precise moment when the shock is to happen, and can succeed

in launching ourselves a sufficient time beforehand into Gallia’s

atmosphere, I believe it will transpire that this atmosphere will

amalgamate with that of the earth, and that a balloon whirled along by

the combined velocity would glide into the mingled atmosphere and remain

suspended in mid-air until the shock of the collision is overpast.”

Count Timascheff reflected for a minute, and said, “I think, lieutenant,

I understand your project. The scheme seems tenable; and I shall be

ready to co-operate with you, to the best of my power, in putting it

into execution.”

“Only, remember,” continued Procope, “there are many chances to one

against our success. One instant’s obstruction and stoppage in our

passage, and our balloon is burnt to ashes. Still, reluctant as I am to

acknowledge it, I confess that I feel our sole hope of safety rests in

our getting free from this comet.”

“If the chances were ten thousand to one against us,” said Servadac, “I

think the attempt ought to be made.”

“But have we hydrogen enough to inflate a balloon?” asked the count.

“Hot air will be all that we shall require,” the lieutenant answered;

“we are only contemplating about an hour’s journey.”

“Ah, a fire-balloon! A montgolfier!” cried Servadac. “But what are you

going to do for a casing?”

“I have thought of that. We must cut it out of the sails of the

_Dobryna_; they are both light and strong,” rejoined the lieutenant.

Count Timascheff complimented the lieutenant upon his ingenuity, and Ben

Zoof could not resist bringing the meeting to a conclusion by a ringing

cheer.

Truly daring was the plan of which Lieutenant Procope had thus become

the originator; but the very existence of them all was at stake, and the

design must be executed resolutely. For the success of the enterprise it

was absolutely necessary to know, almost to a minute, the precise time

at which the collision would occur, and Captain Servadac undertook the

task, by gentle means or by stern, of extracting the secret from the

professor.

To Lieutenant Procope himself was entrusted the superintendence of the

construction of the montgolfier, and the work was begun at once. It was

to be large enough to carry the whole of the twenty-three residents in

the volcano, and, in order to provide the means of floating aloft

long enough to give time for selecting a proper place for descent, the

lieutenant was anxious to make it carry enough hay or straw to maintain

combustion for a while, and keep up the necessary supply of heated air.

The sails of the _Dobryna_, which had all been carefully stowed away in

the Hive, were of a texture unusually close, and quite capable of being

made airtight by means of a varnish, the ingredients of which were

rummaged out of the promiscuous stores of the tartan. The lieutenant

himself traced out the pattern and cut out the strips, and all hands

were employed in seaming them together. It was hardly the work for

little fingers, but Nina persisted in accomplishing her own share of it.

The Russians were quite at home at occupation of this sort, and having

initiated the Spaniards into its mysteries, the task of joining together

the casing was soon complete. Isaac Hakkabut and the professor were

the only two members of the community who took no part in this somewhat

tedious proceeding.

A month passed away, but Servadac found no opportunity of getting at the

information he had pledged himself to gain. On the sole occasion when he

had ventured to broach the subject with the astronomer, he had received

for answer that as there was no hurry to get back to the earth, there

need be no concern about any dangers of transit.

Indeed, as time passed on, the professor seemed to become more and more

inaccessible. A pleasant temperature enabled him to live entirely in his

observatory, from which intruders were rigidly shut out. But Servadac

bided his time. He grew more and more impressed with the importance of

finding out the exact moment at which the impact would take place,

but was content to wait for a promising opportunity to put any fresh

questions on the subject to the too reticent astronomer.

Meanwhile, the earth’s disc was daily increasing in magnitude; the comet

traveled 50,000,000 leagues during the month, at the close of which it

was not more than 78,000,000 leagues from the sun.

A thaw had now fairly set in. The breaking up of the frozen ocean was a

magnificent spectacle, and “the great voice of the sea,” as the whalers

graphically describe it, was heard in all its solemnity. Little streams

of water began to trickle down the declivities of the mountain and along

the shelving shore, only to be transformed, as the melting of the snow

continued, into torrents or cascades. Light vapors gathered on the

horizon, and clouds were formed and carried rapidly along by breezes to

which the Gallian atmosphere had long been unaccustomed. All these

were doubtless but the prelude to atmospheric disturbances of a more

startling character; but as indications of returning spring, they were

greeted with a welcome which no apprehensions for the future could

prevent being glad and hearty.

A double disaster was the inevitable consequence of the thaw. Both the

schooner and the tartan were entirely destroyed. The basement of the icy

pedestal on which the ships had been upheaved was gradually undermined,

like the icebergs of the Arctic Ocean, by warm currents of water, and

on the night of the 12th the huge block collapsed _en masse_, so that on

the following morning nothing remained of the _Dobryna_ and the _Hansa_

except the fragments scattered on the shore.

Although certainly expected, the catastrophe could not fail to cause a

sense of general depression. Well-nigh one of their last ties to Mother

Earth had been broken; the ships were gone, and they had only a balloon

to replace them!

To describe Isaac Hakkabut’s rage at the destruction of the tartan would

be impossible. His oaths were simply dreadful; his imprecations on the

accursed race were full of wrath. He swore that Servadac and his people

were responsible for his loss; he vowed that they should be sued and

made to pay him damages; he asserted that he had been brought from

Gourbi Island only to be plundered; in fact, he became so intolerably

abusive, that Servadac threatened to put him into irons unless he

conducted himself properly; whereupon the Jew, finding that the captain

was in earnest, and would not hesitate to carry the threat into effect,

was fain to hold his tongue, and slunk back into his dim hole.

By the 14th the balloon was finished, and, carefully sewn and well

varnished as it had been, it was really a very substantial structure. It

was covered with a network that had been made from the light rigging

of the yacht, and the car, composed of wicker-work that had formed

partitions in the hold of the _Hansa_, was quite commodious enough to

hold the twenty-three passengers it was intended to convey. No thought

had been bestowed upon comfort or convenience, as the ascent was to

last for so short a time, merely long enough for making the transit from

atmosphere to atmosphere.

The necessity was becoming more and more urgent to get at the true

hour of the approaching contact, but the professor seemed to grow more

obstinate than ever in his resolution to keep his secret.

On the 15th the comet crossed the orbit of Mars, at the safe distance

of 56,000,000 leagues; but during that night the community thought

that their last hour had taken them unawares. The volcano rocked and

trembled with the convulsions of internal disturbance, and Servadac and

his companions, convinced that the mountain was doomed to some sudden

disruption, rushed into the open air.

The first object that caught their attention as they emerged upon the

open rocks was the unfortunate professor, who was scrambling down

the mountain-side, piteously displaying a fragment of his shattered

telescope.

It was no time for condolence.

A new marvel arrested every eye. A fresh satellite, in the gloom of

night, was shining conspicuously before them.

That satellite was a part of Gallia itself!

By the expansive action of the inner heat, Gallia, like Gambart’s comet,

had been severed in twain; an enormous fragment had been detached and

launched into space!

The fragment included Ceuta and Gibraltar, with the two English

garrisons!

CHAPTER XVII. THE VENTURE MADE

What would be the consequences of this sudden and complete disruption,

Servadac and his people hardly dared to think.

The first change that came under their observation was the rapidity of

the sun’s appearances and disappearances, forcing them to the conviction

that although the comet still rotated on its axis from east to west, yet

the period of its rotation had been diminished by about one-half. Only

six hours instead of twelve elapsed between sunrise and sunrise; three

hours after rising in the west the sun was sinking again in the east.

“We are coming to something!” exclaimed Servadac. “We have got a year of

something like 2,880 days.”

“I shouldn’t think it would be an easy matter to find saints enough for

such a calendar as that!” said Ben Zoof.

Servadac laughed, and remarked that they should have the professor

talking about the 238th of June, and the 325th of December.

It soon became evident that the detached portion was not revolving

round the comet, but was gradually retreating into space. Whether it

had carried with it any portion of atmosphere, whether it possessed

any other condition for supporting life, and whether it was likely ever

again to approach to the earth, were all questions that there were no

means of determining. For themselves the all-important problem was--what

effect would the rending asunder of the comet have upon its rate of

progress? and as they were already conscious of a further increase of

muscular power, and a fresh diminution of specific gravity, Servadac and

his associates could not but wonder whether the alteration in the mass

of the comet would not result in its missing the expected coincidence

with the earth altogether.

Although he professed himself incompetent to pronounce a decided

opinion, Lieutenant Procope manifestly inclined to the belief that no

alteration would ensue in the rate of Gallia’s velocity; but Rosette, no

doubt, could answer the question directly, and the time had now

arrived in which he must be compelled to divulge the precise moment of

collision.

But the professor was in the worst of tempers. Generally taciturn and

morose, he was more than usually uncivil whenever any one ventured to

speak to him. The loss of his telescope had doubtless a great deal to do

with his ill-humor; but the captain drew the most favorable conclusions

from Rosette’s continued irritation. Had the comet been in any way

projected from its course, so as to be likely to fail in coming into

contact with the earth, the professor would have been quite unable

to conceal his satisfaction. But they required to know more than the

general truth, and felt that they had no time to lose in getting at the

exact details.

The opportunity that was wanted soon came.

On the 18th, Rosette was overheard in furious altercation with Ben Zoof.

The orderly had been taunting the astronomer with the mutilation of his

little comet. A fine thing, he said, to split in two like a child’s toy.

It had cracked like a dry nut; and mightn’t one as well live upon an

exploding bomb?--with much more to the same effect. The professor, by

way of retaliation, had commenced sneering at the “prodigious” mountain

of Montmartre, and the dispute was beginning to look serious when

Servadac entered.

Thinking he could turn the wrangling to some good account, so as to

arrive at the information he was so anxiously seeking, the captain

pretended to espouse the views of his orderly; he consequently brought

upon himself the full force of the professor’s wrath.

Rosette’s language became more and more violent, till Servadac, feigning

to be provoked beyond endurance, cried:

“You forget, sir, that you are addressing the Governor-General of

Gallia.”

“Governor-General! humbug!” roared Rosette. “Gallia is my comet!”

“I deny it,” said Servadac. “Gallia has lost its chance of getting back

to the earth. Gallia has nothing to do with you. Gallia is mine; and you

must submit to the government which I please to ordain.”

“And who told you that Gallia is not going back to the earth?” asked the

professor, with a look of withering scorn.

“Why, isn’t her mass diminished? Isn’t she split in half? Isn’t her

velocity all altered?” demanded the captain.

“And pray who told you this?” again said the professor, with a sneer.

“Everybody. Everybody knows it, of course,” replied Servadac.

“Everybody is very clever. And you always were a very clever scholar

too. We remember that of old, don’t we?”

“Sir!”

“You nearly mastered the first elements of science, didn’t you?”

“Sir!”

“A credit to your class!”

“Hold your tongue, sir!” bellowed the captain again, as if his anger was

uncontrollable.

“Not I,” said the professor.

“Hold your tongue!” repeated Servadac.

“Just because the mass is altered you think the velocity is altered?”

“Hold your tongue!” cried the captain, louder than ever.

“What has mass to do with the orbit? Of how many comets do you know the

mass, and yet you know their movements? Ignorance!” shouted Rosette.

“Insolence!” retorted Servadac.

Ben Zoof, really thinking that his master was angry, made a threatening

movement towards the professor.

“Touch me if you dare!” screamed Rosette, drawing himself up to the

fullest height his diminutive figure would allow. “You shall answer for

your conduct before a court of justice!”

“Where? On Gallia?” asked the captain.

“No; on the earth.”

“The earth! Pshaw! You know we shall never get there; our velocity is

changed.”

“On the earth,” repeated the professor, with decision.

“Trash!” cried Ben Zoof. “The earth will be too far off!”

“Not too far off for us to come across her orbit at 42 minutes and 35.6

seconds past two o’clock on the morning of this coming 1st of January.”

“Thanks, my dear professor--many thanks. You have given me all the

information I required;” and, with a low bow and a gracious smile, the

captain withdrew. The orderly made an equally polite bow, and followed

his master. The professor, completely nonplussed, was left alone.

Thirteen days, then--twenty-six of the original Gallian days, fifty-two

of the present--was all the time for preparation that now remained.

Every preliminary arrangement was hurried on with the greatest

earnestness.

There was a general eagerness to be quit of Gallia. Indifferent to

the dangers that must necessarily attend a balloon ascent under such

unparalleled circumstances, and heedless of Lieutenant Procope’s warning

that the slightest check in their progress would result in instantaneous

combustion, they all seemed to conclude that it must be the simplest

thing possible to glide from one atmosphere to another, so that they

were quite sanguine as to the successful issue of their enterprise.

Captain Servadac made a point of showing himself quite enthusiastic in

his anticipations, and to Ben Zoof the going up in a balloon was the

supreme height of his ambition. The count and the lieutenant, of colder

and less demonstrative temperament, alike seemed to realize the possible

perils of the undertaking, but even they were determined to put a bold

face upon every difficulty.

The sea had now become navigable, and three voyages were made to Gourbi

Island in the steam launch, consuming the last of their little reserve

of coal.

The first voyage had been made by Servadac with several of the sailors.

They found the gourbi and the adjacent building quite uninjured by

the severity of the winter; numbers of little rivulets intersected the

pasture-land; new plants were springing up under the influence of the

equatorial sun, and the luxuriant foliage was tenanted by the birds

which had flown back from the volcano. Summer had almost abruptly

succeeded to winter, and the days, though only three hours long, were

intensely hot.

Another of the voyages to the island had been to collect the dry grass

and straw which was necessary for inflating the balloon. Had the balloon

been less cumbersome it would have been conveyed to the island,

whence the start would have been effected; but as it was, it was more

convenient to bring the combustible material to the balloon.

The last of the coal having been consumed, the fragments of the

shipwrecked vessels had to be used day by day for fuel. Hakkabut began

making a great hubbub when he found that they were burning some of the

spars of the _Hansa_; but he was effectually silenced by Ben Zoof, who

told him that if he made any more fuss, he should be compelled to pay

50,000 francs for a balloon-ticket, or else he should be left behind.

By Christmas Day everything was in readiness for immediate departure.

The festival was observed with a solemnity still more marked than the

anniversary of the preceding year. Every one looked forward to spending

New Year’s Day in another sphere altogether, and Ben Zoof had already

promised Pablo and Nina all sorts of New Year’s gifts.

It may seem strange, but the nearer the critical moment approached, the

less Hector Servadac and Count Timascheff had to say to each other on

the subject. Their mutual reserve became more apparent; the experiences

of the last two years were fading from their minds like a dream; and the

fair image that had been the cause of their original rivalry was ever

rising, as a vision, between them.

The captain’s thoughts began to turn to his unfinished rondo; in

his leisure moments, rhymes suitable and unsuitable, possible and

impossible, were perpetually jingling in his imagination. He labored

under the conviction that he had a work of genius to complete. A poet he

had left the earth, and a poet he must return.

Count Timascheff’s desire to return to the world was quite equaled by

Lieutenant Procope’s. The Russian sailors’ only thought was to follow

their master, wherever he went. The Spaniards, though they would have

been unconcerned to know that they were to remain upon Gallia, were

nevertheless looking forward with some degree of pleasure to revisiting

the plains of Andalusia; and Nina and Pablo were only too delighted

at the prospect of accompanying their kind protectors on any fresh

excursion whatever.

The only malcontent was Palmyrin Rosette. Day and night he persevered

in his astronomical pursuits, declared his intention of never abandoning

his comet, and swore positively that nothing should induce him to set

foot in the car of the balloon.

The misfortune that had befallen his telescope was a never-ending theme

of complaint; and just now, when Gallia was entering the narrow zone of

shooting-stars, and new discoveries might have been within his reach,

his loss made him more inconsolable than ever. In sheer desperation, he

endeavored to increase the intensity of his vision by applying to his

eyes some belladonna which he found in the _Dobryna’s_ medicine chest;

with heroic fortitude he endured the tortures of the experiment, and

gazed up into the sky until he was nearly blind. But all in vain; not a

single fresh discovery rewarded his sufferings.

No one was quite exempt from the feverish excitement which prevailed

during the last days of December. Lieutenant Procope superintended his

final arrangements. The two low masts of the schooner had been erected

firmly on the shore, and formed supports for the montgolfier, which had

been duly covered with the netting, and was ready at any moment to

be inflated. The car was close at hand. Some inflated skins had been

attached to its sides, so that the balloon might float for a time, in

the event of its descending in the sea at a short distance from the

shore. If unfortunately, it should come down in mid-ocean, nothing but

the happy chance of some passing vessel could save them all from the

certain fate of being drowned.

The 31st came. Twenty-four hours hence and the balloon, with its large

living freight, would be high in the air. The atmosphere was less

buoyant than that of the earth, but no difficulty in ascending was to be

apprehended.

Gallia was now within 96,000,000 miles of the sun, consequently not much

more than 4,000,000 miles from the earth; and this interval was being

diminished at the rate of nearly 208,000 miles an hour, the speed of the

earth being about 70,000 miles, that of the comet being little less than

138,000 miles an hour.

It was determined to make the start at two o’clock, three-quarters of

an hour, or, to speak correctly 42 minutes 35.6 seconds, before the time

predicted by the professor as the instant of collision. The modified

rotation of the comet caused it to be daylight at the time.

An hour previously the balloon was inflated with perfect success,

and the car was securely attached to the network. It only awaited the

stowage of the passengers.

Isaac Hakkabut was the first to take his place in the car. But scarcely

had he done so, when Servadac noticed that his waist was encompassed

by an enormous girdle that bulged out to a very extraordinary extent.

“What’s all this, Hakkabut?” he asked.

“It’s only my little bit of money, your Excellency; my modest little

fortune--a mere bagatelle,” said the Jew.

“And what may your little fortune weigh?” inquired the captain.

“Only about sixty-six pounds!” said Isaac.

“Sixty-six pounds!” cried Servadac. “We haven’t reckoned for this.”

“Merciful heavens!” began the Jew.

“Sixty-six pounds!” repeated Servadac. “We can hardly carry ourselves;

we can’t have any dead weight here. Pitch it out, man, pitch it out!”

“God of Israel!” whined Hakkabut.

“Out with it, I say!” cried Servadac.

“What, all my money, which I have saved so long, and toiled for so

hard?”

“It can’t be helped,” said the captain, unmoved.

“Oh, your Excellency!” cried the Jew.

“Now, old Nicodemus, listen to me,” interposed Ben Zoof; “you just get

rid of that pouch of yours, or we will get rid of you. Take your choice.

Quick, or out you go!”

The avaricious old man was found to value his life above his money; he

made a lamentable outcry about it, but he unfastened his girdle at last,

and put it out of the car.

Very different was the case with Palmyrin Rosette. He avowed over and

over again his intention of never quitting the nucleus of his comet. Why

should he trust himself to a balloon, that would blaze up like a piece

of paper? Why should he leave the comet? Why should he not go once again

upon its surface into the far-off realms of space?

His volubility was brought to a sudden check by Servadac’s bidding two

of the sailors, without more ado, to take him in their arms and put him

quietly down at the bottom of the car.

To the great regret of their owners, the two horses and Nina’s pet goat

were obliged to be left behind. The only creature for which there was

found a place was the carrier-pigeon that had brought the professor’s

message to the Hive. Servadac thought it might probably be of service in

carrying some communication to the earth.

When every one, except the captain and his orderly, had taken their

places, Servadac said, “Get in, Ben Zoof.”

“After you, sir,” said Ben Zoof, respectfully.

“No, no!” insisted Servadac; “the captain must be the last to leave the

ship!”

A moment’s hesitation and the orderly clambered over the side of the

car. Servadac followed. The cords were cut. The balloon rose with

stately calmness into the air.

CHAPTER XVIII. SUSPENSE

When the balloon had reached an elevation of about 2,500 yards,

Lieutenant Procope determined to maintain it at that level. A wire-work

stove, suspended below the casing, and filled with lighted hay, served

to keep the air in the interior at a proper temperature.

Beneath their feet was extended the basin of the Gallian Sea. An

inconsiderable speck to the north marked the site of Gourbi Island.

Ceuta and Gibraltar, which might have been expected in the west, had

utterly disappeared. On the south rose the volcano, the extremity of the

promontory that jutted out from the continent that formed the framework

of the sea; whilst in every direction the strange soil, with its

commixture of tellurium and gold, gleamed under the sun’s rays with a

perpetual iridescence.

Apparently rising with them in their ascent, the horizon was

well-defined. The sky above them was perfectly clear; but away in the

northwest, in opposition to the sun, floated a new sphere, so small that

it could not be an asteroid, but like a dim meteor. It was the fragment

that the internal convulsion had rent from the surface of the comet,

and which was now many thousands of leagues away, pursuing the new orbit

into which it had been projected. During the hours of daylight it

was far from distinct, but after nightfall it would assume a definite

luster.

The object, however, of supreme interest was the great expanse of the

terrestrial disc, which was rapidly drawing down obliquely towards them.

It totally eclipsed an enormous portion of the firmament above, and

approaching with an ever-increasing velocity, was now within half its

average distance from the moon. So close was it, that the two poles

could not be embraced in one focus. Irregular patches of greater or

less brilliancy alternated on its surface, the brighter betokening the

continents, the more somber indicating the oceans that absorbed the

solar rays. Above, there were broad white bands, darkened on the side

averted from the sun, exhibiting a slow but unintermittent movement;

these were the vapors that pervaded the terrestrial atmosphere.

But as the aeronauts were being hurried on at a speed of 70 miles

a second, this vague aspect of the earth soon developed itself into

definite outlines. Mountains and plains were no longer confused, the

distinction between sea and shore was more plainly identified, and

instead of being, as it were, depicted on a map, the surface of the

earth appeared as though modelled in relief.

Twenty-seven minutes past two, and Gallia is only 72,000 miles from the

terrestrial sphere; quicker and quicker is the velocity; ten minutes

later, and they are only 36,000 miles apart!

The whole configuration of the earth is clear.

“Europe! Russia! France!” shout Procope, the count, and Servadac, almost

in a breath.

And they are not mistaken. The eastern hemisphere lies before them

in the full blaze of light, and there is no possibility of error in

distinguishing continent from continent.

The surprise only kindled their emotion to yet keener intensity, and it

would be hard to describe the excitement with which they gazed at the

panorama that was before them. The crisis of peril was close at hand,

but imagination overleaped all consideration of danger; and everything

was absorbed in the one idea that they were again within reach of that

circle of humanity from which they had supposed themselves severed

forever.

And, truly, if they could have paused to study it, that panorama of

the states of Europe which was outstretched before their eyes, was

conspicuous for the fantastic resemblances with which Nature on the one

hand, and international relations on the other, have associated them.

There was England, marching like some stately dame towards the east,

trailing her ample skirts and coroneted with the cluster of her little

islets; Sweden and Norway, with their bristling spine of mountains,

seemed like a splendid lion eager to spring down from the bosom of the

ice-bound north; Russia, a gigantic polar bear, stood with its head

towards Asia, its left paw resting upon Turkey, its right upon Mount

Caucasus; Austria resembled a huge cat curled up and sleeping a watchful

sleep; Spain, with Portugal as a pennant, like an unfurled banner,

floated from the extremity of the continent; Turkey, like an insolent

cock, appeared to clutch the shores of Asia with the one claw, and the

land of Greece with the other; Italy, as it were a foot and leg encased

in a tight-fitting boot, was juggling deftly with the islands of Sicily,

Sardinia, and Corsica; Prussia, a formidable hatchet imbedded in the

heart of Germany, its edge just grazing the frontiers of France; whilst

France itself suggested a vigorous torso with Paris at its breast.

All at once Ben Zoof breaks the silence: “Montmartre! I see Montmartre!”

And, smile at the absurdity as others might, nothing could induce the

worthy orderly to surrender his belief that he could actually make out

the features of his beloved home.

The only individual whose soul seemed unstirred by the approaching earth

was Palmyrin Rosette. Leaning over the side of the car, he kept his eyes

fixed upon the abandoned comet, now floating about a mile and a half

below him, bright in the general irradiation which was flooding the

surrounding space.

Chronometer in hand, Lieutenant Procope stood marking the minutes and

seconds as they fled; and the stillness which had once again fallen upon

them all was only broken by his order to replenish the stove, that the

montgolfier might retain its necessary level. Servadac and the count

continued to gaze upon the earth with an eagerness that almost amounted

to awe. The balloon was slightly in the rear of Gallia, a circumstance

that augured somewhat favorably, because it might be presumed that if

the comet preceded the balloon in its contact with the earth, there

would be a break in the suddenness of transfer from one atmosphere to

the other.

The next question of anxiety was, where would the balloon alight? If

upon _terra firma_, would it be in a place where adequate resources for

safety would be at hand? If upon the ocean, would any passing vessel be

within hail to rescue them from their critical position? Truly, as the

count observed to his comrades, none but a Divine Pilot could steer them

now.

“Forty-two minutes past!” said the lieutenant, and his voice seemed to

thrill through the silence of expectation.

There were not 20,000 miles between the comet and the earth!

The calculated time of impact was 2 hours 47 minutes 35.6 seconds. Five

minutes more and collision must ensue!

But was it so? Just at this moment, Lieutenant Procope observed that the

comet deviated sensibly in an oblique course. Was it possible that after

all collision would not occur?

The deviation, however, was not great; it did not justify any

anticipation that Gallia would merely graze the earth, as it had done

before; it left it certain that the two bodies would inevitably impinge.

“No doubt,” said Ben Zoof, “this time we shall stick together.”

Another thought occurred. Was it not only too likely that, in the fusion

of the two atmospheres, the balloon itself, in which they were being

conveyed, would be rent into ribbons, and every one of its passengers

hurled into destruction, so that not a Gallian should survive to tell

the tale of their strange peregrinations?

Moments were precious; but Hector Servadac resolved that he would adopt

a device to secure that at least some record of their excursion in solar

distances should survive themselves.

Tearing a leaf from his note-book, he wrote down the name of the comet,

the list of the fragments of the earth it had carried off, the names

of his companions, and the date of the comet’s aphelion; and having

subscribed it with his signature, turned to Nina and told her he must

have the carrier-pigeon which was nestling in her bosom.

The child’s eyes filled with tears; she did not say a word, but

imprinting a kiss upon its soft plumage, she surrendered it at once, and

the message was hurriedly fastened to its neck. The bird wheeled round

and round in a few circles that widened in their diameter, and quickly

sunk to an altitude in the comet’s atmosphere much inferior to the

balloon.

Some minutes more were thus consumed and the interval of distance was

reduced to less than 8,000 miles.

The velocity became inconceivably great, but the increased rate of

motion was in no way perceptible; there was nothing to disturb the

equilibrium of the car in which they were making their aerial adventure.

“Forty-six minutes!” announced the lieutenant.

The glowing expanse of the earth’s disc seemed like a vast funnel,

yawning to receive the comet and its atmosphere, balloon and all, into

its open mouth.

“Forty-seven!” cried Procope.

There was half a minute yet. A thrill ran through every vein. A

vibration quivered through the atmosphere. The montgolfier, elongated

to its utmost stretch, was manifestly being sucked into a vortex. Every

passenger in the quivering car involuntarily clung spasmodically to its

sides, and as the two atmospheres amalgamated, clouds accumulated in

heavy masses, involving all around in dense obscurity, while flashes of

lurid flame threw a weird glimmer on the scene.

In a mystery every one found himself upon the earth again. They could

not explain it, but here they were once more upon terrestrial soil; in

a swoon they had left the earth, and in a similar swoon they had come

back!

Of the balloon not a vestige remained, and contrary to previous

computation, the comet had merely grazed the earth, and was traversing

the regions of space, again far away!

CHAPTER XIX. BACK AGAIN

“In Algeria, captain?”

“Yes, Ben Zoof, in Algeria; and not far from Mostaganem.” Such were the

first words which, after their return to consciousness, were exchanged

between Servadac and his orderly.

They had resided so long in the province that they could not for a

moment be mistaken as to their whereabouts, and although they were

incapable of clearing up the mysteries that shrouded the miracle, yet

they were convinced at the first glance that they had been returned to

the earth at the very identical spot where they had quitted it.

In fact, they were scarcely more than a mile from Mostaganem, and in

the course of an hour, when they had all recovered from the bewilderment

occasioned by the shock, they started off in a body and made their way

to the town. It was a matter of extreme surprise to find no symptom of

the least excitement anywhere as they went along. The population was

perfectly calm; every one was pursuing his ordinary avocation; the

cattle were browsing quietly upon the pastures that were moist with the

dew of an ordinary January morning. It was about eight o’clock; the sun

was rising in the east; nothing could be noticed to indicate that

any abnormal incident had either transpired or been expected by the

inhabitants. As to a collision with a comet, there was not the faintest

trace of any such phenomenon crossing men’s minds, and awakening, as

it surely would, a panic little short of the certified approach of the

millennium.

“Nobody expects us,” said Servadac; “that is very certain.”

“No, indeed,” answered Ben Zoof, with a sigh; he was manifestly

disappointed that his return to Mostaganem was not welcomed with a

triumphal reception.

They reached the Mascara gate. The first persons that Servadac

recognized were the two friends that he had invited to be his seconds in

the duel two years ago, the colonel of the 2nd Fusiliers and the captain

of the 8th Artillery. In return to his somewhat hesitating salutation,

the colonel greeted him heartily, “Ah! Servadac, old fellow! is it you?”

“I, myself,” said the captain.

“Where on earth have you been to all this time? In the name of peace,

what have you been doing with yourself?”

“You would never believe me, colonel,” answered Servadac, “if I were to

tell you; so on that point I had better hold my tongue.”

“Hang your mysteries!” said the colonel; “tell me, where have you been?”

“No, my friend, excuse me,” replied Servadac; “but shake hands with me

in earnest, that I may be sure I am not dreaming.” Hector Servadac

had made up his mind, and no amount of persuasion could induce him to

divulge his incredible experiences.

Anxious to turn the subject, Servadac took the earliest opportunity of

asking, “And what about Madame de L----?”

“Madame de L-----!” exclaimed the colonel, taking the words out of his

mouth; “the lady is married long ago; you did not suppose that she was

going to wait for you. ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ you know.”

“True,” replied Servadac; and turning to the count he said, “Do you hear

that? We shall not have to fight our duel after all.”

“Most happy to be excused,” rejoined the count. The rivals took each

other by the hand, and were united henceforth in the bonds of a sincere

and confiding friendship.

“An immense relief,” said Servadac to himself, “that I have no occasion

to finish that confounded rondo!”

It was agreed between the captain and the count that it would be

desirable in every way to maintain the most rigid silence upon the

subject of the inexplicable phenomena which had come within their

experience. It was to them both a subject of the greatest perplexity to

find that the shores of the Mediterranean had undergone no change,

but they coincided in the opinion that it was prudent to keep their

bewilderment entirely to themselves. Nothing induced them to break their

reserve.

The very next day the small community was broken up.

The _Dobryna’s_ crew, with the count and the lieutenant, started for

Russia, and the Spaniards, provided, by the count’s liberality, with a

competency that ensured them from want, were despatched to their native

shores. The leave taking was accompanied by genuine tokens of regard and

goodwill.

For Isaac Hakkabut alone there was no feeling of regret. Doubly ruined

by the loss of his tartan, and by the abandonment of his fortune, he

disappeared entirely from the scene. It is needless to say that no

one troubled himself to institute a search after him, and, as Ben Zoof

sententiously remarked, “Perhaps old Jehoram is making money in America

by exhibiting himself as the latest arrival from a comet!”

But however great was the reserve which Captain Servadac might make

on his part, nothing could induce Professor Rosette to conceal his

experiences. In spite of the denial which astronomer after astronomer

gave to the appearance of such a comet as Gallia at all, and of its

being refused admission to the catalogue, he published a voluminous

treatise, not only detailing his own adventures, but setting forth, with

the most elaborate precision, all the elements which settled its period

and its orbit. Discussions arose in scientific circles; an overwhelming

majority decided against the representations of the professor; an

unimportant minority declared themselves in his favor, and a pamphlet

obtained some degree of notice, ridiculing the whole debate under the

title of “The History of an Hypothesis.” In reply to this impertinent

criticism of his labors, Rosette issued a rejoinder full with the most

vehement expressions of indignation, and reiterating his asseveration

that a fragment of Gibraltar was still traversing the regions of space,

carrying thirteen Englishmen upon its surface, and concluding by saying

that it was the great disappointment of his life that he had not been

taken with them.

Pablo and little Nina were adopted, the one by Servadac, the other

by the count, and under the supervision of their guardians, were well

educated and cared for. Some years later, Colonel, no longer Captain,

Servadac, his hair slightly streaked with grey, had the pleasure of

seeing the handsome young Spaniard united in marriage to the Italian,

now grown into a charming girl, upon whom the count bestowed an ample

dowry; the young people’s happiness in no way marred by the fact that

they had not been destined, as once seemed likely, to be the Adam and

Eve of a new world.

The career of the comet was ever a mystery which neither Servadac nor

his orderly could eliminate from the regions of doubt. Anyhow, they were

firmer and more confiding friends than ever.

One day, in the environs of Montmartre, where they were secure from

eavesdroppers, Ben Zoof incidentally referred to the experiences in

the depths of Nina’s Hive; but stopped short and said, “However, those

things never happened, sir, did they?”

His master could only reply, “Confound it, Ben Zoof! What is a man to

believe?”

Note: I have omitted the designation “V. IX. Verne” from those pages

where it appeared as the last line; I have also made the following

changes to the text:

PAGE LINE ORIGINAL CHANGED TO

16 10 o’clock. o’clock.”

18 4 singe single

85 6 Parfait!!! Parfait!!!”

87 5 asteriod asteroid

130 13 colonly colony

143 17 tin tain

161 30 Europe. Europe.”

179 15 Leiutenant Lieutenant

241 14 coud could