CHAPTER XVII.

IN WHICH DOCTOR OX’S THEORY IS EXPLAINED.

What, then, had this mysterious Doctor Ox done? Tried a fantastic

experiment,—nothing more.

After having laid down his gas-pipes, he had saturated, first the

public buildings, then the private dwellings, finally the streets of

Quiquendone, with pure oxygen, without letting in the least atom of

hydrogen.

This gas, tasteless and odorless, spread in generous quantity through

the atmosphere, causes, when it is breathed, serious agitation to the

human organism. One who lives in an air saturated with oxygen grows

excited, frantic, burns!

You scarcely return to the ordinary atmosphere before you return to

your usual state. For instance, the counsellor and the burgomaster at

the top of the belfry were themselves again, as the oxygen is kept, by

its weight, in the lower strata of the air.

But one who lives under such conditions, breathing this gas which

transforms the body physiologically as well as the soul, dies speedily,

like a madman.

It was fortunate, then, for the Quiquendonians, that a providential

explosion put an end to this dangerous experiment, and abolished Doctor

Ox’s gas-works.

To conclude: Are virtue, courage, talent, wit, imagination,—are all

these qualities or faculties only a question of oxygen?

Such is Doctor Ox’s theory; but we are not bound to accept it, and for

ourselves we utterly reject it, in spite of the curious experiment of

which the worthy old town of Quiquendone was the theatre.

MASTER ZACHARIUS

CHAPTER I.

A WINTER NIGHT.

The city of Geneva lies at the west end of the lake of the same name.

The Rhone, which passes through the town at the outlet of the lake,

divides it into two sections, and is itself divided in the centre of

the city by an island placed in mid-stream. A topographical feature

like this is often found in the great depôts of commerce and industry.

No doubt the first inhabitants were influenced by the easy means of

transport which the swift currents of the rivers offered them—those

“roads which walk along of their own accord,” as Pascal puts it. In the

case of the Rhone, it would be the road that ran along.

Before new and regular buildings were constructed on this island, which

was enclosed like a Dutch galley in the middle of the river, the

curious mass of houses, piled one on the other, presented a

delightfully confused _coup-d’oeil_. The small area of the island had

compelled some of the buildings to be perched, as it were, on the

piles, which were entangled in the rough currents of the river. The

huge beams, blackened by time, and worn by the water, seemed like the

claws of an enormous crab, and presented a fantastic appearance. The

little yellow streams, which were like cobwebs stretched amid this

ancient foundation, quivered in the darkness, as if they had been the

leaves of some old oak forest, while the river engulfed in this forest

of piles, foamed and roared most mournfully.

One of the houses of the island was striking for its curiously aged

appearance. It was the dwelling of the old clockmaker, Master

Zacharius, whose household consisted of his daughter Gerande, Aubert

Thun, his apprentice, and his old servant Scholastique.

There was no man in Geneva to compare in interest with this Zacharius.

His age was past finding out. Not the oldest inhabitant of the town

could tell for how long his thin, pointed head had shaken above his

shoulders, nor the day when, for the first time, he had-walked through

the streets, with his long white locks floating in the wind. The man

did not live; he vibrated like the pendulum of his clocks. His spare

and cadaverous figure was always clothed in dark colours. Like the

pictures of Leonardo di Vinci, he was sketched in black.

Gerande had the pleasantest room in the whole house, whence, through a

narrow window, she had the inspiriting view of the snowy peaks of Jura;

but the bedroom and workshop of the old man were a kind of cavern close

on to the water, the floor of which rested on the piles.

From time immemorial Master Zacharius had never come out except at meal

times, and when he went to regulate the different clocks of the town.

He passed the rest of his time at his bench, which was covered with

numerous clockwork instruments, most of which he had invented himself.

For he was a clever man; his works were valued in all France and

Germany. The best workers in Geneva readily recognized his superiority,

and showed that he was an honour to the town, by saying, “To him

belongs the glory of having invented the escapement.” In fact, the

birth of true clock-work dates from the invention which the talents of

Zacharius had discovered not many years before.

After he had worked hard for a long time, Zacharius would slowly put

his tools away, cover up the delicate pieces that he had been adjusting

with glasses, and stop the active wheel of his lathe; then he would

raise a trap-door constructed in the floor of his workshop, and,

stooping down, used to inhale for hours together the thick vapours of

the Rhone, as it dashed along under his eyes.

[Illustration: he would raise the trap door constructed in the floor

of his workshop.]

One winter’s night the old servant Scholastique served the supper,

which, according to old custom, she and the young mechanic shared with

their master. Master Zacharius did not eat, though the food carefully

prepared for him was offered him in a handsome blue and white dish. He

scarcely answered the sweet words of Gerande, who evidently noticed her

father’s silence, and even the clatter of Scholastique herself no more

struck his ear than the roar of the river, to which he paid no

attention.

After the silent meal, the old clockmaker left the table without

embracing his daughter, or saying his usual “Good-night” to all. He

left by the narrow door leading to his den, and the staircase groaned

under his heavy footsteps as he went down.

Gerande, Aubert, and Scholastique sat for some minutes without

speaking. On this evening the weather was dull; the clouds dragged

heavily on the Alps, and threatened rain; the severe climate of

Switzerland made one feel sad, while the south wind swept round the

house, and whistled ominously.

“My dear young lady,” said Scholastique, at last, “do you know that our

master has been out of sorts for several days? Holy Virgin! I know he

has had no appetite, because his words stick in his inside, and it

would take a very clever devil to drag even one out of him.”

“My father has some secret cause of trouble, that I cannot even guess,”

replied Gerande, as a sad anxiety spread over her face.

“Mademoiselle, don’t let such sadness fill your heart. You know the

strange habits of Master Zacharius. Who can read his secret thoughts in

his face? No doubt some fatigue has overcome him, but to-morrow he will

have forgotten it, and be very sorry to have given his daughter pain.”

It was Aubert who spoke thus, looking into Gerande’s lovely eyes.

Aubert was the first apprentice whom Master Zacharius had ever admitted

to the intimacy of his labours, for he appreciated his intelligence,

discretion, and goodness of heart; and this young man had attached

himself to Gerande with the earnest devotion natural to a noble nature.

Gerande was eighteen years of age. Her oval face recalled that of the

artless Madonnas whom veneration still displays at the street corners

of the antique towns of Brittany. Her eyes betrayed an infinite

simplicity. One would love her as the sweetest realization of a poet’s

dream. Her apparel was of modest colours, and the white linen which was

folded about her shoulders had the tint and perfume peculiar to the

linen of the church. She led a mystical existence in Geneva, which had

not as yet been delivered over to the dryness of Calvinism.

While, night and morning, she read her Latin prayers in her

iron-clasped missal, Gerande had also discovered a hidden sentiment in

Aubert Thun’s heart, and comprehended what a profound devotion the

young workman had for her. Indeed, the whole world in his eyes was

condensed into this old clockmaker’s house, and he passed all his time

near the young girl, when he left her father’s workshop, after his work

was over.

Old Scholastique saw all this, but said nothing. Her loquacity

exhausted itself in preference on the evils of the times, and the

little worries of the household. Nobody tried to stop its course. It

was with her as with the musical snuff-boxes which they made at Geneva;

once wound up, you must break them before you will prevent their

playing all their airs through.

Finding Gerande absorbed in a melancholy silence, Scholastique left her

old wooden chair, fixed a taper on the end of a candlestick, lit it,

and placed it near a small waxen Virgin, sheltered in her niche of

stone. It was the family custom to kneel before this protecting Madonna

of the domestic hearth, and to beg her kindly watchfulness during the

coming night; but on this evening Gerande remained silent in her seat.

“Well, well, dear demoiselle,” said the astonished Scholastique,

“supper is over, and it is time to go to bed. Why do you tire your eyes

by sitting up late? Ah, Holy Virgin! It’s much better to sleep, and to

get a little comfort from happy dreams! In these detestable times in

which we live, who can promise herself a fortunate day?”

“Ought we not to send for a doctor for my father?” asked Gerande.

“A doctor!” cried the old domestic. “Has Master Zacharius ever listened

to their fancies and pompous sayings? He might accept medicines for the

watches, but not for the body!”

“What shall we do?” murmured Gerande. “Has he gone to work, or to

rest?”

“Gerande,” answered Aubert softly, “some mental trouble annoys your

father, that is all.”

“Do you know what it is, Aubert?”

“Perhaps, Gerande”

“Tell us, then,” cried Scholastique eagerly, economically extinguishing

her taper.

“For several days, Gerande,” said the young apprentice, “something

absolutely incomprehensible has been going on. All the watches which

your father has made and sold for some years have suddenly stopped.

Very many of them have been brought back to him. He has carefully taken

them to pieces; the springs were in good condition, and the wheels well

set. He has put them together yet more carefully; but, despite his

skill, they will not go.”

“The devil’s in it!” cried Scholastique.

“Why say you so?” asked Gerande. “It seems very natural to me. Nothing

lasts for ever in this world. The infinite cannot be fashioned by the

hands of men.”

“It is none the less true,” returned Aubert, “that there is in this

something very mysterious and extraordinary. I have myself been helping

Master Zacharius to search for the cause of this derangement of his

watches; but I have not been able to find it, and more than once I have

let my tools fall from my hands in despair.”

“But why undertake so vain a task?” resumed Scholastique. “Is it

natural that a little copper instrument should go of itself, and mark

the hours? We ought to have kept to the sun-dial!”

“You will not talk thus, Scholastique,” said Aubert, “when you learn

that the sun-dial was invented by Cain.”

“Good heavens! what are you telling me?”

“Do you think,” asked Gerande simply, “that we might pray to God to

give life to my father’s watches?”

“Without doubt,” replied Aubert.

“Good! They will be useless prayers,” muttered the old servant, “but

Heaven will pardon them for their good intent.”

The taper was relighted. Scholastique, Gerande, and Aubert knelt down

together upon the tiles of the room. The young girl prayed for her

mother’s soul, for a blessing for the night, for travellers and

prisoners, for the good and the wicked, and more earnestly than all for

the unknown misfortunes of her father.

[Illustration: The young girl prayed]

Then the three devout souls rose with some confidence in their hearts,

because they had laid their sorrow on the bosom of God.

Aubert repaired to his own room; Gerande sat pensively by the window,

whilst the last lights were disappearing from the city streets; and

Scholastique, having poured a little water on the flickering embers,

and shut the two enormous bolts on the door, threw herself upon her

bed, where she was soon dreaming that she was dying of fright.

Meanwhile the terrors of this winter’s night had increased. Sometimes,

with the whirlpools of the river, the wind engulfed itself among the

piles, and the whole house shivered and shook; but the young girl,

absorbed in her sadness, thought only of her father. After hearing what

Aubert told her, the malady of Master Zacharius took fantastic

proportions in her mind; and it seemed to her as if his existence, so

dear to her, having become purely mechanical, no longer moved on its

worn-out pivots without effort.

Suddenly the pent-house shutter, shaken by the squall, struck against

the window of the room. Gerande shuddered and started up without

understanding the cause of the noise which thus disturbed her reverie.

When she became a little calmer she opened the sash. The clouds had

burst, and a torrent-like rain pattered on the surrounding roofs. The

young girl leaned out of the window to draw to the shutter shaken by

the wind, but she feared to do so. It seemed to her that the rain and

the river, confounding their tumultuous waters, were submerging the

frail house, the planks of which creaked in every direction. She would

have flown from her chamber, but she saw below the flickering of a

light which appeared to come from Master Zacharius’s retreat, and in

one of those momentary calms during which the elements keep a sudden

silence, her ear caught plaintive sounds. She tried to shut her window,

but could not. The wind violently repelled her, like a thief who was

breaking into a dwelling.

Gerande thought she would go mad with terror. What was her father

doing? She opened the door, and it escaped from her hands, and slammed

loudly with the force of the tempest. Gerande then found herself in the

dark supper-room, succeeded in gaining, on tiptoe, the staircase which

led to her father’s shop, and pale and fainting, glided down.

The old watchmaker was upright in the middle of the room, which

resounded with the roaring of the river. His bristling hair gave him a

sinister aspect. He was talking and gesticulating, without seeing or

hearing anything. Gerande stood still on the threshold.

“It is death!” said Master Zacharius, in a hollow voice; “it is death!

Why should I live longer, now that I have dispersed my existence over

the earth? For I, Master, Zacharius, am really the creator of all the

watches that I have fashioned! It is a part of my very soul that I have

shut up in each of these cases of iron, silver, or gold! Every time

that one of these accursed watches stops, I feel my heart cease

beating, for I have regulated them with its pulsations!”

As he spoke in this strange way, the old man cast his eyes on his

bench. There lay all the pieces of a watch that he had carefully taken

apart. He took up a sort of hollow cylinder, called a barrel, in which

the spring is enclosed, and removed the steel spiral, but instead of

relaxing itself, according to the laws of its elasticity, it remained

coiled on itself like a sleeping viper. It seemed knotted, like

impotent old men whose blood has long been congealed. Master Zacharius

vainly essayed to uncoil it with his thin fingers, the outlines of

which were exaggerated on the wall; but he tried in vain, and soon,

with a terrible cry of anguish and rage, he threw it through the

trap-door into the boiling Rhone.

Gerande, her feet riveted to the floor, stood breathless and

motionless. She wished to approach her father, but could not. Giddy

hallucinations took possession of her. Suddenly she heard, in the

shade, a voice murmur in her ears,—

“Gerande, dear Gerande! grief still keeps you awake. Go in again, I beg

of you; the night is cold.”

“Aubert!” whispered the young girl. “You!”

“Ought I not to be troubled by what troubles you?”

These soft words sent the blood back into the young girl’s heart. She

leaned on Aubert’s arm, and said to him,—

“My father is very ill, Aubert! You alone can cure him, for this

disorder of the mind would not yield to his daughter’s consolings. His

mind is attacked by a very natural delusion, and in working with him,

repairing the watches, you will bring him back to reason. Aubert,” she

continued, “it is not true, is it, that his life is mixed up with that

of his watches?”

Aubert did not reply.

“But is my father’s a trade condemned by God?” asked Gerande,

trembling.

“I know not,” returned the apprentice, warming the cold hands of the

girl with his own. “But go back to your room, my poor Gerande, and with

sleep recover hope!”

Gerande slowly returned to her chamber, and remained there till

daylight, without sleep closing her eyelids. Meanwhile, Master

Zacharius, always mute and motionless, gazed at the river as it rolled

turbulently at his feet.

CHAPTER II.

THE PRIDE OF SCIENCE.

The severity of the Geneva merchant in business matters has become

proverbial. He is rigidly honourable, and excessively just. What must,

then, have been the shame of Master Zacharius, when he saw these

watches, which he had so carefully constructed, returning to him from

every direction?

It was certain that these watches had suddenly stopped, and without any

apparent reason. The wheels were in a good condition and firmly fixed,

but the springs had lost all elasticity. Vainly did the watchmaker try

to replace them; the wheels remained motionless. These unaccountable

derangements were greatly to the old man’s discredit. His noble

inventions had many times brought upon him suspicions of sorcery, which

now seemed confirmed. These rumours reached Gerande, and she often

trembled for her father, when she saw malicious glances directed

towards him.

Yet on the morning after this night of anguish, Master Zacharius seemed

to resume work with some confidence. The morning sun inspired him with

some courage. Aubert hastened to join him in the shop, and received an

affable “Good-day.”

“I am better,” said the old man. “I don’t know what strange pains in

the head attacked me yesterday, but the sun has quite chased them away,

with the clouds of the night.”

“In faith, master,” returned Aubert, “I don’t like the night for either

of us!”

“And thou art right, Aubert. If you ever become a great man, you will

understand that day is as necessary to you as food. A great savant

should be always ready to receive the homage of his fellow-men.”

“Master, it seems to me that the pride of science has possessed you.”

“Pride, Aubert! Destroy my past, annihilate my present, dissipate my

future, and then it will be permitted to me to live in obscurity! Poor

boy, who comprehends not the sublime things to which my art is wholly

devoted! Art thou not but a tool in my hands?”

“Yet. Master Zacharius,” resumed Aubert, “I have more than once merited

your praise for the manner in which I adjusted the most delicate parts

of your watches and clocks.”

“No doubt, Aubert; thou art a good workman, such as I love; but when

thou workest, thou thinkest thou hast in thy hands but copper, silver,

gold; thou dost not perceive these metals, which my genius animates,

palpitating like living flesh! So that thou wilt not die, with the

death of thy works!”

Master Zacharius remained silent after these words; but Aubert essayed

to keep up the conversation.

“Indeed, master,” said he, “I love to see you work so unceasingly! You

will be ready for the festival of our corporation, for I see that the

work on this crystal watch is going forward famously.”

“No doubt, Aubert,” cried the old watchmaker, “and it will be no slight

honour for me to have been able to cut and shape the crystal to the

durability of a diamond! Ah, Louis Berghem did well to perfect the art

of diamond-cutting, which has enabled me to polish and pierce the

hardest stones!”

Master Zacharius was holding several small watch pieces of cut crystal,

and of exquisite workmanship. The wheels, pivots, and case of the watch

were of the same material, and he had employed remarkable skill in this

very difficult task.

“Would it not be fine,” said he, his face flushing, “to see this watch

palpitating beneath its transparent envelope, and to be able to count

the beatings of its heart?”

“I will wager, sir,” replied the young apprentice, “that it will not

vary a second in a year.”

“And you would wager on a certainty! Have I not imparted to it all that

is purest of myself? And does my heart vary? My heart, I say?”

Aubert did not dare to lift his eyes to his master’s face.

“Tell me frankly,” said the old man sadly. “Have you never taken me for

a madman? Do you not think me sometimes subject to dangerous folly?

Yes; is it not so? In my daughter’s eyes and yours, I have often read

my condemnation. Oh!” he cried, as if in pain, “to be misunderstood by

those whom one most loves in the world! But I will prove victoriously

to thee, Aubert, that I am right! Do not shake thy head, for thou wilt

be astounded. The day on which thou understandest how to listen to and

comprehend me, thou wilt see that I have discovered the secrets of

existence, the secrets of the mysterious union of the soul with the

body!”

[Illustration: “Thou wilt see that I have discovered the secrets of

existence.”]

As he spoke thus, Master Zacharius appeared superb in his vanity. His

eyes glittered with a supernatural fire, and his pride illumined every

feature. And truly, if ever vanity was excusable, it was that of Master

Zacharius!

The watchmaking art, indeed, down to his time, had remained almost in

its infancy. From the day when Plato, four centuries before the

Christian era, invented the night watch, a sort of clepsydra which

indicated the hours of the night by the sound and playing of a flute,

the science had continued nearly stationary. The masters paid more

attention to the arts than to mechanics, and it was the period of

beautiful watches of iron, copper, wood, silver, which were richly

engraved, like one of Cellini’s ewers. They made a masterpiece of

chasing, which measured time imperfectly, but was still a masterpiece.

When the artist’s imagination was not directed to the perfection of

modelling, it set to work to create clocks with moving figures and

melodious sounds, whose appearance took all attention. Besides, who

troubled himself, in those days, with regulating the advance of time?

The delays of the law were not as yet invented; the physical and

astronomical sciences had not as yet established their calculations on

scrupulously exact measurements; there were neither establishments

which were shut at a given hour, nor trains which departed at a precise

moment. In the evening the curfew bell sounded; and at night the hours

were cried amid the universal silence. Certainly people did not live so

long, if existence is measured by the amount of business done; but they

lived better. The mind was enriched with the noble sentiments born of

the contemplation of chefs-d’oeuvré. They built a church in two

centuries, a painter painted but few pictures in the course of his

life, a poet only composed one great work; but these were so many

masterpieces for after-ages to appreciate.

When the exact sciences began at last to make some progress, watch and

clock making followed in their path, though it was always arrested by

an insurmountable difficulty,—the regular and continuous measurement of

time.

It was in the midst of this stagnation that Master Zacharius invented

the escapement, which enabled him to obtain a mathematical regularity

by submitting the movement of the pendulum to a sustained force. This

invention had turned the old man’s head. Pride, swelling in his heart,

like mercury in the thermometer, had attained the height of

transcendent folly. By analogy he had allowed himself to be drawn to

materialistic conclusions, and as he constructed his watches, he

fancied that he had discovered the secrets of the union of the soul

with the body.

Thus, on this day, perceiving that Aubert listened to him attentively,

he said to him in a tone of simple conviction,—

“Dost thou know what life is, my child? Hast thou comprehended the

action of those springs which produce existence? Hast thou examined

thyself? No. And yet, with the eyes of science, thou mightest have seen

the intimate relation which exists between God’s work and my own; for

it is from his creature that I have copied the combinations of the

wheels of my clocks.”

“Master,” replied Aubert eagerly, “can you compare a copper or steel

machine with that breath of God which is called the soul, which

animates our bodies as the breeze stirs the flowers? What mechanism

could be so adjusted as to inspire us with thought?”

“That is not the question,” responded Master Zacharius gently, but with

all the obstinacy of a blind man walking towards an abyss. “In order to

understand me, thou must recall the purpose of the escapement which I

have invented. When I saw the irregular working of clocks, I understood

that the movements shut up in them did not suffice, and that it was

necessary to submit them to the regularity of some independent force. I

then thought that the balance-wheel might accomplish this, and I

succeeded in regulating the movement! Now, was it not a sublime idea

that came to me, to return to it its lost force by the action of the

clock itself, which it was charged with regulating?”

Aubert made a sign of assent.

“Now, Aubert,” continued the old man, growing animated, “cast thine

eyes upon thyself! Dost thou not understand that there are two distinct

forces in us, that of the soul and that of the body—that is, a movement

and a regulator? The soul is the principle of life; that is, then, the

movement. Whether it is produced by a weight, by a spring, or by an

immaterial influence, it is none the less in the heart. But without the

body this movement would be unequal, irregular, impossible! Thus the

body regulates the soul, and, like the balance-wheel, it is submitted

to regular oscillations. And this is so true, that one falls ill when

one’s drink, food, sleep—in a word, the functions of the body—are not

properly regulated; just as in my watches the soul renders to the body

the force lost by its oscillations. Well, what produces this intimate

union between soul and body, if not a marvellous escapement, by which

the wheels of the one work into the wheels of the other? This is what I

have discovered and applied; and there are no longer any secrets for me

in this life, which is, after all, only an ingenious mechanism!”

Master Zacharius looked sublime in this hallucination, which carried

him to the ultimate mysteries of the Infinite. But his daughter

Gerande, standing on the threshold of the door, had heard all. She

rushed into her father’s arms, and he pressed her convulsively to his

breast.

“What is the matter with thee, my daughter?” he asked.

“If I had only a spring here,” said she, putting her hand on her heart,

“I would not love you as I do, father.”

Master Zacharius looked intently at Gerande, and did not reply.

Suddenly he uttered a cry, carried his hand eagerly to his heart, and

fell fainting on his old leathern chair.

“Father, what is the matter?”

[Illustration: “Father, what is the matter?”]

“Help!” cried Aubert. “Scholastique!”

But Scholastique did not come at once. Some one was knocking at the

front door; she had gone to open it, and when she returned to the shop,

before she could open her mouth, the old watchmaker, having recovered

his senses, spoke:—

“I divine, my old Scholastique, that you bring me still another of

those accursed watches which have stopped.”

“Lord, it is true enough!” replied Scholastique, handing a watch to

Aubert.

“My heart could not be mistaken!” said the old man, with a sigh.

Meanwhile Aubert carefully wound up the watch, but it would not go.

CHAPTER III.

A STRANGE VISIT.

Poor Gerande would have lost her life with that of her father, had it

not been for the thought of Aubert, who still attached her to the

world.

The old watchmaker was, little by little, passing away. His faculties

evidently grew more feeble, as he concentrated them on a single

thought. By a sad association of ideas, he referred everything to his

monomania, and a human existence seemed to have departed from him, to

give place to the extra-natural existence of the intermediate powers.

Moreover, certain malicious rivals revived the sinister rumours which

had spread concerning his labours.

The news of the strange derangements which his watches betrayed had a

prodigious effect upon the master clockmakers of Geneva. What signified

this sudden paralysis of their wheels, and why these strange relations

which they seemed to have with the old man’s life? These were the kind

of mysteries which people never contemplate without a secret terror. In

the various classes of the town, from the apprentice to the great lord

who used the watches of the old horologist, there was no one who could

not himself judge of the singularity of the fact. The citizens wished,

but in vain, to get to see Master Zacharius. He fell very ill; and this

enabled his daughter to withdraw him from those incessant visits which

had degenerated into reproaches and recriminations.

Medicines and physicians were powerless in presence of this organic

wasting away, the cause of which could not be discovered. It sometimes

seemed as if the old man’s heart had ceased to beat; then the

pulsations were resumed with an alarming irregularity.

A custom existed in those days of publicly exhibiting the works of the

masters. The heads of the various corporations sought to distinguish

themselves by the novelty or the perfection of their productions; and

it was among these that the condition of Master Zacharius excited the

most lively, because most interested, commiseration. His rivals pitied

him the more willingly because they feared him the less. They never

forgot the old man’s success, when he exhibited his magnificent clocks

with moving figures, his repeaters, which provoked general admiration,

and commanded such high prices in the cities of France, Switzerland,

and Germany.

Meanwhile, thanks to the constant and tender care of Gerande and

Aubert, his strength seemed to return a little; and in the tranquillity

in which his convalescence left him, he succeeded in detaching himself

from the thoughts which had absorbed him. As soon as he could walk, his

daughter lured him away from the house, which was still besieged with

dissatisfied customers. Aubert remained in the shop, vainly adjusting

and readjusting the rebel watches; and the poor boy, completely

mystified, sometimes covered his face with his hands, fearful that he,

like his master, might go mad.

Gerande led her father towards the more pleasant promenades of the

town. With his arm resting on hers, she conducted him sometimes through

the quarter of Saint Antoine, the view from which extends towards the

Cologny hill, and over the lake; on fine mornings they caught sight of

the gigantic peaks of Mount Buet against the horizon. Gerande pointed

out these spots to her father, who had well-nigh forgotten even their

names. His memory wandered; and he took a childish interest in learning

anew what had passed from his mind. Master Zacharius leaned upon his

daughter; and the two heads, one white as snow and the other covered

with rich golden tresses, met in the same ray of sunlight.

So it came about that the old watchmaker at last perceived that he was

not alone in the world. As he looked upon his young and lovely

daughter, and on himself old and broken, he reflected that after his

death she would be left alone without support. Many of the young

mechanics of Geneva had already sought to win Gerande’s love; but none

of them had succeeded in gaining access to the impenetrable retreat of

the watchmaker’s household. It was natural, then, that during this

lucid interval, the old man’s choice should fall on Aubert Thun. Once

struck with this thought, he remarked to himself that this young couple

had been brought up with the same ideas and the same beliefs; and the

oscillations of their hearts seemed to him, as he said one day to

Scholastique, “isochronous.”

The old servant, literally delighted with the word, though she did not

understand it, swore by her holy patron saint that the whole town

should hear it within a quarter of an hour. Master Zacharius found it

difficult to calm her; but made her promise to keep on this subject a

silence which she never was known to observe.

So, though Gerande and Aubert were ignorant of it, all Geneva was soon

talking of their speedy union. But it happened also that, while the

worthy folk were gossiping, a strange chuckle was often heard, and a

voice saying, “Gerande will not wed Aubert.”

If the talkers turned round, they found themselves facing a little old

man who was quite a stranger to them.

How old was this singular being? No one could have told. People

conjectured that he must have existed for several centuries, and that

was all. His big flat head rested upon shoulders the width of which was

equal to the height of his body; this was not above three feet. This

personage would have made a good figure to support a pendulum, for the

dial would have naturally been placed on his face, and the

balance-wheel would have oscillated at its ease in his chest. His nose

might readily have been taken for the style of a sun-dial, for it was

narrow and sharp; his teeth, far apart, resembled the cogs of a wheel,

and ground themselves between his lips; his voice had the metallic

sound of a bell, and you could hear his heart beat like the tick of a

clock. This little man, whose arms moved like the hands on a dial,

walked with jerks, without ever turning round. If any one followed him,

it was found that he walked a league an hour, and that his course was

nearly circular.

This strange being had not long been seen wandering, or rather

circulating, around the town; but it had already been observed that,

every day, at the moment when the sun passed the meridian, he stopped

before the Cathedral of Saint Pierre, and resumed his course after the

twelve strokes of noon had sounded. Excepting at this precise moment,

he seemed to become a part of all the conversations in which the old

watchmaker was talked of; and people asked each other, in terror, what

relation could exist between him and Master Zacharius. It was remarked,

too, that he never lost sight of the old man and his daughter while

they were taking their promenades.

One day Gerande perceived this monster looking at her with a hideous

smile. She clung to her father with a frightened motion.

“What is the matter, my Gerande?” asked Master Zacharius.

“I do not know,” replied the young girl.

“But thou art changed, my child. Art thou going to fall ill in thy

turn? Ah, well,” he added, with a sad smile, “then I must take care of

thee, and I will do it tenderly.”

“O father, it will be nothing. I am cold, and I imagine that it is—”

“What, Gerande?”

“The presence of that man, who always follows us,” she replied in a low

tone.

Master Zacharius turned towards the little old man.

“Faith, he goes well,” said he, with a satisfied air, “for it is just

four o’clock. Fear nothing, my child; it is not a man, it is a clock!”

Gerande looked at her father in terror. How could Master Zacharius read

the hour on this strange creature’s visage?

“By-the-bye,” continued the old watchmaker, paying no further attention

to the matter, “I have not seen Aubert for several days.”

“He has not left us, however, father,” said Gerande, whose thoughts

turned into a gentler channel.

“What is he doing then?”

“He is working.”

“Ah!” cried the old man. “He is at work repairing my watches, is he

not? But he will never succeed; for it is not repair they need, but a

resurrection!”

Gerande remained silent.

“I must know,” added the old man, “if they have brought back any more

of those accursed watches upon which the Devil has sent this epidemic!”

After these words Master Zacharius fell into complete silence, till he

knocked at the door of his house, and for the first time since his

convalescence descended to his shop, while Gerande sadly repaired to

her chamber.

Just as Master Zacharius crossed the threshold of his shop, one of the

many clocks suspended on the wall struck five o’clock. Usually the

bells of these clocks—admirably regulated as they were—struck

simultaneously, and this rejoiced the old man’s heart; but on this day

the bells struck one after another, so that for a quarter of an hour

the ear was deafened by the successive noises. Master Zacharius

suffered acutely; he could not remain still, but went from one clock to

the other, and beat the time to them, like a conductor who no longer

has control over his musicians.

When the last had ceased striking, the door of the shop opened, and

Master Zacharius shuddered from head to foot to see before him the

little old man, who looked fixedly at him and said,—

“Master, may I not speak with you a few moments?”

“Who are you?” asked the watchmaker abruptly.

“A colleague. It is my business to regulate the sun.”

“Ah, you regulate the sun?” replied Master Zacharius eagerly, without

wincing. “I can scarcely compliment you upon it. Your sun goes badly,

and in order to make ourselves agree with it, we have to keep putting

our clocks forward so much or back so much.”

“And by the cloven foot,” cried this weird personage, “you are right,

my master! My sun does not always mark noon at the same moment as your

clocks; but some day it will be known that this is because of the

inequality of the earth’s transfer, and a mean noon will be invented

which will regulate this irregularity!”

“Shall I live till then?” asked the old man, with glistening eyes.

“Without doubt,” replied the little old man, laughing. “Can you believe

that you will ever die?”

“Alas! I am very ill now.”

“Ah, let us talk of that. By Beelzebub! that will lead to just what I

wish to speak to you about.”

Saying this, the strange being leaped upon the old leather chair, and

carried his legs one under the other, after the fashion of the bones

which the painters of funeral hangings cross beneath death’s heads.

Then he resumed, in an ironical tone,—

[Illustration: Then he resumed, in an ironical tone]

“Let us see, Master Zacharius, what is going on in this good town of

Geneva? They say that your health is failing, that your watches have

need of a doctor!”

“Ah, do you believe that there is an intimate relation between their

existence and mine?” cried Master Zacharius.

“Why, I imagine that these watches have faults, even vices. If these

wantons do not preserve a regular conduct, it is right that they should

bear the consequences of their irregularity. It seems to me that they

have need of reforming a little!”

“What do you call faults?” asked Master Zacharius, reddening at the

sarcastic tone in which these words were uttered. “Have they not a

right to be proud of their origin?”

“Not too proud, not too proud,” replied the little old man. “They bear

a celebrated name, and an illustrious signature is graven on their

cases, it is true, and theirs is the exclusive privilege of being

introduced among the noblest families; but for some time they have got

out of order, and you can do nothing in the matter, Master Zacharius;

and the stupidest apprentice in Geneva could prove it to you!”

“To me, to me,—Master Zacharius!” cried the old man, with a flush of

outraged pride.

“To you, Master Zacharius,—you, who cannot restore life to your

watches!”

“But it is because I have a fever, and so have they also!” replied the

old man, as a cold sweat broke out upon him.

“Very well, they will die with you, since you cannot impart a little

elasticity to their springs.”

“Die! No, for you yourself have said it! I cannot die,—I, the first

watchmaker in the world; I, who, by means of these pieces and diverse

wheels, have been able to regulate the movement with absolute

precision! Have I not subjected time to exact laws, and can I not

dispose of it like a despot? Before a sublime genius had arranged these

wandering hours regularly, in what vast uncertainty was human destiny

plunged? At what certain moment could the acts of life be connected

with each other? But you, man or devil, whatever you may be, have never

considered the magnificence of my art, which calls every science to its

aid! No, no! I, Master Zacharius, cannot die, for, as I have regulated

time, time would end with me! It would return to the infinite, whence

my genius has rescued it, and it would lose itself irreparably in the

abyss of nothingness! No, I can no more die than the Creator of this

universe, that submitted to His laws! I have become His equal, and I

have partaken of His power! If God has created eternity, Master

Zacharius has created time!”

The old watchmaker now resembled the fallen angel, defiant in the

presence of the Creator. The little old man gazed at him, and even

seemed to breathe into him this impious transport.

“Well said, master,” he replied. “Beelzebub had less right than you to

compare himself with God! Your glory must not perish! So your servant

here desires to give you the method of controlling these rebellious

watches.”

“What is it? what is it?” cried Master Zacharius.

“You shall know on the day after that on which you have given me your

daughter’s hand.”

“My Gerande?”

“Herself!”

“My daughter’s heart is not free,” replied Master Zacharius, who seemed

neither astonished nor shocked at the strange demand.

“Bah! She is not the least beautiful of watches; but she will end by

stopping also—”

“My daughter,—my Gerande! No!”

“Well, return to your watches, Master Zacharius. Adjust and readjust

them. Get ready the marriage of your daughter and your apprentice.

Temper your springs with your best steel. Bless Aubert and the pretty

Gerande. But remember, your watches will never go, and Gerande will

not wed Aubert!”

Thereupon the little old man disappeared, but not so quickly that

Master Zacharius could not hear six o’clock strike in his breast.

CHAPTER IV.

THE CHURCH OF SAINT PIERRE.

Meanwhile Master Zacharius became more feeble in mind and body every

day. An unusual excitement, indeed, impelled him to continue his work

more eagerly than ever, nor could his daughter entice him from it.

His pride was still more aroused after the crisis to which his strange

visitor had hurried him so treacherously, and he resolved to overcome,

by the force of genius, the malign influence which weighed upon his

work and himself. He first repaired to the various clocks of the town

which were confided to his care. He made sure, by a scrupulous

examination, that the wheels were in good condition, the pivots firm,

the weights exactly balanced. Every part, even to the bells, was

examined with the minute attention of a physician studying the breast

of a patient. Nothing indicated that these clocks were on the point of

being affected by inactivity.

Gerande and Aubert often accompanied the old man on these visits. He

would no doubt have been pleased to see them eager to go with him, and

certainly he would not have been so much absorbed in his approaching

end, had he thought that his existence was to be prolonged by that of

these cherished ones, and had he understood that something of the life

of a father always remains in his children.

The old watchmaker, on returning home, resumed his labours with

feverish zeal. Though persuaded that he would not succeed, it yet

seemed to him impossible that this could be so, and he unceasingly took

to pieces the watches which were brought to his shop, and put them

together again.

Aubert tortured his mind in vain to discover the causes of the evil.

“Master,” said he, “this can only come from the wear of the pivots and

gearing.”

“Do you want, then, to kill me, little by little?” replied Master

Zacharius passionately. “Are these watches child’s work? Was it lest I

should hurt my fingers that I worked the surface of these copper pieces

in the lathe? Have I not forged these pieces of copper myself, so as to

obtain a greater strength? Are not these springs tempered to a rare

perfection? Could anybody have used finer oils than mine? You must

yourself agree that it is impossible, and you avow, in short, that the

devil is in it!”

From morning till night discontented purchasers besieged the house, and

they got access to the old watchmaker himself, who knew not which of

them to listen to.

[Illustration: From morning till night discontented purchasers

besieged the house]

“This watch loses, and I cannot succeed in regulating it,” said one.

“This,” said another, “is absolutely obstinate, and stands still, as

did Joshua’s sun.”

“If it is true,” said most of them, “that your health has an influence

on that of your watches, Master Zacharius, get well as soon as

possible.”

The old man gazed at these people with haggard eyes, and only replied

by shaking his head, or by a few sad words,—

“Wait till the first fine weather, my friends. The season is coming

which revives existence in wearied bodies. We want the sun to warm us

all!”

“A fine thing, if my watches are to be ill through the winter!” said

one of the most angry. “Do you know, Master Zacharius, that your name

is inscribed in full on their faces? By the Virgin, you do little

honour to your signature!”

It happened at last that the old man, abashed by these reproaches, took

some pieces of gold from his old trunk, and began to buy back the

damaged watches. At news of this, the customers came in a crowd, and

the poor watchmaker’s money fast melted away; but his honesty remained

intact. Gerande warmly praised his delicacy, which was leading him

straight towards ruin; and Aubert soon offered his own savings to his

master.

“What will become of my daughter?” said Master Zacharius, clinging now

and then in the shipwreck to his paternal love.

Aubert dared not answer that he was full of hope for the future, and of

deep devotion to Gerande. Master Zacharius would have that day called

him his son-in-law, and thus refuted the sad prophecy, which still

buzzed in his ears,—

“Gerande will not wed Aubert.”

By this plan the watchmaker at last succeeded in entirely despoiling

himself. His antique vases passed into the hands of strangers; he

deprived himself of the richly-carved panels which adorned the walls of

his house; some primitive pictures of the early Flemish painters soon

ceased to please his daughter’s eyes, and everything, even the precious

tools that his genius had invented, were sold to indemnify the

clamorous customers.

Scholastique alone refused to listen to reason on the subject; but her

efforts failed to prevent the unwelcome visitors from reaching her

master, and from soon departing with some valuable object. Then her

chattering was heard in all the streets of the neighbourhood, where she

had long been known. She eagerly denied the rumours of sorcery and

magic on the part of Master Zacharius, which gained currency; but as at

bottom she was persuaded of their truth, she said her prayers over and

over again to redeem her pious falsehoods.

It had been noticed that for some time the old watchmaker had neglected

his religious duties. Time was, when he had accompanied Gerande to

church, and had seemed to find in prayer the intellectual charm which

it imparts to thoughtful minds, since it is the most sublime exercise

of the imagination. This voluntary neglect of holy practices, added to

the secret habits of his life, had in some sort confirmed the

accusations levelled against his labours. So, with the double purpose

of drawing her father back to God, and to the world, Gerande resolved

to call religion to her aid. She thought that it might give some

vitality to his dying soul; but the dogmas of faith and humility had to

combat, in the soul of Master Zacharius, an insurmountable pride, and

came into collision with that vanity of science which connects

everything with itself, without rising to the infinite source whence

first principles flow.

It was under these circumstances that the young girl undertook her

father’s conversion; and her influence was so effective that the old

watchmaker promised to attend high mass at the cathedral on the

following Sunday. Gerande was in an ecstasy, as if heaven had opened to

her view. Old Scholastique could not contain her joy, and at last found

irrefutable arguments’ against the gossiping tongues which accused her

master of impiety. She spoke of it to her neighbours, her friends, her

enemies, to those whom she knew not as well as to those whom she knew.

“In faith, we scarcely believe what you tell us, dame Scholastique,”

they replied; “Master Zacharius has always acted in concert with the

devil!”

“You haven’t counted, then,” replied the old servant, “the fine bells

which strike for my master’s clocks? How many times they have struck

the hours of prayer and the mass!”

“No doubt,” they would reply. “But has he not invented machines which

go all by themselves, and which actually do the work of a real man?”

“Could a child of the devil,” exclaimed dame Scholastique wrathfully,

“have executed the fine iron clock of the château of Andernatt, which

the town of Geneva was not rich enough to buy? A pious motto appeared

at each hour, and a Christian who obeyed them, would have gone straight

to Paradise! Is that the work of the devil?”

This masterpiece, made twenty years before, had carried Master

Zacharius’s fame to its acme; but even then there had been accusations

of sorcery against him. But at least the old man’s visit to the

Cathedral ought to reduce malicious tongues to silence.

Master Zacharius, having doubtless forgotten the promise made to his

daughter, had returned to his shop. After being convinced of his

powerlessness to give life to his watches, he resolved to try if he

could not make some new ones. He abandoned all those useless works, and

devoted himself to the completion of the crystal watch, which he

intended to be his masterpiece; but in vain did he use his most perfect

tools, and employ rubies and diamonds for resisting friction. The watch

fell from his hands the first time that he attempted to wind it up!

The old man concealed this circumstance from every one, even from his

daughter; but from that time his health rapidly declined. There were

only the last oscillations of a pendulum, which goes slower when

nothing restores its original force. It seemed as if the laws of

gravity, acting directly upon him, were dragging him irresistibly down

to the grave.

The Sunday so ardently anticipated by Gerande at last arrived. The

weather was fine, and the temperature inspiriting. The people of Geneva

were passing quietly through the streets, gaily chatting about the

return of spring. Gerande, tenderly taking the old man’s arm, directed

her steps towards the cathedral, while Scholastique followed behind

with the prayer-books. People looked curiously at them as they passed.

The old watchmaker permitted himself to be led like a child, or rather

like a blind man. The faithful of Saint Pierre were almost frightened

when they saw him cross the threshold, and shrank back at his approach.

The chants of high mass were already resounding through the church.

Gerande went to her accustomed bench, and kneeled with profound and

simple reverence. Master Zacharius remained standing upright beside

her.

The ceremonies continued with the majestic solemnity of that faithful

age, but the old man had no faith. He did not implore the pity of

Heaven with cries of anguish of the “Kyrie;” he did not, with the

“Gloria in Excelsis,” sing the splendours of the heavenly heights; the

reading of the Testament did not draw him from his materialistic

reverie, and he forgot to join in the homage of the “Credo.” This proud

old man remained motionless, as insensible and silent as a stone

statue; and even at the solemn moment when the bell announced the

miracle of transubstantiation, he did not bow his head, but gazed

directly at the sacred host which the priest raised above the heads of

the faithful. Gerande looked at her father, and a flood of tears

moistened her missal. At this moment the clock of Saint Pierre struck

half-past eleven. Master Zacharius turned quickly towards this ancient

clock which still spoke. It seemed to him as if its face was gazing

steadily at him; the figures of the hours shone as if they had been

engraved in lines of fire, and the hands shot forth electric sparks

from their sharp points.

[Illustration: This proud old man remained motionless]

The mass ended. It was customary for the “Angelus” to be said at noon,

and the priests, before leaving the altar, waited for the clock to

strike the hour of twelve. In a few moments this prayer would ascend to

the feet of the Virgin.

But suddenly a harsh noise was heard. Master Zacharius uttered a

piercing cry.

The large hand of the clock, having reached twelve, had abruptly

stopped, and the clock did not strike the hour.

Gerande hastened to her father’s aid. He had fallen down motionless,

and they carried him outside the church.

“It is the death-blow!” murmured Gerande, sobbing.

When he had been borne home, Master Zacharius lay upon his bed utterly

crushed. Life seemed only to still exist on the surface of his body,

like the last whiffs of smoke about a lamp just extinguished. When he

came to his senses, Aubert and Gerande were leaning over him. In these

last moments the future took in his eyes the shape of the present. He

saw his daughter alone, without a protector.

“My son,” said he to Aubert, “I give my daughter to thee.”

So saying, he stretched out his hands towards his two children, who

were thus united at his death-bed.

But soon Master Zacharius lifted himself up in a paroxysm of rage. The

words of the little old man recurred to his mind.

“I do not wish to die!” he cried; “I cannot die! I, Master Zacharius,

ought not to die! My books—my accounts!—”

With these words he sprang from his bed towards a book in which the

names of his customers and the articles which had been sold to them

were inscribed. He seized it and rapidly turned over its leaves, and

his emaciated finger fixed itself on one of the pages.

“There!” he cried, “there! this old iron clock, sold to Pittonaccio! It

is the only one that has not been returned to me! It still exists—it

goes—it lives! Ah, I wish for it—I must find it! I will take such care

of it that death will no longer seek me!”

And he fainted away.

Aubert and Gerande knelt by the old man’s bed-side and prayed together.

CHAPTER V.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Several days passed, and Master Zacharius, though almost dead, rose

from his bed and returned to active life under a supernatural

excitement. He lived by pride. But Gerande did not deceive herself; her

father’s body and soul were for ever lost.

The old man got together his last remaining resources, without thought

of those who were dependent upon him. He betrayed an incredible energy,

walking, ferreting about, and mumbling strange, incomprehensible words.

One morning Gerande went down to his shop. Master Zacharius was not

there. She waited for him all day. Master Zacharius did not return.

Gerande wept bitterly, but her father did not reappear.

Aubert searched everywhere through the town, and soon came to the sad

conviction that the old man had left it.

“Let us find my father!” cried Gerande, when the young apprentice told

her this sad news.

“Where can he be?” Aubert asked himself.

An inspiration suddenly came to his mind. He remembered the last words

which Master Zacharius had spoken. The old man only lived now in the

old iron clock that had not been returned! Master Zacharius must have

gone in search of it.

Aubert spoke of this to Gerande.

“Let us look at my father’s book,” she replied.

They descended to the shop. The book was open on the bench. All the

watches or clocks made by the old man, and which had been returned to

him because they were out of order, were stricken out excepting one:—

“Sold to M. Pittonaccio, an iron clock, with bell and moving figures;

sent to his château at Andernatt.”

It was this “moral” clock of which Scholastique had spoken with so much

enthusiasm.

“My father is there!” cried Gerande.

“Let us hasten thither,” replied Aubert. “We may still save him!”

“Not for this life,” murmured Gerande, “but at least for the other.”

“By the mercy of God, Gerande! The château of Andernatt stands in the

gorge of the ‘Dents-du-Midi’ twenty hours from Geneva. Let us go!”

That very evening Aubert and Gerande, followed by the old servant, set

out on foot by the road which skirts Lake Leman. They accomplished five

leagues during the night, stopping neither at Bessinge nor at Ermance,

where rises the famous château of the Mayors. They with difficulty

forded the torrent of the Dranse, and everywhere they went they

inquired for Master Zacharius, and were soon convinced that they were

on his track.

The next morning, at daybreak, having passed Thonon, they reached

Evian, whence the Swiss territory may be seen extended over twelve

leagues. But the two betrothed did not even perceive the enchanting

prospect. They went straight forward, urged on by a supernatural force.

Aubert, leaning on a knotty stick, offered his arm alternately to

Gerande and to Scholastique, and he made the greatest efforts to

sustain his companions. All three talked of their sorrow, of their

hopes, and thus passed along the beautiful road by the water-side, and

across the narrow plateau which unites the borders of the lake with the

heights of the Chalais. They soon reached Bouveret, where the Rhone

enters the Lake of Geneva.

On leaving this town they diverged from the lake, and their weariness

increased amid these mountain districts. Vionnaz, Chesset, Collombay,

half lost villages, were soon left behind. Meanwhile their knees shook,

their feet were lacerated by the sharp points which covered the ground

like a brushwood of granite;—but no trace of Master Zacharius!

He must be found, however, and the two young people did not seek repose

either in the isolated hamlets or at the château of Monthay, which,

with its dependencies, formed the appanage of Margaret of Savoy. At

last, late in the day, and half dead with fatigue, they reached the

hermitage of Notre-Dame-du-Sex, which is situated at the base of the

Dents-du-Midi, six hundred feet above the Rhone.

The hermit received the three wanderers as night was falling. They

could not have gone another step, and here they must needs rest.

The hermit could give them no news of Master Zacharius. They could

scarcely hope to find him still living amid these sad solitudes. The

night was dark, the wind howled amid the mountains, and the avalanches

roared down from the summits of the broken crags.

Aubert and Gerande, crouching before the hermit’s hearth, told him

their melancholy tale. Their mantles, covered with snow, were drying in

a corner; and without, the hermit’s dog barked lugubriously, and

mingled his voice with that of the tempest.

“Pride,” said the hermit to his guests, “has destroyed an angel created

for good. It is the stumbling-block against which the destinies of man

strike. You cannot reason with pride, the principal of all the vices,

since, by its very nature, the proud man refuses to listen to it. It

only remains, then, to pray for your father!”

All four knelt down, when the barking of the dog redoubled, and some

one knocked at the door of the hermitage.

“Open, in the devil’s name!”

The door yielded under the blows, and a dishevelled, haggard,

ill-clothed man appeared.

“My father!” cried Gerande.

It was Master Zacharius.

“Where am I?” said he. “In eternity! Time is ended—the hours no longer

strike—the hands have stopped!”

“Father!” returned Gerande, with so piteous an emotion that the old man

seemed to return to the world of the living.

“Thou here, Gerande?” he cried; “and thou, Aubert? Ah, my dear

betrothed ones, you are going to be married in our old church!”

“Father,” said Gerande, seizing him by the arm, “come home to

Geneva,—come with us!”

The old man tore away from his daughter’s embrace and hurried towards

the door, on the threshold of which the snow was falling in large

flakes.

“Do not abandon your children!” cried Aubert.

“Why return,” replied the old man sadly, “to those places which my life

has already quitted, and where a part of myself is for ever buried?”

“Your soul is not dead,” said the hermit solemnly.

“My soul? O no,—its wheels are good! I perceive it beating regularly—”

“Your soul is immaterial,—your soul is immortal!” replied the hermit

sternly.

“Yes—like my glory! But it is shut up in the château of Andernatt, and

I wish to see it again!”

The hermit crossed himself; Scholastique became almost inanimate.

Aubert held Gerande in his arms.

“The château of Andernatt is inhabited by one who is lost,” said the

hermit, “one who does not salute the cross of my hermitage.”

“My father, go not thither!”

“I want my soul! My soul is mine—”

“Hold him! Hold my father!” cried Gerande.

But the old man had leaped across the threshold, and plunged into the

night, crying, “Mine, mine, my soul!”

Gerande, Aubert, and Scholastique hastened after him. They went by

difficult paths, across which Master Zacharius sped like a tempest,

urged by an irresistible force. The snow raged around them, and mingled

its white flakes with the froth of the swollen torrents.

As they passed the chapel erected in memory of the massacre of the

Theban legion, they hurriedly crossed themselves. Master Zacharius was

not to be seen.

At last the village of Evionnaz appeared in the midst of this sterile

region. The hardest heart would have been moved to see this hamlet,

lost among these horrible solitudes. The old man sped on, and plunged

into the deepest gorge of the Dents-du-Midi, which pierce the sky with

their sharp peaks.

Soon a ruin, old and gloomy as the rocks at its base, rose before him.

“It is there—there!” he cried, hastening his pace still more

frantically.

[Illustration: “It is there—there!”]

The château of Andernatt was a ruin even then. A thick, crumbling tower

rose above it, and seemed to menace with its downfall the old gables

which reared themselves below. The vast piles of jagged stones were

gloomy to look on. Several dark halls appeared amid the debris, with

caved-in ceilings, now become the abode of vipers.

A low and narrow postern, opening upon a ditch choked with rubbish,

gave access to the château. Who had dwelt there none knew. No doubt

some margrave, half lord, half brigand, had sojourned in it; to the

margrave had succeeded bandits or counterfeit coiners, who had been

hanged on the scene of their crime. The legend went that, on winter

nights, Satan came to lead his diabolical dances on the slope of the

deep gorges in which the shadow of these ruins was engulfed.

But Master Zacharius was not dismayed by their sinister aspect. He

reached the postern. No one forbade him to pass. A spacious and gloomy

court presented itself to his eyes; no one forbade him to cross it. He

passed along the kind of inclined plane which conducted to one of the

long corridors, whose arches seemed to banish daylight from beneath

their heavy springings. His advance was unresisted. Gerande, Aubert,

and Scholastique closely followed him.

Master Zacharius, as if guided by an irresistible hand, seemed sure of

his way, and strode along with rapid step. He reached an old worm-eaten

door, which fell before his blows, whilst the bats described oblique

circles around his head.

An immense hall, better preserved than the rest, was soon reached. High

sculptured panels, on which serpents, ghouls, and other strange figures

seemed to disport themselves confusedly, covered its walls. Several

long and narrow windows, like loopholes, shivered beneath the bursts of

the tempest.

Master Zacharius, on reaching the middle of this hall, uttered a cry of

joy.

On an iron support, fastened to the wall, stood the clock in which now

resided his entire life. This unequalled masterpiece represented an

ancient Roman church, with buttresses of wrought iron, with its heavy

bell-tower, where there was a complete chime for the anthem of the day,

the “Angelus,” the mass, vespers, compline, and the benediction. Above

the church door, which opened at the hour of the services, was placed a

“rose,” in the centre of which two hands moved, and the archivault of

which reproduced the twelve hours of the face sculptured in relief.

Between the door and the rose, just as Scholastique had said, a maxim,

relative to the employment of every moment of the day, appeared on a

copper plate. Master Zacharius had once regulated this succession of

devices with a really Christian solicitude; the hours of prayer, of

work, of repast, of recreation, and of repose, followed each other

according to the religious discipline, and were to infallibly insure

salvation to him who scrupulously observed their commands.

Master Zacharius, intoxicated with joy, went forward to take possession

of the clock, when a frightful roar of laughter resounded behind him.

He turned, and by the light of a smoky lamp recognized the little old

man of Geneva.

“You here?” cried he.

Gerande was afraid. She drew closer to Aubert.

“Good-day, Master Zacharius,” said the monster.

“Who are you?”

“Signor Pittonaccio, at your service! You have come to give me your

daughter! You have remembered my words, ‘Gerande will not wed Aubert.’”

The young apprentice rushed upon Pittonaccio, who escaped from him like

a shadow.

“Stop, Aubert!” cried Master Zacharius.

“Good-night,” said Pittonaccio, and he disappeared.

“My father, let us fly from this hateful place!” cried Gerande. “My

father!”

Master Zacharius was no longer there. He was pursuing the phantom of

Pittonaccio across the rickety corridors. Scholastique, Gerande, and

Aubert remained, speechless and fainting, in the large gloomy hall. The

young girl had fallen upon a stone seat; the old servant knelt beside

her, and prayed; Aubert remained erect, watching his betrothed. Pale

lights wandered in the darkness, and the silence was only broken by the

movements of the little animals which live in old wood, and the noise

of which marks the hours of “death watch.”

When daylight came, they ventured upon the endless staircase which

wound beneath these ruined masses; for two hours they wandered thus

without meeting a living soul, and hearing only a far-off echo

responding to their cries. Sometimes they found themselves buried a

hundred feet below the ground, and sometimes they reached places whence

they could overlook the wild mountains.

Chance brought them at last back again to the vast hall, which had

sheltered them during this night of anguish. It was no longer empty.

Master Zacharius and Pittonaccio were talking there together, the one

upright and rigid as a corpse, the other crouching over a marble table.

Master Zacharius, when he perceived Gerande, went forward and took her

by the hand, and led her towards Pittonaccio, saying, “Behold your lord

and master, my daughter. Gerande, behold your husband!”

Gerande shuddered from head to foot.

“Never!” cried Aubert, “for she is my betrothed.”

“Never!” responded Gerande, like a plaintive echo.

Pittonaccio began to laugh.

“You wish me to die, then!” exclaimed the old man. “There, in that

clock, the last which goes of all which have gone from my hands, my

life is shut up; and this man tells me, ‘When I have thy daughter, this

clock shall belong to thee.’ And this man will not rewind it. He can

break it, and plunge me into chaos. Ah, my daughter, you no longer love

me!”

“My father!” murmured Gerande, recovering consciousness.

“If you knew what I have suffered, far away from this principle of my

existence!” resumed the old man. “Perhaps no one looked after this

timepiece. Perhaps its springs were left to wear out, its wheels to get

clogged. But now, in my own hands, I can nourish this health so dear,

for I must not die,—I, the great watchmaker of Geneva. Look, my

daughter, how these hands advance with certain step. See, five o’clock

is about to strike. Listen well, and look at the maxim which is about

to be revealed.”

Five o’clock struck with a noise which resounded sadly in Gerande’s

soul, and these words appeared in red letters:

“YOU MUST EAT OF THE FRUITS OF THE TREE OF SCIENCE.”

Aubert and Gerande looked at each other stupefied. These were no longer

the pious sayings of the Catholic watchmaker. The breath of Satan must

have passed over it. But Zacharius paid no attention to this, and

resumed—

“Dost thou hear, my Gerande? I live, I still live! Listen to my

breathing,—see the blood circulating in my veins! No, thou wouldst not

kill thy father, and thou wilt accept this man for thy husband, so that

I may become immortal, and at last attain the power of God!”

At these blasphemous words old Scholastique crossed herself, and

Pittonaccio laughed aloud with joy.

“And then, Gerande, thou wilt be happy with him. See this man,—he is

Time! Thy existence will be regulated with absolute precision. Gerande,

since I gave thee life, give life to thy father!”

[Illustration: “See this man,—he is Time!”]

“Gerande,” murmured Aubert, “I am thy betrothed.”

“He is my father!” replied Gerande, fainting.

“She is thine!” said Master Zacharius. “Pittonaccio, them wilt keep thy

promise!”

“Here is the key of the clock,” replied the horrible man.

Master Zacharius seized the long key, which resembled an uncoiled

snake, and ran to the clock, which he hastened to wind up with

fantastic rapidity. The creaking of the spring jarred upon the nerves.

The old watchmaker wound and wound the key, without stopping a moment,

and it seemed as if the movement were beyond his control. He wound more

and more quickly, with strange contortions, until he fell from sheer

weariness.

“There, it is wound up for a century!” he cried.

Aubert rushed from the hall as if he were mad. After long wandering, he

found the outlet of the hateful château, and hastened into the open

air. He returned to the hermitage of Notre-Dame-du-Sex, and talked so

despairingly to the holy recluse, that the latter consented to return

with him to the château of Andernatt.

If, during these hours of anguish, Gerande had not wept, it was because

her tears were exhausted.

Master Zacharius had not left the hall. He ran every moment to listen

to the regular beating of the old clock.

Meanwhile the clock had struck, and to Scholastique’s great terror,

these words had appeared on the silver face:—

“MAN OUGHT TO BECOME THE EQUAL OF GOD.”

The old man had not only not been shocked by these impious maxims, but

read them deliriously, and flattered himself with thoughts of pride,

whilst Pittonaccio kept close by him.

The marriage-contract was to be signed at midnight. Gerande, almost

unconscious, saw or heard nothing. The silence was only broken by the

old man’s words, and the chuckling of Pittonaccio.

Eleven o’clock struck. Master Zacharius shuddered, and read in a loud

voice:—

“MAN SHOULD BE THE SLAVE OF SCIENCE, AND SACRIFICE TO IT RELATIVES AND

FAMILY.”

“Yes!” he cried, “there is nothing but science in this world!”

The hands slipped over the face of the clock with the hiss of a

serpent, and the pendulum beat with accelerated strokes.

Master Zacharius no longer spoke. He had fallen to the floor, his

throat rattled, and from his oppressed bosom came only these

half-broken words: “Life—science!”

The scene had now two new witnesses, the hermit and Aubert. Master

Zacharius lay upon the floor; Gerande was praying beside him, more dead

than alive.

Of a sudden a dry, hard noise was heard, which preceded the strike.

Master Zacharius sprang up.

“Midnight!” he cried.

The hermit stretched out his hand towards the old clock,—and midnight

did not sound.

Master Zacharius uttered a terrible cry, which must have been heard in

hell, when these words appeared:—

“WHO EVER SHALL ATTEMPT TO MAKE HIMSELF THE EQUAL OF GOD, SHALL BE FOR

EVER DAMNED!”

The old clock burst with a noise like thunder, and the spring,

escaping, leaped across the hall with a thousand fantastic contortions;

the old man rose, ran after it, trying in vain to seize it, and

exclaiming, “My soul,—my soul!”

The spring bounded before him, first on one side, then on the other,

and he could not reach it.

At last Pittonaccio seized it, and, uttering a horrible blasphemy,

ingulfed himself in the earth.

Master Zacharius fell backwards. He was dead.

[Illustration: He was dead.]

The old watchmaker was buried in the midst of the peaks of Andernatt.

Then Aubert and Gerande returned to Geneva, and during the long life

which God accorded to them, they made it a duty to redeem by prayer the

soul of the castaway of science.

A DRAMA IN THE AIR.

In the month of September, 185—, I arrived at Frankfort-on-the-Maine.

My passage through the principal German cities had been brilliantly

marked by balloon ascents; but as yet no German had accompanied me in

my car, and the fine experiments made at Paris by MM. Green, Eugene

Godard, and Poitevin had not tempted the grave Teutons to essay aerial

voyages.

But scarcely had the news of my approaching ascent spread through

Frankfort, than three of the principal citizens begged the favour of

being allowed to ascend with me. Two days afterwards we were to start

from the Place de la Comédie. I began at once to get my balloon ready.

It was of silk, prepared with gutta percha, a substance impermeable by

acids or gasses; and its volume, which was three thousand cubic yards,

enabled it to ascend to the loftiest heights.

The day of the ascent was that of the great September fair, which

attracts so many people to Frankfort. Lighting gas, of a perfect

quality and of great lifting power, had been furnished to me in

excellent condition, and about eleven o’clock the balloon was filled;

but only three-quarters filled,—an indispensable precaution, for, as

one rises, the atmosphere diminishes in density, and the fluid enclosed

within the balloon, acquiring more elasticity, might burst its sides.

My calculations had furnished me with exactly the quantity of gas

necessary to carry up my companions and myself.

We were to start at noon. The impatient crowd which pressed around the

enclosed space, filling the enclosed square, overflowing into the

contiguous streets, and covering the houses from the ground-floor to

the slated gables, presented a striking scene. The high winds of the

preceding days had subsided. An oppressive heat fell from the cloudless

sky. Scarcely a breath animated the atmosphere. In such weather, one

might descend again upon the very spot whence he had risen.

I carried three hundred pounds of ballast in bags; the car, quite

round, four feet in diameter, was comfortably arranged; the hempen

cords which supported it stretched symmetrically over the upper

hemisphere of the balloon; the compass was in place, the barometer

suspended in the circle which united the supporting cords, and the

anchor carefully put in order. All was now ready for the ascent.

Among those who pressed around the enclosure, I remarked a young man

with a pale face and agitated features. The sight of him impressed me.

He was an eager spectator of my ascents, whom I had already met in

several German cities. With an uneasy air, he closely watched the

curious machine, as it lay motionless a few feet above the ground; and

he remained silent among those about him.

Twelve o’clock came. The moment had arrived, but my travelling

companions did not appear.

I sent to their houses, and learnt that one had left for Hamburg,

another for Vienna, and the third for London. Their courage had failed

them at the moment of undertaking one of those excursions which, thanks

to the ability of living aeronauts, are free from all danger. As they

formed, in some sort, a part of the programme of the day, the fear had

seized them that they might be forced to execute it faithfully, and

they had fled far from the scene at the instant when the balloon was

being filled. Their courage was evidently the inverse ratio of their

speed—in decamping.

The multitude, half deceived, showed not a little ill-humour. I did not

hesitate to ascend alone. In order to re-establish the equilibrium

between the specific gravity of the balloon and the weight which had

thus proved wanting, I replaced my companions by more sacks of sand,

and got into the car. The twelve men who held the balloon by twelve

cords fastened to the equatorial circle, let them slip a little between

their fingers, and the balloon rose several feet higher. There was not

a breath of wind, and the atmosphere was so leaden that it seemed to

forbid the ascent.

“Is everything ready?” I cried.

The men put themselves in readiness. A last glance told me that I might

go.

“Attention!”

There was a movement in the crowd, which seemed to be invading the

enclosure.

“Let go!”

The balloon rose slowly, but I experienced a shock which threw me to

the bottom of the car.

When I got up, I found myself face to face with an unexpected

fellow-voyager,—the pale young man.

“Monsieur, I salute you,” said he, with the utmost coolness.

[Illustration: “Monsieur, I salute you,”]

“By what right—”

“Am I here? By the right which the impossibility of your getting rid of

me confers.”

I was amazed! His calmness put me out of countenance, and I had nothing

to reply. I looked at the intruder, but he took no notice of my

astonishment.

“Does my weight disarrange your equilibrium, monsieur?” he asked. “You

will permit me—”

And without waiting for my consent, he relieved the balloon of two

bags, which he threw into space.

“Monsieur,” said I, taking the only course now possible, “you have

come; very well, you will remain; but to me alone belongs the

management of the balloon.”

“Monsieur,” said he, “your urbanity is French all over: it comes from

my own country. I morally press the hand you refuse me. Make all

precautions, and act as seems best to you. I will wait till you have

done—”

“For what?”

“To talk with you.”

The barometer had fallen to twenty-six inches. We were nearly six

hundred yards above the city; but nothing betrayed the horizontal

displacement of the balloon, for the mass of air in which it is

enclosed goes forward with it. A sort of confused glow enveloped the

objects spread out under us, and unfortunately obscured their outline.

I examined my companion afresh.

He was a man of thirty years, simply clad. The sharpness of his

features betrayed an indomitable energy, and he seemed very muscular.

Indifferent to the astonishment he created, he remained motionless,

trying to distinguish the objects which were vaguely confused below us.

“Miserable mist!” said he, after a few moments.

I did not reply.

“You owe me a grudge?” he went on. “Bah! I could not pay for my

journey, and it was necessary to take you by surprise.”

“Nobody asks you to descend, monsieur!”

“Eh, do you not know, then, that the same thing happened to the Counts

of Laurencin and Dampierre, when they ascended at Lyons, on the 15th of

January, 1784? A young merchant, named Fontaine, scaled the gallery, at

the risk of capsizing the machine. He accomplished the journey, and

nobody died of it!”

“Once on the ground, we will have an explanation,” replied I, piqued at

the light tone in which he spoke.

“Bah! Do not let us think of our return.”

“Do you think, then, that I shall not hasten to descend?”

“Descend!” said he, in surprise. “Descend? Let us begin by first

ascending.”

And before I could prevent it, two more bags had been thrown over the

car, without even having been emptied.

“Monsieur!” cried I, in a rage.

[Illustration: “Monsieur!” cried I, in a rage.]

“I know your ability,” replied the unknown quietly, “and your fine

ascents are famous. But if Experience is the sister of Practice, she is

also a cousin of Theory, and I have studied the aerial art long. It has

got into my head!” he added sadly, falling into a silent reverie.

The balloon, having risen some distance farther, now became stationary.

The unknown consulted the barometer, and said,—

“Here we are, at eight hundred yards. Men are like insects. See! I

think we should always contemplate them from this height, to judge

correctly of their proportions. The Place de la Comédie is transformed

into an immense ant-hill. Observe the crowd which is gathered on the

quays; and the mountains also get smaller and smaller. We are over the

Cathedral. The Main is only a line, cutting the city in two, and the

bridge seems a thread thrown between the two banks of the river.”

The atmosphere became somewhat chilly.

“There is nothing I would not do for you, my host,” said the unknown.

“If you are cold, I will take off my coat and lend it to you.”

“Thanks,” said I dryly.

“Bah! Necessity makes law. Give me your hand. I am your

fellow-countryman; you will learn something in my company, and my

conversation will indemnify you for the trouble I have given you.”

I sat down, without replying, at the opposite extremity of the car. The

young man had taken a voluminous manuscript from his great-coat. It was

an essay on ballooning.

“I possess,” said he, “the most curious collection of engravings and

caricatures extant concerning aerial manias. How people admired and

scoffed at the same time at this precious discovery! We are happily no

longer in the age in which Montgolfier tried to make artificial clouds

with steam, or a gas having electrical properties, produced by the

combustion of moist straw and chopped-up wool.”

“Do you wish to depreciate the talent of the inventors?” I asked, for I

had resolved to enter into the adventure. “Was it not good to have

proved by experience the possibility of rising in the air?”

“Ah, monsieur, who denies the glory of the first aerial navigators? It

required immense courage to rise by means of those frail envelopes

which only contained heated air. But I ask you, has the aerial science

made great progress since Blanchard’s ascensions, that is, since nearly

a century ago? Look here, monsieur.”

The unknown took an engraving from his portfolio.

“Here,” said he, “is the first aerial voyage undertaken by Pilâtre des

Rosiers and the Marquis d’Arlandes, four months after the discovery of

balloons. Louis XVI. refused to consent to the venture, and two men who

were condemned to death were the first to attempt the aerial ascent.

Pilâtre des Rosiers became indignant at this injustice, and, by means

of intrigues, obtained permission to make the experiment. The car,

which renders the management easy, had not then been invented, and a

circular gallery was placed around the lower and contracted part of the

Montgolfier balloon. The two aeronauts must then remain motionless at

each extremity of this gallery, for the moist straw which filled it

forbade them all motion. A chafing-dish with fire was suspended below

the orifice of the balloon; when the aeronauts wished to rise, they

threw straw upon this brazier, at the risk of setting fire to the

balloon, and the air, more heated, gave it fresh ascending power. The

two bold travellers rose, on the 21st of November, 1783, from the

Muette Gardens, which the dauphin had put at their disposal. The

balloon went up majestically, passed over the Isle of Swans, crossed

the Seine at the Conference barrier, and, drifting between the dome of

the Invalides and the Military School, approached the Church of Saint

Sulpice. Then the aeronauts added to the fire, crossed the Boulevard,

and descended beyond the Enfer barrier. As it touched the soil, the

balloon collapsed, and for a few moments buried Pilâtre des Rosiers

under its folds.”

“Unlucky augury,” I said, interested in the story, which affected me

nearly.

“An augury of the catastrophe which was later to cost this unfortunate

man his life,” replied the unknown sadly. “Have you never experienced

anything like it?”

“Never,”

“Bah! Misfortunes sometimes occur unforeshadowed!” added my companion.

He then remained silent.

Meanwhile we were advancing southward, and Frankfort had already passed

from beneath us.

“Perhaps we shall have a storm,” said the young man.

“We shall descend before that,” I replied.

“Indeed! It is better to ascend. We shall escape it more surely.”

And two more bags of sand were hurled into space.

The balloon rose rapidly, and stopped at twelve hundred yards. I became

colder; and yet the sun’s rays, falling upon the surface, expanded the

gas within, and gave it a greater ascending force.

“Fear nothing,” said the unknown. “We have still three thousand five

hundred fathoms of breathing air. Besides, do not trouble yourself

about what I do.”

I would have risen, but a vigorous hand held me to my seat.

“Your name?” I asked.

“My name? What matters it to you?”

“I demand your name!”

“My name is Erostratus or Empedocles, whichever you choose!”

This reply was far from reassuring.

The unknown, besides, talked with such strange coolness that I

anxiously asked myself whom I had to deal with.

“Monsieur,” he continued, “nothing original has been imagined since the

physicist Charles. Four months after the discovery of balloons, this

able man had invented the valve, which permits the gas to escape when

the balloon is too full, or when you wish to descend; the car, which

aids the management of the machine; the netting, which holds the

envelope of the balloon, and divides the weight over its whole surface;

the ballast, which enables you to ascend, and to choose the place of

your landing; the india-rubber coating, which renders the tissue

impermeable; the barometer, which shows the height attained. Lastly,

Charles used hydrogen, which, fourteen times lighter than air, permits

you to penetrate to the highest atmospheric regions, and does not

expose you to the dangers of a combustion in the air. On the 1st of

December, 1783, three hundred thousand spectators were crowded around

the Tuileries. Charles rose, and the soldiers presented arms to him. He

travelled nine leagues in the air, conducting his balloon with an

ability not surpassed by modern aeronauts. The king awarded him a

pension of two thousand livres; for then they encouraged new

inventions.”

The unknown now seemed to be under the influence of considerable

agitation.

“Monsieur,” he resumed, “I have studied this, and I am convinced that

the first aeronauts guided their balloons. Without speaking of

Blanchard, whose assertions may be received with doubt,

Guyton-Morveaux, by the aid of oars and rudder, made his machine answer

to the helm, and take the direction he determined on. More recently, M.

Julien, a watchmaker, made some convincing experiments at the

Hippodrome, in Paris; for, by a special mechanism, his aerial

apparatus, oblong in form, went visibly against the wind. It occurred

to M. Petin to place four hydrogen balloons together; and, by means of

sails hung horizontally and partly folded, he hopes to be able to

disturb the equilibrium, and, thus inclining the apparatus, to convey

it in an oblique direction. They speak, also, of forces to overcome the

resistance of currents,—for instance, the screw; but the screw, working

on a moveable centre, will give no result. I, monsieur, have discovered

the only means of guiding balloons; and no academy has come to my aid,

no city has filled up subscriptions for me, no government has thought

fit to listen to me! It is infamous!”

The unknown gesticulated fiercely, and the car underwent violent

oscillations. I had much trouble in calming him.

Meanwhile the balloon had entered a more rapid current, and we advanced

south, at fifteen hundred yards above the earth.

“See, there is Darmstadt,” said my companion, leaning over the car. “Do

you perceive the château? Not very distinctly, eh? What would you have?

The heat of the storm makes the outline of objects waver, and you must

have a skilled eye to recognize localities.”

“Are you certain it is Darmstadt?” I asked.

“I am sure of it. We are now six leagues from Frankfort.”

“Then we must descend.”

“Descend! You would not go down, on the steeples,” said the unknown,

with a chuckle.

“No, but in the suburbs of the city.”

“Well, let us avoid the steeples!”

So speaking, my companion seized some bags of ballast. I hastened to

prevent him; but he overthrew me with one hand, and the unballasted

balloon ascended to two thousand yards.

“Rest easy,” said he, “and do not forget that Brioschi, Biot,

Gay-Lussac, Bixio, and Barral ascended to still greater heights to make

their scientific experiments.”

“Monsieur, we must descend,” I resumed, trying to persuade him by

gentleness. “The storm is gathering around us. It would be more

prudent—”

“Bah! We will mount higher than the storm, and then we shall no longer

fear it!” cried my companion. “What is nobler than to overlook the

clouds which oppress the earth? Is it not an honour thus to navigate on

aerial billows? The greatest men have travelled as we are doing. The

Marchioness and Countess de Montalembert, the Countess of Podenas,

Mademoiselle la Garde, the Marquis de Montalembert, rose from the

Faubourg Saint-Antoine for these unknown regions, and the Duke de

Chartres exhibited much skill and presence of mind in his ascent on the

15th of July, 1784. At Lyons, the Counts of Laurencin and Dampierre; at

Nantes, M. de Luynes; at Bordeaux, D’Arbelet des Granges; in Italy, the

Chevalier Andreani; in our own time, the Duke of Brunswick,—have all

left the traces of their glory in the air. To equal these great

personages, we must penetrate still higher than they into the celestial

depths! To approach the infinite is to comprehend it!”