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Title: Off on a Comet! a Journey through Planetary Space

Author: Jules Verne

Release date: June 1, 1998 [eBook #1353]
Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1353

Credits: Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OFF ON A
COMET! A JOURNEY THROUGH PLANETARY SPACE ***

OFF ON A COMET
or HECTOR SERVADAC

WORKS of JULES VERNE

By Jules Verne

Edited By Charles F. Horne, Ph.D.

Professor of English, College of the City of New York; Author of “The
Technique of the Novel,” etc.

F. Tyler Daniels Company, Inc.

New York :::: London

Copyright, 1911 By Vincent Parke And Company

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME NINE

OFF ON A COMET OR HECTOR SERVADAC

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I. A CHALLENGE
CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN SERVADAC AND HIS
ORDERLY
CHAPTER III. INTERRUPTED EFFUSIONS
CHAPTER IV. A CONVULSION OF NATURE
CHAPTER V. A MYSTERIOUS SEA
CHAPTER VI. THE CAPTAIN MAKES AN
EXPLORATION
CHAPTER VII. BEN ZOOF WATCHES IN VAIN
CHAPTER VIII. VENUS IN PERILOUS
PROXIMITY
CHAPTER IX. INQUIRIES UNSATISFIED
CHAPTER X. A SEARCH FOR ALGERIA
CHAPTER XI. AN ISLAND TOMB
CHAPTER XII. AT THE MERCY OF THE WINDS
CHAPTER XIII. A ROYAL SALUTE
CHAPTER XIV. SENSITIVE NATIONALITY
CHAPTER XV. AN ENIGMA FROM THE SEA
CHAPTER XVI. THE RESIDUUM OF A
CONTINENT
CHAPTER XVII. A SECOND ENIGMA
CHAPTER XVIII. AN UNEXPECTED
POPULATION
CHAPTER XIX. GALLIA’S GOVERNOR
GENERAL

CHAPTER XX. A LIGHT ON THE HORIZON
CHAPTER XXI. WINTER QUARTERS
CHAPTER XXII. A FROZEN OCEAN
CHAPTER XXIII. A CARRIER-PIGEON
CHAPTER XXIV. A SLEDGE-RIDE

BOOK II.
CHAPTER I. THE ASTRONOMER
CHAPTER II. A REVELATION
CHAPTER III. THE PROFESSOR’S
EXPERIENCES
CHAPTER IV. A REVISED CALENDAR
CHAPTER V. WANTED: A STEELYARD
CHAPTER VI. MONEY AT A PREMIUM
CHAPTER VII. GALLIA WEIGHED
CHAPTER VIII. JUPITER SOMEWHAT CLOSE
CHAPTER IX MARKET PRICES IN GALLIA
CHAPTER X. FAR INTO SPACE
CHAPTER XI. A FETE DAY
CHAPTER XII. THE BOWELS OF THE COMET
CHAPTER XIII. DREARY MONTHS
CHAPTER XIV. THE PROFESSOR PERPLEXED
CHAPTER XV. A JOURNEY AND A
DISAPPOINTMENT

CHAPTER XVI. A BOLD PROPOSITION
CHAPTER XVII. THE VENTURE MADE
CHAPTER XVIII. SUSPENSE
CHAPTER XIX. BACK AGAIN

INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME NINE
Among so many effective and artistic tales, it is difficult to give a
preference to one over all the rest. Yet, certainly, even amid Verne’s
remarkable works, his “Off on a Comet” must be given high rank. Perhaps
this story will be remembered when even “Round the World in Eighty
Days” and “Michael Strogoff” have been obliterated by centuries of time.
At least, of the many books since written upon the same theme as Verne’s,
no one has yet succeeded in equaling or even approaching it.
In one way “Off on a Comet” shows a marked contrast to Verne’s earlier
books. Not only does it invade a region more remote than even the “Trip to
the Moon,” but the author here abandons his usual scrupulously scientific
attitude. In order that he may escort us through the depths of immeasurable
space, show us what astronomy really knows of conditions there and upon
the other planets, Verne asks us to accept a situation frankly impossible. The
earth and a comet are brought twice into collision without mankind in
general, or even our astronomers, becoming conscious of the fact. Moreover
several people from widely scattered places are carried off by the comet and
returned uninjured. Yet further, the comet snatches for the convenience of
its travelers, both air and water. Little, useful tracts of earth are picked up
and, as it were, turned over and clapped down right side up again upon the
comet’s surface. Even ships pass uninjured through this remarkable
somersault. These events all belong frankly to the realm of fairyland.
If the situation were reproduced in actuality, if ever a comet should come
into collision with the earth, we can conceive two scientifically possible
results. If the comet were of such attenuation, such almost infinitesimal
mass as some of these celestial wanderers seem to be, we can imagine our
earth self-protective and possibly unharmed. If, on the other hand, the
comet had even a hundredth part of the size and solidity and weight which
Verne confers upon his monster so as to give his travelers a home—in that
case the collision would be unspeakably disastrous—especially to the
unlucky individuals who occupied the exact point of contact.
But once granted the initial and the closing extravagance, the departure
and return of his characters, the alpha and omega of his tale, how closely

the author clings to facts between! How closely he follows, and imparts to
his readers, the scientific probabilities of the universe beyond our earth, the
actual knowledge so hard won by our astronomers! Other authors who,
since Verne, have told of trips through the planetary and stellar universe
have given free rein to fancy, to dreams of what might be found. Verne has
endeavored to impart only what is known to exist.
In the same year with “Off on a Comet,” 1877, was published also the
tale variously named and translated as “The Black Indies,” “The
Underground City,” and “The Child of the Cavern.” This story, like “Round
the World in Eighty Days” was first issued in “feuilleton” by the noted Paris
newspaper “Le Temps.” Its success did not equal that of its predecessor in
this style. Some critics indeed have pointed to this work as marking the
beginning of a decline in the author’s power of awaking interest. Many of
his best works were, however, still to follow. And, as regards imagination
and the elements of mystery and awe, surely in the “Underground City”
with its cavern world, its secret, undiscoverable, unrelenting foe, the
“Harfang,” bird of evil omen, and the “fire maidens” of the ruined castle,
surely with all these “imagination” is anything but lacking.
From the realistic side, the work is painstaking and exact as all the
author’s works. The sketches of mines and miners, their courage and their
dangers, their lives and their hopes, are carefully studied. So also is the
emotional aspect of the deeps under ground, the blackness, the endless
wandering passages, the silence, and the awe.

OFF ON A COMET OR HECTOR
SERVADAC

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I. A CHALLENGE
“Nothing, sir, can induce me to surrender my claim.”
“I am sorry, count, but in such a matter your views cannot modify mine.”
“But allow me to point out that my seniority unquestionably gives me a
prior right.”
“Mere seniority, I assert, in an affair of this kind, cannot possibly entitle
you to any prior claim whatever.”
“Then, captain, no alternative is left but for me to compel you to yield at
the sword’s point.”
“As you please, count; but neither sword nor pistol can force me to
forego my pretensions. Here is my card.”
“And mine.”
This rapid altercation was thus brought to an end by the formal
interchange of the names of the disputants. On one of the cards was
inscribed:

Captain Hector Servadac,
Staff Officer, Mostaganem.

On the other was the title:

Count Wassili Timascheff,
On board the Schooner “Dobryna.”

It did not take long to arrange that seconds should be appointed, who
would meet in Mostaganem at two o’clock that day; and the captain and the
count were on the point of parting from each other, with a salute of
punctilious courtesy, when Timascheff, as if struck by a sudden thought,
said abruptly: “Perhaps it would be better, captain, not to allow the real
cause of this to transpire?”
“Far better,” replied Servadac; “it is undesirable in every way for any
names to be mentioned.”
“In that case, however,” continued the count, “it will be necessary to
assign an ostensible pretext of some kind. Shall we allege a musical

dispute? a contention in which I feel bound to defend Wagner, while you are
the zealous champion of Rossini?”
“I am quite content,” answered Servadac, with a smile; and with another
low bow they parted.
The scene, as here depicted, took place upon the extremity of a little cape
on the Algerian coast, between Mostaganem and Tenes, about two miles
from the mouth of the Shelif. The headland rose more than sixty feet above
the sea-level, and the azure waters of the Mediterranean, as they softly
kissed the strand, were tinged with the reddish hue of the ferriferous rocks
that formed its base. It was the 31st of December. The noontide sun, which
usually illuminated the various projections of the coast with a dazzling
brightness, was hidden by a dense mass of cloud, and the fog, which for
some unaccountable cause, had hung for the last two months over nearly
every region in the world, causing serious interruption to traffic between
continent and continent, spread its dreary veil across land and sea.
After taking leave of the staff-officer, Count Wassili Timascheff wended
his way down to a small creek, and took his seat in the stern of a light four-
oar that had been awaiting his return; this was immediately pushed off from
shore, and was soon alongside a pleasure-yacht, that was lying to, not many
cable lengths away.
At a sign from Servadac, an orderly, who had been standing at a
respectful distance, led forward a magnificent Arabian horse; the captain
vaulted into the saddle, and followed by his attendant, well mounted as
himself, started off towards Mostaganem. It was half-past twelve when the
two riders crossed the bridge that had been recently erected over the Shelif,
and a quarter of an hour later their steeds, flecked with foam, dashed
through the Mascara Gate, which was one of five entrances opened in the
embattled wall that encircled the town.
At that date, Mostaganem contained about fifteen thousand inhabitants,
three thousand of whom were French. Besides being one of the principal
district towns of the province of Oran, it was also a military station.
Mostaganem rejoiced in a well-sheltered harbor, which enabled her to
utilize all the rich products of the Mina and the Lower Shelif. It was the
existence of so good a harbor amidst the exposed cliffs of this coast that had
induced the owner of the Dobryna to winter in these parts, and for two
months the Russian standard had been seen floating from her yard, whilst

on her mast-head was hoisted the pennant of the French Yacht Club, with
the distinctive letters M. C. W. T., the initials of Count Timascheff.
Having entered the town, Captain Servadac made his way towards
Matmore, the military quarter, and was not long in finding two friends on
whom he might rely—a major of the 2nd Fusileers, and a captain of the 8th
Artillery. The two officers listened gravely enough to Servadac’s request
that they would act as his seconds in an affair of honor, but could not resist
a smile on hearing that the dispute between him and the count had
originated in a musical discussion. Surely, they suggested, the matter might
be easily arranged; a few slight concessions on either side, and all might be
amicably adjusted. But no representations on their part were of any avail.
Hector Servadac was inflexible.
“No concession is possible,” he replied, resolutely. “Rossini has been
deeply injured, and I cannot suffer the injury to be unavenged. Wagner is a
fool. I shall keep my word. I am quite firm.”
“Be it so, then,” replied one of the officers; “and after all, you know, a
sword-cut need not be a very serious affair.”
“Certainly not,” rejoined Servadac; “and especially in my case, when I
have not the slightest intention of being wounded at all.”
Incredulous as they naturally were as to the assigned cause of the quarrel,
Servadac’s friends had no alternative but to accept his explanation, and
without farther parley they started for the staff office, where, at two o’clock
precisely, they were to meet the seconds of Count Timascheff. Two hours
later they had returned. All the preliminaries had been arranged; the count,
who like many Russians abroad was an aide-de-camp of the Czar, had of
course proposed swords as the most appropriate weapons, and the duel was
to take place on the following morning, the first of January, at nine o’clock,
upon the cliff at a spot about a mile and a half from the mouth of the Shelif.
With the assurance that they would not fail to keep their appointment with
military punctuality, the two officers cordially wrung their friend’s hand and
retired to the Zulma Cafe for a game at piquet. Captain Servadac at once
retraced his steps and left the town.
For the last fortnight Servadac had not been occupying his proper
lodgings in the military quarters; having been appointed to make a local
levy, he had been living in a gourbi, or native hut, on the Mostaganem
coast, between four and five miles from the Shelif. His orderly was his sole

companion, and by any other man than the captain the enforced exile would
have been esteemed little short of a severe penance.
On his way to the gourbi, his mental occupation was a very laborious
effort to put together what he was pleased to call a rondo, upon a model of
versification all but obsolete. This rondo, it is unnecessary to conceal, was
to be an ode addressed to a young widow by whom he had been captivated,
and whom he was anxious to marry, and the tenor of his muse was intended
to prove that when once a man has found an object in all respects worthy of
his affections, he should love her “in all simplicity.” Whether the aphorism
were universally true was not very material to the gallant captain, whose
sole ambition at present was to construct a roundelay of which this should
be the prevailing sentiment. He indulged the fancy that he might succeed in
producing a composition which would have a fine effect here in Algeria,
where poetry in that form was all but unknown.
“I know well enough,” he said repeatedly to himself, “what I want to say.
I want to tell her that I love her sincerely, and wish to marry her; but,
confound it! the words won’t rhyme. Plague on it! Does nothing rhyme with
‘simplicity’? Ah! I have it now:

‘Lovers should, whoe’er they be,
Love in all simplicity.’

But what next? how am I to go on? I say, Ben Zoof,” he called aloud to
his orderly, who was trotting silently close in his rear, “did you ever
compose any poetry?”
“No, captain,” answered the man promptly: “I have never made any
verses, but I have seen them made fast enough at a booth during the fete of
Montmartre.”
“Can you remember them?”
“Remember them! to be sure I can. This is the way they began:

‘Come in! come in! you’ll not repent
The entrance money you have spent;
The wondrous mirror in this place
Reveals your future sweetheart’s face.’”

“Bosh!” cried Servadac in disgust; “your verses are detestable trash.”
“As good as any others, captain, squeaked through a reed pipe.”

“Hold your tongue, man,” said Servadac peremptorily; “I have made
another couplet.

‘Lovers should, whoe’er they be,
Love in all simplicity;
Lover, loving honestly,
Offer I myself to thee.’”

Beyond this, however, the captain’s poetical genius was impotent to carry
him; his farther efforts were unavailing, and when at six o’clock he reached
the gourbi, the four lines still remained the limit of his composition.

CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN SERVADAC AND HIS
ORDERLY
At the time of which I write, there might be seen in the registers of the
Minister of War the following entry:
SERVADAC (Hector), born at St. Trelody in the district of Lesparre,
department of the Gironde, July 19th, 18—.
Property: 1200 francs in rentes.
Length of service: Fourteen years, three months, and five days.
Service: Two years at school at St. Cyr; two years at L’Ecole
d’Application; two years in the 8th Regiment of the Line; two years in the
3rd Light Cavalry; seven years in Algeria.
Campaigns: Soudan and Japan.
Rank: Captain on the staff at Mostaganem.
Decorations: Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, March 13th, 18—.
Hector Servadac was thirty years of age, an orphan without lineage and
almost without means. Thirsting for glory rather than for gold, slightly
scatter-brained, but warm-hearted, generous, and brave, he was eminently
formed to be the protege of the god of battles.
For the first year and a half of his existence he had been the foster-child
of the sturdy wife of a vine-dresser of Medoc—a lineal descendant of the
heroes of ancient prowess; in a word, he was one of those individuals whom
nature seems to have predestined for remarkable things, and around whose
cradle have hovered the fairy godmothers of adventure and good luck.
In appearance Hector Servadac was quite the type of an officer; he was
rather more than five feet six inches high, slim and graceful, with dark
curling hair and mustaches, well-formed hands and feet, and a clear blue
eye. He seemed born to please without being conscious of the power he
possessed. It must be owned, and no one was more ready to confess it than
himself, that his literary attainments were by no means of a high order. “We
don’t spin tops” is a favorite saying amongst artillery officers, indicating
that they do not shirk their duty by frivolous pursuits; but it must be

confessed that Servadac, being naturally idle, was very much given to
“spinning tops.” His good abilities, however, and his ready intelligence had
carried him successfully through the curriculum of his early career. He was
a good draughtsman, an excellent rider—having thoroughly mastered the
successor to the famous “Uncle Tom” at the riding-school of St. Cyr—and
in the records of his military service his name had several times been
included in the order of the day.
The following episode may suffice, in a certain degree, to illustrate his
character. Once, in action, he was leading a detachment of infantry through
an intrenchment. They came to a place where the side-work of the trench
had been so riddled by shell that a portion of it had actually fallen in,
leaving an aperture quite unsheltered from the grape-shot that was pouring
in thick and fast. The men hesitated. In an instant Servadac mounted the
side-work, laid himself down in the gap, and thus filling up the breach by
his own body, shouted, “March on!”
And through a storm of shot, not one of which touched the prostrate
officer, the troop passed in safety.
Since leaving the military college, Servadac, with the exception of his
two campaigns in the Soudan and Japan, had been always stationed in
Algeria. He had now a staff appointment at Mostaganem, and had lately
been entrusted with some topographical work on the coast between Tenes
and the Shelif. It was a matter of little consequence to him that the gourbi,
in which of necessity he was quartered, was uncomfortable and ill-
contrived; he loved the open air, and the independence of his life suited him
well. Sometimes he would wander on foot upon the sandy shore, and
sometimes he would enjoy a ride along the summit of the cliff; altogether
being in no hurry at all to bring his task to an end. His occupation,
moreover, was not so engrossing but that he could find leisure for taking a
short railway journey once or twice a week; so that he was ever and again
putting in an appearance at the general’s receptions at Oran, and at the fetes
given by the governor at Algiers.
It was on one of these occasions that he had first met Madame de L——,
the lady to whom he was desirous of dedicating the rondo, the first four
lines of which had just seen the light. She was a colonel’s widow, young
and handsome, very reserved, not to say haughty in her manner, and either
indifferent or impervious to the admiration which she inspired. Captain

Servadac had not yet ventured to declare his attachment; of rivals he was
well aware he had not a few, and amongst these not the least formidable
was the Russian Count Timascheff. And although the young widow was all
unconscious of the share she had in the matter, it was she, and she alone,
who was the cause of the challenge just given and accepted by her two
ardent admirers.
During his residence in the gourbi, Hector Servadac’s sole companion
was his orderly, Ben Zoof. Ben Zoof was devoted, body and soul, to his
superior officer. His own personal ambition was so entirely absorbed in his
master’s welfare, that it is certain no offer of promotion—even had it been
that of aide-de-camp to the Governor-General of Algiers—would have
induced him to quit that master’s service. His name might seem to imply
that he was a native of Algeria; but such was by no means the case. His true
name was Laurent; he was a native of Montmartre in Paris, and how or why
he had obtained his patronymic was one of those anomalies which the most
sagacious of etymologists would find it hard to explain.
Born on the hill of Montmartre, between the Solferino tower and the mill
of La Galette, Ben Zoof had ever possessed the most unreserved admiration
for his birthplace; and to his eyes the heights and district of Montmartre
represented an epitome of all the wonders of the world. In all his travels,
and these had been not a few, he had never beheld scenery which could
compete with that of his native home. No cathedral—not even Burgos itself
—could vie with the church at Montmartre. Its race-course could well hold
its own against that at Pentelique; its reservoir would throw the
Mediterranean into the shade; its forests had flourished long before the
invasion of the Celts; and its very mill produced no ordinary flour, but
provided material for cakes of world-wide renown. To crown all,
Montmartre boasted a mountain—a veritable mountain; envious tongues
indeed might pronounce it little more than a hill; but Ben Zoof would have
allowed himself to be hewn in pieces rather than admit that it was anything
less than fifteen thousand feet in height.
Ben Zoof’s most ambitious desire was to induce the captain to go with
him and end his days in his much-loved home, and so incessantly were
Servadac’s ears besieged with descriptions of the unparalleled beauties and
advantages of this eighteenth arrondissement of Paris, that he could scarcely
hear the name of Montmartre without a conscious thrill of aversion. Ben

Zoof, however, did not despair of ultimately converting the captain, and
meanwhile had resolved never to leave him. When a private in the 8th
Cavalry, he had been on the point of quitting the army at twenty-eight years
of age, but unexpectedly he had been appointed orderly to Captain
Servadac. Side by side they fought in two campaigns. Servadac had saved
Ben Zoof’s life in Japan; Ben Zoof had rendered his master a like service in
the Soudan. The bond of union thus effected could never be severed; and
although Ben Zoof’s achievements had fairly earned him the right of
retirement, he firmly declined all honors or any pension that might part him
from his superior officer. Two stout arms, an iron constitution, a powerful
frame, and an indomitable courage were all loyally devoted to his master’s
service, and fairly entitled him to his soi-disant designation of “The
Rampart of Montmartre.” Unlike his master, he made no pretension to any
gift of poetic power, but his inexhaustible memory made him a living
encyclopaedia; and for his stock of anecdotes and trooper’s tales he was
matchless.
Thoroughly appreciating his servant’s good qualities, Captain Servadac
endured with imperturbable good humor those idiosyncrasies, which in a
less faithful follower would have been intolerable, and from time to time he
would drop a word of sympathy that served to deepen his subordinate’s
devotion.
On one occasion, when Ben Zoof had mounted his hobby-horse, and was
indulging in high-flown praises about his beloved eighteenth
arrondissement, the captain had remarked gravely, “Do you know, Ben
Zoof, that Montmartre only requires a matter of some thirteen thousand feet
to make it as high as Mont Blanc?”
Ben Zoof’s eyes glistened with delight; and from that moment Hector
Servadac and Montmartre held equal places in his affection.

CHAPTER III. INTERRUPTED EFFUSIONS
Composed of mud and loose stones, and covered with a thatch of turf and
straw, known to the natives by the name of “driss,” the gourbi, though a
grade better than the tents of the nomad Arabs, was yet far inferior to any
habitation built of brick or stone. It adjoined an old stone hostelry,
previously occupied by a detachment of engineers, and which now afforded
shelter for Ben Zoof and the two horses. It still contained a considerable
number of tools, such as mattocks, shovels, and pick-axes.
Uncomfortable as was their temporary abode, Servadac and his attendant
made no complaints; neither of them was dainty in the matter either of
board or lodging. After dinner, leaving his orderly to stow away the remains
of the repast in what he was pleased to term the “cupboard of his stomach.”
Captain Servadac turned out into the open air to smoke his pipe upon the
edge of the cliff. The shades of night were drawing on. An hour previously,
veiled in heavy clouds, the sun had sunk below the horizon that bounded
the plain beyond the Shelif.
The sky presented a most singular appearance. Towards the north,
although the darkness rendered it impossible to see beyond a quarter of a
mile, the upper strata of the atmosphere were suffused with a rosy glare. No
well-defined fringe of light, nor arch of luminous rays, betokened a display
of aurora borealis, even had such a phenomenon been possible in these
latitudes; and the most experienced meteorologist would have been puzzled
to explain the cause of this striking illumination on this 31st of December,
the last evening of the passing year.
But Captain Servadac was no meteorologist, and it is to be doubted
whether, since leaving school, he had ever opened his “Course of
Cosmography.” Besides, he had other thoughts to occupy his mind. The
prospects of the morrow offered serious matter for consideration. The
captain was actuated by no personal animosity against the count; though
rivals, the two men regarded each other with sincere respect; they had
simply reached a crisis in which one of them was de trop; which of them,
fate must decide.

At eight o’clock, Captain Servadac re-entered the gourbi, the single
apartment of which contained his bed, a small writing-table, and some
trunks that served instead of cupboards. The orderly performed his culinary
operations in the adjoining building, which he also used as a bed-room, and
where, extended on what he called his “good oak mattress,” he would sleep
soundly as a dormouse for twelve hours at a stretch. Ben Zoof had not yet
received his orders to retire, and ensconcing himself in a corner of the
gourbi, he endeavored to doze—a task which the unusual agitation of his
master rendered somewhat difficult. Captain Servadac was evidently in no
hurry to betake himself to rest, but seating himself at his table, with a pair
of compasses and a sheet of tracing-paper, he began to draw, with red and
blue crayons, a variety of colored lines, which could hardly be supposed to
have much connection with a topographical survey. In truth, his character of
staff-officer was now entirely absorbed in that of Gascon poet. Whether he
imagined that the compasses would bestow upon his verses the measure of
a mathematical accuracy, or whether he fancied that the parti-colored lines
would lend variety to his rhythm, it is impossible to determine; be that as it
may, he was devoting all his energies to the compilation of his rondo, and
supremely difficult he found the task.
“Hang it!” he ejaculated, “whatever induced me to choose this meter? It
is as hard to find rhymes as to rally fugitive in a battle. But, by all the
powers! it shan’t be said that a French officer cannot cope with a piece of
poetry. One battalion has fought—now for the rest!”
Perseverance had its reward. Presently two lines, one red, the other blue,
appeared upon the paper, and the captain murmured:

“Words, mere words, cannot avail,
Telling true heart’s tender tale.”

“What on earth ails my master?” muttered Ben Zoof; “for the last hour he
has been as fidgety as a bird returning after its winter migration.”
Servadac suddenly started from his seat, and as he paced the room with
all the frenzy of poetic inspiration, read out:

“Empty words cannot convey
All a lover’s heart would say.”

“Well, to be sure, he is at his everlasting verses again!” said Ben Zoof to
himself, as he roused himself in his corner. “Impossible to sleep in such a
noise;” and he gave vent to a loud groan.
“How now, Ben Zoof?” said the captain sharply. “What ails you?”
“Nothing, sir, only the nightmare.”
“Curse the fellow, he has quite interrupted me!” ejaculated the captain.
“Ben Zoof!” he called aloud.
“Here, sir!” was the prompt reply; and in an instant the orderly was upon
his feet, standing in a military attitude, one hand to his forehead, the other
closely pressed to his trouser-seam.
“Stay where you are! don’t move an inch!” shouted Servadac; “I have
just thought of the end of my rondo.” And in a voice of inspiration,
accompanying his words with dramatic gestures, Servadac began to
declaim:

“Listen, lady, to my vows—
O, consent to be my spouse;
Constant ever I will be,
Constant....”

No closing lines were uttered. All at once, with unutterable violence, the
captain and his orderly were dashed, face downwards, to the ground.

CHAPTER IV. A CONVULSION OF NATURE
Whence came it that at that very moment the horizon underwent so
strange and sudden a modification, that the eye of the most practiced
mariner could not distinguish between sea and sky?
Whence came it that the billows raged and rose to a height hitherto
unregistered in the records of science?
Whence came it that the elements united in one deafening crash; that the
earth groaned as though the whole framework of the globe were ruptured;
that the waters roared from their innermost depths; that the air shrieked with
all the fury of a cyclone?
Whence came it that a radiance, intenser than the effulgence of the
Northern Lights, overspread the firmament, and momentarily dimmed the
splendor of the brightest stars?
Whence came it that the Mediterranean, one instant emptied of its waters,
was the next flooded with a foaming surge?
Whence came it that in the space of a few seconds the moon’s disc
reached a magnitude as though it were but a tenth part of its ordinary
distance from the earth?
Whence came it that a new blazing spheroid, hitherto unknown to
astronomy, now appeared suddenly in the firmament, though it were but to
lose itself immediately behind masses of accumulated cloud?
What phenomenon was this that had produced a cataclysm so tremendous
in effect upon earth, sky, and sea?
Was it possible that a single human being could have survived the
convulsion? and if so, could he explain its mystery?

CHAPTER V. A MYSTERIOUS SEA
Violent as the commotion had been, that portion of the Algerian coast
which is bounded on the north by the Mediterranean, and on the west by the
right bank of the Shelif, appeared to have suffered little change. It is true
that indentations were perceptible in the fertile plain, and the surface of the
sea was ruffled with an agitation that was quite unusual; but the rugged
outline of the cliff was the same as heretofore, and the aspect of the entire
scene appeared unaltered. The stone hostelry, with the exception of some
deep clefts in its walls, had sustained little injury; but the gourbi, like a
house of cards destroyed by an infant’s breath, had completely subsided,
and its two inmates lay motionless, buried under the sunken thatch.
It was two hours after the catastrophe that Captain Servadac regained
consciousness; he had some trouble to collect his thoughts, and the first
sounds that escaped his lips were the concluding words of the rondo which
had been so ruthlessly interrupted;

“Constant ever I will be,
Constant....”

His next thought was to wonder what had happened; and in order to find
an answer, he pushed aside the broken thatch, so that his head appeared
above the debris. “The gourbi leveled to the ground!” he exclaimed, “surely
a waterspout has passed along the coast.”
He felt all over his body to perceive what injuries he had sustained, but
not a sprain nor a scratch could he discover. “Where are you, Ben Zoof?” he
shouted.
“Here, sir!” and with military promptitude a second head protruded from
the rubbish.
“Have you any notion what has happened, Ben Zoof?”
“I’ve a notion, captain, that it’s all up with us.”
“Nonsense, Ben Zoof; it is nothing but a waterspout!”

“Very good, sir,” was the philosophical reply, immediately followed by
the query, “Any bones broken, sir?”
“None whatever,” said the captain.
Both men were soon on their feet, and began to make a vigorous
clearance of the ruins, beneath which they found that their arms, cooking
utensils, and other property, had sustained little injury.
“By-the-by, what o’clock is it?” asked the captain.
“It must be eight o’clock, at least,” said Ben Zoof, looking at the sun,
which was a considerable height above the horizon. “It is almost time for us
to start.”
“To start! what for?”
“To keep your appointment with Count Timascheff.”
“By Jove! I had forgotten all about it!” exclaimed Servadac. Then
looking at his watch, he cried, “What are you thinking of, Ben Zoof? It is
scarcely two o’clock.”
“Two in the morning, or two in the afternoon?” asked Ben Zoof, again
regarding the sun.
Servadac raised his watch to his ear. “It is going,” said he; “but, by all the
wines of Medoc, I am puzzled. Don’t you see the sun is in the west? It must
be near setting.”
“Setting, captain! Why, it is rising finely, like a conscript at the sound of
the reveille. It is considerably higher since we have been talking.”
Incredible as it might appear, the fact was undeniable that the sun was
rising over the Shelif from that quarter of the horizon behind which it
usually sank for the latter portion of its daily round. They were utterly
bewildered. Some mysterious phenomenon must not only have altered the
position of the sun in the sidereal system, but must even have brought about
an important modification of the earth’s rotation on her axis.
Captain Servadac consoled himself with the prospect of reading an
explanation of the mystery in next week’s newspapers, and turned his
attention to what was to him of more immediate importance. “Come, let us
be off,” said he to his orderly; “though heaven and earth be topsy-turvy, I
must be at my post this morning.”

“To do Count Timascheff the honor of running him through the body,”
added Ben Zoof.
If Servadac and his orderly had been less preoccupied, they would have
noticed that a variety of other physical changes besides the apparent
alteration in the movement of the sun had been evolved during the
atmospheric disturbances of that New Year’s night. As they descended the
steep footpath leading from the cliff towards the Shelif, they were
unconscious that their respiration became forced and rapid, like that of a
mountaineer when he has reached an altitude where the air has become less
charged with oxygen. They were also unconscious that their voices were
thin and feeble; either they must themselves have become rather deaf, or it
was evident that the air had become less capable of transmitting sound.
The weather, which on the previous evening had been very foggy, had
entirely changed. The sky had assumed a singular tint, and was soon
covered with lowering clouds that completely hid the sun. There were,
indeed, all the signs of a coming storm, but the vapor, on account of the
insufficient condensation, failed to fall.
The sea appeared quite deserted, a most unusual circumstance along this
coast, and not a sail nor a trail of smoke broke the gray monotony of water
and sky. The limits of the horizon, too, had become much circumscribed.
On land, as well as on sea, the remote distance had completely disappeared,
and it seemed as though the globe had assumed a more decided convexity.
At the pace at which they were walking, it was very evident that the
captain and his attendant would not take long to accomplish the three miles
that lay between the gourbi and the place of rendezvous. They did not
exchange a word, but each was conscious of an unusual buoyancy, which
appeared to lift up their bodies and give as it were, wings to their feet. If
Ben Zoof had expressed his sensations in words, he would have said that he
felt “up to anything,” and he had even forgotten to taste so much as a crust
of bread, a lapse of memory of which the worthy soldier was rarely guilty.
As these thoughts were crossing his mind, a harsh bark was heard to the
left of the footpath, and a jackal was seen emerging from a large grove of
lentisks. Regarding the two wayfarers with manifest uneasiness, the beast
took up its position at the foot of a rock, more than thirty feet in height. It
belonged to an African species distinguished by a black spotted skin, and a
black line down the front of the legs. At night-time, when they scour the

country in herds, the creatures are somewhat formidable, but singly they are
no more dangerous than a dog. Though by no means afraid of them, Ben
Zoof had a particular aversion to jackals, perhaps because they had no place
among the fauna of his beloved Montmartre. He accordingly began to make
threatening gestures, when, to the unmitigated astonishment of himself and
the captain, the animal darted forward, and in one single bound gained the
summit of the rock.
“Good Heavens!” cried Ben Zoof, “that leap must have been thirty feet at
least.”
“True enough,” replied the captain; “I never saw such a jump.”
Meantime the jackal had seated itself upon its haunches, and was staring
at the two men with an air of impudent defiance. This was too much for Ben
Zoof’s forbearance, and stooping down he caught up a huge stone, when to
his surprise, he found that it was no heavier than a piece of petrified sponge.
“Confound the brute!” he exclaimed, “I might as well throw a piece of
bread at him. What accounts for its being as light as this?”
Nothing daunted, however, he hurled the stone into the air. It missed its
aim; but the jackal, deeming it on the whole prudent to decamp,
disappeared across the trees and hedges with a series of bounds, which
could only be likened to those that might be made by an india-rubber
kangaroo. Ben Zoof was sure that his own powers of propelling must equal
those of a howitzer, for his stone, after a lengthened flight through the air,
fell to the ground full five hundred paces the other side of the rock.
The orderly was now some yards ahead of his master, and had reached a
ditch full of water, and about ten feet wide. With the intention of clearing it,
he made a spring, when a loud cry burst from Servadac. “Ben Zoof, you
idiot! What are you about? You will break your back!”
And well might he be alarmed, for Ben Zoof had sprung to a height of
forty feet into the air. Fearful of the consequences that would attend the
descent of his servant to terra firma, Servadac bounded forwards, to be on
the other side of the ditch in time to break his fall. But the muscular effort
that he made carried him in his turn to an altitude of thirty feet; in his ascent
he passed Ben Zoof, who had already commenced his downward course;
and then, obedient to the laws of gravitation, he descended with increasing
rapidity, and alighted upon the earth without experiencing a shock greater
than if he had merely made a bound of four or five feet high.

Ben Zoof burst into a roar of laughter. “Bravo!” he said, “we should
make a good pair of clowns.”
But the captain was inclined to take a more serious view of the matter.
For a few seconds he stood lost in thought, then said solemnly, “Ben Zoof, I
must be dreaming. Pinch me hard; I must be either asleep or mad.”
“It is very certain that something has happened to us,” said Ben Zoof. “I
have occasionally dreamed that I was a swallow flying over the
Montmartre, but I never experienced anything of this kind before; it must be
peculiar to the coast of Algeria.”
Servadac was stupefied; he felt instinctively that he was not dreaming,
and yet was powerless to solve the mystery. He was not, however, the man
to puzzle himself for long over any insoluble problem. “Come what may,”
he presently exclaimed, “we will make up our minds for the future to be
surprised at nothing.”
“Right, captain,” replied Ben Zoof; “and, first of all, let us settle our little
score with Count Timascheff.”
Beyond the ditch lay a small piece of meadow land, about an acre in
extent. A soft and delicious herbage carpeted the soil, whilst trees formed a
charming framework to the whole. No spot could have been chosen more
suitable for the meeting between the two adversaries.
Servadac cast a hasty glance round. No one was in sight. “We are the first
on the field,” he said.
“Not so sure of that, sir,” said Ben Zoof.
“What do you mean?” asked Servadac, looking at his watch, which he
had set as nearly as possible by the sun before leaving the gourbi; “it is not
nine o’clock yet.”
“Look up there, sir. I am much mistaken if that is not the sun;” and as
Ben Zoof spoke, he pointed directly overhead to where a faint white disc
was dimly visible through the haze of clouds.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Servadac. “How can the sun be in the zenith, in
the month of January, in lat. 39 degrees N.?”
“Can’t say, sir. I only know the sun is there; and at the rate he has been
traveling, I would lay my cap to a dish of couscous that in less than three
hours he will have set.”

Hector Servadac, mute and motionless, stood with folded arms. Presently
he roused himself, and began to look about again. “What means all this?”
he murmured. “Laws of gravity disturbed! Points of the compass reversed!
The length of day reduced one half! Surely this will indefinitely postpone
my meeting with the count. Something has happened; Ben Zoof and I
cannot both be mad!”
The orderly, meantime, surveyed his master with the greatest equanimity;
no phenomenon, however extraordinary, would have drawn from him a
single exclamation of surprise. “Do you see anyone, Ben Zoof?” asked the
captain, at last.
“No one, sir; the count has evidently been and gone.” “But supposing
that to be the case,” persisted the captain, “my seconds would have waited,
and not seeing me, would have come on towards the gourbi. I can only
conclude that they have been unable to get here; and as for Count
Timascheff—”
Without finishing his sentence. Captain Servadac, thinking it just
probable that the count, as on the previous evening, might come by water,
walked to the ridge of rock that overhung the shore, in order to ascertain if
the Dobryna were anywhere in sight. But the sea was deserted, and for the
first time the captain noticed that, although the wind was calm, the waters
were unusually agitated, and seethed and foamed as though they were
boiling. It was very certain that the yacht would have found a difficulty in
holding her own in such a swell. Another thing that now struck Servadac
was the extraordinary contraction of the horizon. Under ordinary
circumstances, his elevated position would have allowed him a radius of
vision at least five and twenty miles in length; but the terrestrial sphere
seemed, in the course of the last few hours, to have become considerably
reduced in volume, and he could now see for a distance of only six miles in
every direction.
Meantime, with the agility of a monkey, Ben Zoof had clambered to the
top of a eucalyptus, and from his lofty perch was surveying the country to
the south, as well as towards both Tenes and Mostaganem. On descending,
be informed the captain that the plain was deserted.
“We will make our way to the river, and get over into Mostaganem,” said
the captain.

The Shelif was not more than a mile and a half from the meadow, but no
time was to be lost if the two men were to reach the town before nightfall.
Though still hidden by heavy clouds, the sun was evidently declining fast;
and what was equally inexplicable, it was not following the oblique curve
that in these latitudes and at this time of year might be expected, but was
sinking perpendicularly on to the horizon.
As he went along, Captain Servadac pondered deeply. Perchance some
unheard-of phenomenon had modified the rotary motion of the globe; or
perhaps the Algerian coast had been transported beyond the equator into the
southern hemisphere. Yet the earth, with the exception of the alteration in its
convexity, in this part of Africa at least, seemed to have undergone no
change of any very great importance. As far as the eye could reach, the
shore was, as it had ever been, a succession of cliffs, beach, and arid rocks,
tinged with a red ferruginous hue. To the south—if south, in this inverted
order of things, it might still be called—the face of the country also
appeared unaltered, and some leagues away, the peaks of the Merdeyah
mountains still retained their accustomed outline.
Presently a rift in the clouds gave passage to an oblique ray of light that
clearly proved that the sun was setting in the east.
“Well, I am curious to know what they think of all this at Mostaganem,”
said the captain. “I wonder, too, what the Minister of War will say when he
receives a telegram informing him that his African colony has become, not
morally, but physically disorganized; that the cardinal points are at variance
with ordinary rules, and that the sun in the month of January is shining
down vertically upon our heads.”
Ben Zoof, whose ideas of discipline were extremely rigid, at once
suggested that the colony should be put under the surveillance of the police,
that the cardinal points should be placed under restraint, and that the sun
should be shot for breach of discipline.
Meantime, they were both advancing with the utmost speed. The
decompression of the atmosphere made the specific gravity of their bodies
extraordinarily light, and they ran like hares and leaped like chamois.
Leaving the devious windings of the footpath, they went as a crow would
fly across the country. Hedges, trees, and streams were cleared at a bound,
and under these conditions Ben Zoof felt that he could have overstepped
Montmartre at a single stride. The earth seemed as elastic as the

springboard of an acrobat; they scarcely touched it with their feet, and their
only fear was lest the height to which they were propelled would consume
the time which they were saving by their short cut across the fields.
It was not long before their wild career brought them to the right bank of
the Shelif. Here they were compelled to stop, for not only had the bridge
completely disappeared, but the river itself no longer existed. Of the left
bank there was not the slightest trace, and the right bank, which on the
previous evening had bounded the yellow stream, as it murmured
peacefully along the fertile plain, had now become the shore of a
tumultuous ocean, its azure waters extending westwards far as the eye could
reach, and annihilating the tract of country which had hitherto formed the
district of Mostaganem. The shore coincided exactly with what had been the
right bank of the Shelif, and in a slightly curved line ran north and south,
whilst the adjacent groves and meadows all retained their previous
positions. But the river-bank had become the shore of an unknown sea.
Eager to throw some light upon the mystery, Servadac hurriedly made his
way through the oleander bushes that overhung the shore, took up some
water in the hollow of his hand, and carried it to his lips. “Salt as brine!” he
exclaimed, as soon as he had tasted it. “The sea has undoubtedly swallowed
up all the western part of Algeria.”
“It will not last long, sir,” said Ben Zoof. “It is, probably, only a severe
flood.”
The captain shook his head. “Worse than that, I fear, Ben Zoof,” he
replied with emotion. “It is a catastrophe that may have very serious
consequences. What can have become of all my friends and fellow-
officers?”
Ben Zoof was silent. Rarely had he seen his master so much agitated; and
though himself inclined to receive these phenomena with philosophic
indifference, his notions of military duty caused his countenance to reflect
the captain’s expression of amazement.
But there was little time for Servadac to examine the changes which a
few hours had wrought. The sun had already reached the eastern horizon,
and just as though it were crossing the ecliptic under the tropics, it sank like
a cannon ball into the sea. Without any warning, day gave place to night,
and earth, sea, and sky were immediately wrapped in profound obscurity.

CHAPTER VI. THE CAPTAIN MAKES AN
EXPLORATION
Hector Servadac was not the man to remain long unnerved by any
untoward event. It was part of his character to discover the why and the
wherefore of everything that came under his observation, and he would
have faced a cannon ball the more unflinchingly from understanding the
dynamic force by which it was propelled. Such being his temperament, it
may well be imagined that he was anxious not to remain long in ignorance
of the cause of the phenomena which had been so startling in their
consequences.
“We must inquire into this to-morrow,” he exclaimed, as darkness fell
suddenly upon him. Then, after a pause, he added: “That is to say, if there is
to be a to-morrow; for if I were to be put to the torture, I could not tell what
has become of the sun.”
“May I ask, sir, what we are to do now?” put in Ben Zoof.
“Stay where we are for the present; and when daylight appears—if it ever
does appear—we will explore the coast to the west and south, and return to
the gourbi. If we can find out nothing else, we must at least discover where
we are.”
“Meanwhile, sir, may we go to sleep?”
“Certainly, if you like, and if you can.”
Nothing loath to avail himself of his master’s permission, Ben Zoof
crouched down in an angle of the shore, threw his arms over his eyes, and
very soon slept the sleep of the ignorant, which is often sounder than the
sleep of the just. Overwhelmed by the questions that crowded upon his
brain, Captain Servadac could only wander up and down the shore. Again
and again he asked himself what the catastrophe could portend. Had the
towns of Algiers, Oran, and Mostaganem escaped the inundation? Could he
bring himself to believe that all the inhabitants, his friends, and comrades
had perished; or was it not more probable that the Mediterranean had
merely invaded the region of the mouth of the Shelif? But this supposition
did not in the least explain the other physical disturbances. Another

hypothesis that presented itself to his mind was that the African coast might
have been suddenly transported to the equatorial zone. But although this
might get over the difficulty of the altered altitude of the sun and the
absence of twilight, yet it would neither account for the sun setting in the
east, nor for the length of the day being reduced to six hours.
“We must wait till to-morrow,” he repeated; adding, for he had become
distrustful of the future, “that is to say, if to-morrow ever comes.”
Although not very learned in astronomy, Servadac was acquainted with
the position of the principal constellations. It was therefore a considerable
disappointment to him that, in consequence of the heavy clouds, not a star
was visible in the firmament. To have ascertained that the pole-star had
become displaced would have been an undeniable proof that the earth was
revolving on a new axis; but not a rift appeared in the lowering clouds,
which seemed to threaten torrents of rain.
It happened that the moon was new on that very day; naturally, therefore,
it would have set at the same time as the sun. What, then, was the captain’s
bewilderment when, after he had been walking for about an hour and a half,
he noticed on the western horizon a strong glare that penetrated even the
masses of the clouds.
“The moon in the west!” he cried aloud; but suddenly bethinking himself,
he added: “But no, that cannot be the moon; unless she had shifted very
much nearer the earth, she could never give a light as intense as this.”
As he spoke the screen of vapor was illuminated to such a degree that the
whole country was as it were bathed in twilight. “What can this be?”
soliloquized the captain. “It cannot be the sun, for the sun set in the east
only an hour and a half ago. Would that those clouds would disclose what
enormous luminary lies behind them! What a fool I was not to have learnt
more astronomy! Perhaps, after all, I am racking my brain over something
that is quite in the ordinary course of nature.”
But, reason as he might, the mysteries of the heavens still remained
impenetrable. For about an hour some luminous body, its disc evidently of
gigantic dimensions, shed its rays upon the upper strata of the clouds; then,
marvelous to relate, instead of obeying the ordinary laws of celestial
mechanism, and descending upon the opposite horizon, it seemed to retreat
farther off, grew dimmer, and vanished.

The darkness that returned to the face of the earth was not more profound
than the gloom which fell upon the captain’s soul. Everything was
incomprehensible. The simplest mechanical rules seemed falsified; the
planets had defied the laws of gravitation; the motions of the celestial
spheres were erroneous as those of a watch with a defective mainspring,
and there was reason to fear that the sun would never again shed his
radiance upon the earth.
But these last fears were groundless. In three hours’ time, without any
intervening twilight, the morning sun made its appearance in the west, and
day once more had dawned. On consulting his watch, Servadac found that
night had lasted precisely six hours. Ben Zoof, who was unaccustomed to
so brief a period of repose, was still slumbering soundly.
“Come, wake up!” said Servadac, shaking him by the shoulder; “it is
time to start.”
“Time to start?” exclaimed Ben Zoof, rubbing his eyes. “I feel as if I had
only just gone to sleep.”
“You have slept all night, at any rate,” replied the captain; “it has only
been for six hours, but you must make it enough.”
“Enough it shall be, sir,” was the submissive rejoinder.
“And now,” continued Servadac, “we will take the shortest way back to
the gourbi, and see what our horses think about it all.”
“They will think that they ought to be groomed,” said the orderly.
“Very good; you may groom them and saddle them as quickly as you
like. I want to know what has become of the rest of Algeria: if we cannot
get round by the south to Mostaganem, we must go eastwards to Tenes.”
And forthwith they started. Beginning to feel hungry, they had no hesitation
in gathering figs, dates, and oranges from the plantations that formed a
continuous rich and luxuriant orchard along their path. The district was
quite deserted, and they had no reason to fear any legal penalty.
In an hour and a half they reached the gourbi. Everything was just as they
had left it, and it was evident that no one had visited the place during their
absence. All was desolate as the shore they had quitted.
The preparations for the expedition were brief and simple. Ben Zoof
saddled the horses and filled his pouch with biscuits and game; water, he
felt certain, could be obtained in abundance from the numerous affluents of

the Shelif, which, although they had now become tributaries of the
Mediterranean, still meandered through the plain. Captain Servadac
mounted his horse Zephyr, and Ben Zoof simultaneously got astride his
mare Galette, named after the mill of Montmartre. They galloped off in the
direction of the Shelif, and were not long in discovering that the diminution
in the pressure of the atmosphere had precisely the same effect upon their
horses as it had had upon themselves. Their muscular strength seemed five
times as great as hitherto; their hoofs scarcely touched the ground, and they
seemed transformed from ordinary quadrupeds into veritable hippogriffs.
Happily, Servadac and his orderly were fearless riders; they made no
attempt to curb their steeds, but even urged them to still greater exertions.
Twenty minutes sufficed to carry them over the four or five miles that
intervened between the gourbi and the mouth of the Shelif; then, slackening
their speed, they proceeded at a more leisurely pace to the southeast, along
what had once been the right bank of the river, but which, although it still
retained its former characteristics, was now the boundary of a sea, which
extending farther than the limits of the horizon, must have swallowed up at
least a large portion of the province of Oran. Captain Servadac knew the
country well; he had at one time been engaged upon a trigonometrical
survey of the district, and consequently had an accurate knowledge of its
topography. His idea now was to draw up a report of his investigations: to
whom that report should be delivered was a problem he had yet to solve.
During the four hours of daylight that still remained, the travelers rode
about twenty-one miles from the river mouth. To their vast surprise, they
did not meet a single human being. At nightfall they again encamped in a
slight bend of the shore, at a point which on the previous evening had faced
the mouth of the Mina, one of the left-hand affluents of the Shelif, but now
absorbed into the newly revealed ocean. Ben Zoof made the sleeping
accommodation as comfortable as the circumstances would allow; the
horses were clogged and turned out to feed upon the rich pasture that
clothed the shore, and the night passed without special incident.
At sunrise on the following morning, the 2nd of January, or what,
according to the ordinary calendar, would have been the night of the 1st, the
captain and his orderly remounted their horses, and during the six-hours’
day accomplished a distance of forty-two miles. The right bank of the river
still continued to be the margin of the land, and only in one spot had its
integrity been impaired. This was about twelve miles from the Mina, and on

the site of the annex or suburb of Surkelmittoo. Here a large portion of the
bank had been swept away, and the hamlet, with its eight hundred
inhabitants, had no doubt been swallowed up by the encroaching waters. It
seemed, therefore, more than probable that a similar fate had overtaken the
larger towns beyond the Shelif.
In the evening the explorers encamped, as previously, in a nook of the
shore which here abruptly terminated their new domain, not far from where
they might have expected to find the important village of Memounturroy;
but of this, too, there was now no trace. “I had quite reckoned upon a
supper and a bed at Orleansville to-night,” said Servadac, as, full of
despondency, he surveyed the waste of water.
“Quite impossible,” replied Ben Zoof, “except you had gone by a boat.
But cheer up, sir, cheer up; we will soon devise some means for getting
across to Mostaganem.”
“If, as I hope,” rejoined the captain, “we are on a peninsula, we are more
likely to get to Tenes; there we shall hear the news.”
“Far more likely to carry the news ourselves,” answered Ben Zoof, as he
threw himself down for his night’s rest.
Six hours later, only waiting for sunrise, Captain Servadac set himself in
movement again to renew his investigations. At this spot the shore, that
hitherto had been running in a southeasterly direction, turned abruptly to the
north, being no longer formed by the natural bank of the Shelif, but
consisting of an absolutely new coast-line. No land was in sight. Nothing
could be seen of Orleansville, which ought to have been about six miles to
the southwest; and Ben Zoof, who had mounted the highest point of view
attainable, could distinguish sea, and nothing but sea, to the farthest
horizon.
Quitting their encampment and riding on, the bewildered explorers kept
close to the new shore. This, since it had ceased to be formed by the
original river bank, had considerably altered its aspect. Frequent landslips
occurred, and in many places deep chasms rifted the ground; great gaps
furrowed the fields, and trees, half uprooted, overhung the water,
remarkable by the fantastic distortions of their gnarled trunks, looking as
though they had been chopped by a hatchet.
The sinuosities of the coast line, alternately gully and headland, had the
effect of making a devious progress for the travelers, and at sunset, although

they had accomplished more than twenty miles, they had only just arrived at
the foot of the Merdeyah Mountains, which, before the cataclysm, had
formed the extremity of the chain of the Little Atlas. The ridge, however,
had been violently ruptured, and now rose perpendicularly from the water.
On the following morning Servadac and Ben Zoof traversed one of the
mountain gorges; and next, in order to make a more thorough acquaintance
with the limits and condition of the section of Algerian territory of which
they seemed to be left as the sole occupants, they dismounted, and
proceeded on foot to the summit of one of the highest peaks. From this
elevation they ascertained that from the base of the Merdeyah to the
Mediterranean, a distance of about eighteen miles, a new coast line had
come into existence; no land was visible in any direction; no isthmus
existed to form a connecting link with the territory of Tenes, which had
entirely disappeared. The result was that Captain Servadac was driven to the
irresistible conclusion that the tract of land which he had been surveying
was not, as he had at first imagined, a peninsula; it was actually an island.
Strictly speaking, this island was quadrilateral, but the sides were so
irregular that it was much more nearly a triangle, the comparison of the
sides exhibiting these proportions: The section of the right bank of the
Shelif, seventy-two miles; the southern boundary from the Shelif to the
chain of the Little Atlas, twenty-one miles; from the Little Atlas to the
Mediterranean, eighteen miles; and sixty miles of the shore of the
Mediterranean itself, making in all an entire circumference of about 171
miles.
“What does it all mean?” exclaimed the captain, every hour growing
more and more bewildered.
“The will of Providence, and we must submit,” replied Ben Zoof, calm
and undisturbed. With this reflection, the two men silently descended the
mountain and remounted their horses. Before evening they had reached the
Mediterranean. On their road they failed to discern a vestige of the little
town of Montenotte; like Tenes, of which not so much as a ruined cottage
was visible on the horizon, it seemed to be annihilated.
On the following day, the 6th of January, the two men made a forced
march along the coast of the Mediterranean, which they found less altered
than the captain had at first supposed; but four villages had entirely

disappeared, and the headlands, unable to resist the shock of the convulsion,
had been detached from the mainland.
The circuit of the island had been now completed, and the explorers, after
a period of sixty hours, found themselves once more beside the ruins of
their gourbi. Five days, or what, according to the established order of
things, would have been two days and a half, had been occupied in tracing
the boundaries of their new domain; and they had ascertained beyond a
doubt that they were the sole human inhabitants left upon the island.
“Well, sir, here you are, Governor General of Algeria!” exclaimed Ben
Zoof, as they reached the gourbi.
“With not a soul to govern,” gloomily rejoined the captain.
“How so? Do you not reckon me?”
“Pshaw! Ben Zoof, what are you?”
“What am I? Why, I am the population.”
The captain deigned no reply, but, muttering some expressions of regret
for the fruitless trouble he had taken about his rondo, betook himself to rest.

CHAPTER VII. BEN ZOOF WATCHES IN VAIN
In a few minutes the governor general and his population were asleep.
The gourbi being in ruins, they were obliged to put up with the best
accommodation they could find in the adjacent erection. It must be owned
that the captain’s slumbers were by no means sound; he was agitated by the
consciousness that he had hitherto been unable to account for his strange
experiences by any reasonable theory. Though far from being advanced in
the knowledge of natural philosophy, he had been instructed, to a certain
degree, in its elementary principles; and, by an effort of memory, he
managed to recall some general laws which he had almost forgotten. He
could understand that an altered inclination of the earth’s axis with regard to
the ecliptic would introduce a change of position in the cardinal points, and
bring about a displacement of the sea; but the hypothesis entirely failed to
account, either for the shortening of the days, or for the diminution in the
pressure of the atmosphere. He felt that his judgment was utterly baffled;
his only remaining hope was that the chain of marvels was not yet
complete, and that something farther might throw some light upon the
mystery.
Ben Zoof’s first care on the following morning was to provide a good
breakfast. To use his own phrase, he was as hungry as the whole population
of three million Algerians, of whom he was the representative, and he must
have enough to eat. The catastrophe which had overwhelmed the country
had left a dozen eggs uninjured, and upon these, with a good dish of his
famous couscous, he hoped that he and his master might have a sufficiently
substantial meal. The stove was ready for use, the copper skillet was as
bright as hands could make it, and the beads of condensed steam upon the
surface of a large stone al-caraza gave evidence that it was supplied with
water. Ben Zoof at once lighted a fire, singing all the time, according to his
wont, a snatch of an old military refrain.
Ever on the lookout for fresh phenomena, Captain Servadac watched the
preparations with a curious eye. It struck him that perhaps the air, in its
strangely modified condition, would fail to supply sufficient oxygen, and
that the stove, in consequence, might not fulfill its function. But no; the fire

was lighted just as usual, and fanned into vigor by Ben Zoof applying his
mouth in lieu of bellows, and a bright flame started up from the midst of the
twigs and coal. The skillet was duly set upon the stove, and Ben Zoof was
prepared to wait awhile for the water to boil. Taking up the eggs, he was
surprised to notice that they hardly weighed more than they would if they
had been mere shells; but he was still more surprised when he saw that
before the water had been two minutes over the fire it was at full boil.
“By jingo!” he exclaimed, “a precious hot fire!”
Servadac reflected. “It cannot be that the fire is hotter,” he said, “the
peculiarity must be in the water.” And taking down a centigrade
thermometer, which hung upon the wall, he plunged it into the skillet.
Instead of 100 degrees, the instrument registered only 66 degrees.
“Take my advice, Ben Zoof,” he said; “leave your eggs in the saucepan a
good quarter of an hour.”
“Boil them hard! That will never do,” objected the orderly.
“You will not find them hard, my good fellow. Trust me, we shall be able
to dip our sippets into the yolks easily enough.”
The captain was quite right in his conjecture, that this new phenomenon
was caused by a diminution in the pressure of the atmosphere. Water boiling
at a temperature of 66 degrees was itself an evidence that the column of air
above the earth’s surface had become reduced by one-third of its altitude.
The identical phenomenon would have occurred at the summit of a
mountain 35,000 feet high; and had Servadac been in possession of a
barometer, he would have immediately discovered the fact that only now
for the first time, as the result of experiment, revealed itself to him—a fact,
moreover, which accounted for the compression of the blood-vessels which
both he and Ben Zoof had experienced, as well as for the attenuation of
their voices and their accelerated breathing. “And yet,” he argued with
himself, “if our encampment has been projected to so great an elevation,
how is it that the sea remains at its proper level?”
Once again Hector Servadac, though capable of tracing consequences,
felt himself totally at a loss to comprehend their cause; hence his agitation
and bewilderment!
After their prolonged immersion in the boiling water, the eggs were
found to be only just sufficiently cooked; the couscous was very much in

the same condition; and Ben Zoof came to the conclusion that in future he
must be careful to commence his culinary operations an hour earlier. He
was rejoiced at last to help his master, who, in spite of his perplexed
preoccupation, seemed to have a very fair appetite for breakfast.
“Well, captain?” said Ben Zoof presently, such being his ordinary way of
opening conversation.
“Well, Ben Zoof?” was the captain’s invariable response to his servant’s
formula.
“What are we to do now, sir?”
“We can only for the present wait patiently where we are. We are
encamped upon an island, and therefore we can only be rescued by sea.”
“But do you suppose that any of our friends are still alive?” asked Ben
Zoof.
“Oh, I think we must indulge the hope that this catastrophe has not
extended far. We must trust that it has limited its mischief to some small
portion of the Algerian coast, and that our friends are all alive and well. No
doubt the governor general will be anxious to investigate the full extent of
the damage, and will send a vessel from Algiers to explore. It is not likely
that we shall be forgotten. What, then, you have to do, Ben Zoof, is to keep
a sharp lookout, and to be ready, in case a vessel should appear, to make
signals at once.”
“But if no vessel should appear!” sighed the orderly.
“Then we must build a boat, and go in search of those who do not come
in search of us.”
“Very good. But what sort of a sailor are you?”
“Everyone can be a sailor when he must,” said Servadac calmly.
Ben Zoof said no more. For several succeeding days he scanned the
horizon unintermittently with his telescope. His watching was in vain. No
ship appeared upon the desert sea. “By the name of a Kabyle!” he broke out
impatiently, “his Excellency is grossly negligent!”
Although the days and nights had become reduced from twenty-four
hours to twelve, Captain Servadac would not accept the new condition of
things, but resolved to adhere to the computations of the old calendar.
Notwithstanding, therefore, that the sun had risen and set twelve times since

the commencement of the new year, he persisted in calling the following
day the 6th of January. His watch enabled him to keep an accurate account
of the passing hours.
In the course of his life, Ben Zoof had read a few books. After pondering
one day, he said: “It seems to me, captain, that you have turned into
Robinson Crusoe, and that I am your man Friday. I hope I have not become
a negro.”
“No,” replied the captain. “Your complexion isn’t the fairest in the world,
but you are not black yet.”
“Well, I had much sooner be a white Friday than a black one,” rejoined
Ben Zoof.
Still no ship appeared; and Captain Servadac, after the example of all
previous Crusoes, began to consider it advisable to investigate the resources
of his domain. The new territory of which he had become the monarch he
named Gourbi Island. It had a superficial area of about nine hundred square
miles. Bullocks, cows, goats, and sheep existed in considerable numbers;
and as there seemed already to be an abundance of game, it was hardly
likely that a future supply would fail them. The condition of the cereals was
such as to promise a fine ingathering of wheat, maize, and rice; so that for
the governor and his population, with their two horses, not only was there
ample provision, but even if other human inhabitants besides themselves
should yet be discovered, there was not the remotest prospect of any of
them perishing by starvation.
From the 6th to the 13th of January the rain came down in torrents; and,
what was quite an unusual occurrence at this season of the year, several
heavy storms broke over the island. In spite, however, of the continual
downfall, the heavens still remained veiled in cloud. Servadac, moreover,
did not fail to observe that for the season the temperature was unusually
high; and, as a matter still more surprising, that it kept steadily increasing,
as though the earth were gradually and continuously approximating to the
sun. In proportion to the rise of temperature, the light also assumed greater
intensity; and if it had not been for the screen of vapor interposed between
the sky and the island, the irradiation which would have illumined all
terrestrial objects would have been vivid beyond all precedent.
But neither sun, moon, nor star ever appeared; and Servadac’s irritation
and annoyance at being unable to identify any one point of the firmament

may be more readily imagined than described. On one occasion Ben Zoof
endeavored to mitigate his master’s impatience by exhorting him to assume
the resignation, even if he did not feel the indifference, which he himself
experienced; but his advice was received with so angry a rebuff that he
retired in all haste, abashed, to résumé his watchman’s duty, which he
performed with exemplary perseverance. Day and night, with the shortest
possible intervals of rest, despite wind, rain, and storm, he mounted guard
upon the cliff—but all in vain. Not a speck appeared upon the desolate
horizon. To say the truth, no vessel could have stood against the weather.
The hurricane raged with tremendous fury, and the waves rose to a height
that seemed to defy calculation. Never, even in the second era of creation,
when, under the influence of internal heat, the waters rose in vapor to
descend in deluge back upon the world, could meteorological phenomena
have been developed with more impressive intensity.
But by the night of the 13th the tempest appeared to have spent its fury;
the wind dropped; the rain ceased as if by a spell; and Servadac, who for the
last six days had confined himself to the shelter of his roof, hastened to join
Ben Zoof at his post upon the cliff. Now, he thought, there might be a
chance of solving his perplexity; perhaps now the huge disc, of which he
had had an imperfect glimpse on the night of the 31st of December, might
again reveal itself; at any rate, he hoped for an opportunity of observing the
constellations in a clear firmament above.
The night was magnificent. Not a cloud dimmed the luster of the stars,
which spangled the heavens in surpassing brilliancy, and several nebulae
which hitherto no astronomer had been able to discern without the aid of a
telescope were clearly visible to the naked eye.
By a natural impulse, Servadac’s first thought was to observe the position
of the pole-star. It was in sight, but so near to the horizon as to suggest the
utter impossibility of its being any longer the central pivot of the sidereal
system; it occupied a position through which it was out of the question that
the axis of the earth indefinitely prolonged could ever pass. In his
impression he was more thoroughly confirmed when, an hour later, he
noticed that the star had approached still nearer the horizon, as though it
had belonged to one of the zodiacal constellations.
The pole-star being manifestly thus displaced, it remained to be
discovered whether any other of the celestial bodies had become a fixed

center around which the constellations made their apparent daily
revolutions. To the solution of this problem Servadac applied himself with
the most thoughtful diligence. After patient observation, he satisfied himself
that the required conditions were answered by a certain star that was
stationary not far from the horizon. This was Vega, in the constellation
Lyra, a star which, according to the precession of the equinoxes, will take
the place of our pole-star 12,000 years hence. The most daring imagination
could not suppose that a period of 12,000 years had been crowded into the
space of a fortnight; and therefore the captain came, as to an easier
conclusion, to the opinion that the earth’s axis had been suddenly and
immensely shifted; and from the fact that the axis, if produced, would pass
through a point so little removed above the horizon, he deduced the
inference that the Mediterranean must have been transported to the equator.
Lost in bewildering maze of thought, he gazed long and intently upon the
heavens. His eyes wandered from where the tail of the Great Bear, now a
zodiacal constellation, was scarcely visible above the waters, to where the
stars of the southern hemisphere were just breaking on his view. A cry from
Ben Zoof recalled him to himself.
“The moon!” shouted the orderly, as though overjoyed at once again
beholding what the poet has called:

“The kind companion of terrestrial night;”

and he pointed to a disc that was rising at a spot precisely opposite the
place where they would have expected to see the sun. “The moon!” again
he cried.
But Captain Servadac could not altogether enter into his servant’s
enthusiasm. If this were actually the moon, her distance from the earth must
have been increased by some millions of miles. He was rather disposed to
suspect that it was not the earth’s satellite at all, but some planet with its
apparent magnitude greatly enlarged by its approximation to the earth.
Taking up the powerful field-glass which he was accustomed to use in his
surveying operations, he proceeded to investigate more carefully the
luminous orb. But he failed to trace any of the lineaments, supposed to
resemble a human face, that mark the lunar surface; he failed to decipher
any indications of hill and plain; nor could he make out the aureole of light

which emanates from what astronomers have designated Mount Tycho. “It
is not the moon,” he said slowly.
“Not the moon?” cried Ben Zoof. “Why not?”
“It is not the moon,” again affirmed the captain.
“Why not?” repeated Ben Zoof, unwilling to renounce his first
impression.
“Because there is a small satellite in attendance.” And the captain drew
his servant’s attention to a bright speck, apparently about the size of one of
Jupiter’s satellites seen through a moderate telescope, that was clearly
visible just within the focus of his glass.
Here, then, was a fresh mystery. The orbit of this planet was assuredly
interior to the orbit of the earth, because it accompanied the sun in its
apparent motion; yet it was neither Mercury nor Venus, because neither one
nor the other of these has any satellite at all.
The captain stamped and stamped again with mingled vexation, agitation,
and bewilderment. “Confound it!” he cried, “if this is neither Venus nor
Mercury, it must be the moon; but if it is the moon, whence, in the name of
all the gods, has she picked up another moon for herself?”
The captain was in dire perplexity.

CHAPTER VIII. VENUS IN PERILOUS
PROXIMITY
The light of the returning sun soon extinguished the glory of the stars,
and rendered it necessary for the captain to postpone his observations. He
had sought in vain for further trace of the huge disc that had so excited his
wonder on the 1st, and it seemed most probable that, in its irregular orbit, it
had been carried beyond the range of vision.
The weather was still superb. The wind, after veering to the west, had
sunk to a perfect calm. Pursuing its inverted course, the sun rose and set
with undeviating regularity; and the days and nights were still divided into
periods of precisely six hours each—a sure proof that the sun remained
close to the new equator which manifestly passed through Gourbi Island.
Meanwhile the temperature was steadily increasing. The captain kept his
thermometer close at hand where he could repeatedly consult it, and on the
15th he found that it registered 50 degrees centigrade in the shade.
No attempt had been made to rebuild the gourbi, but the captain and Ben
Zoof managed to make up quarters sufficiently comfortable in the principal
apartment of the adjoining structure, where the stone walls, that at first
afforded a refuge from the torrents of rain, now formed an equally
acceptable shelter from the burning sun. The heat was becoming
insufferable, surpassing the heat of Senegal and other equatorial regions;
not a cloud ever tempered the intensity of the solar rays; and unless some
modification ensued, it seemed inevitable that all vegetation should become
scorched and burnt off from the face of the island.
In spite, however, of the profuse perspirations from which he suffered,
Ben Zoof, constant to his principles, expressed no surprise at the unwonted
heat. No remonstrances from his master could induce him to abandon his
watch from the cliff. To withstand the vertical beams of that noontide sun
would seem to require a skin of brass and a brain of adamant; but yet, hour
after hour, he would remain conscientiously scanning the surface of the
Mediterranean, which, calm and deserted, lay outstretched before him. On
one occasion, Servadac, in reference to his orderly’s indomitable

perseverance, happened to remark that he thought he must have been born
in the heart of equatorial Africa; to which Ben Zoof replied, with the utmost
dignity, that he was born at Montmartre, which was all the same. The
worthy fellow was unwilling to own that, even in the matter of heat, the
tropics could in any way surpass his own much-loved home.
This unprecedented temperature very soon began to take effect upon the
products of the soil. The sap rose rapidly in the trees, so that in the course of
a few days buds, leaves, flowers, and fruit had come to full maturity. It was
the same with the cereals; wheat and maize sprouted and ripened as if by
magic, and for a while a rank and luxuriant pasturage clothed the meadows.
Summer and autumn seemed blended into one. If Captain Servadac had
been more deeply versed in astronomy, he would perhaps have been able to
bring to bear his knowledge that if the axis of the earth, as everything
seemed to indicate, now formed a right angle with the plane of the ecliptic,
her various seasons, like those of the planet Jupiter, would become limited
to certain zones, in which they would remain invariable. But even if he had
understood the rationale of the change, the convulsion that had brought it
about would have been as much a mystery as ever.
The precocity of vegetation caused some embarrassment. The time for
the corn and fruit harvest had fallen simultaneously with that of the
haymaking; and as the extreme heat precluded any prolonged exertions, it
was evident “the population” of the island would find it difficult to provide
the necessary amount of labor. Not that the prospect gave them much
concern: the provisions of the gourbi were still far from exhausted, and now
that the roughness of the weather had so happily subsided, they had every
encouragement to hope that a ship of some sort would soon appear. Not
only was that part of the Mediterranean systematically frequented by the
government steamers that watched the coast, but vessels of all nations were
constantly cruising off the shore.
In spite, however, of all their sanguine speculations, no ship appeared.
Ben Zoof admitted the necessity of extemporizing a kind of parasol for
himself, otherwise he must literally have been roasted to death upon the
exposed summit of the cliff.
Meanwhile, Servadac was doing his utmost—it must be acknowledged,
with indifferent success—to recall the lessons of his school-days. He would
plunge into the wildest speculations in his endeavors to unravel the

difficulties of the new situation, and struggled into a kind of conviction that
if there had been a change of manner in the earth’s rotation on her axis,
there would be a corresponding change in her revolution round the sun,
which would involve the consequence of the length of the year being either
diminished or increased.
Independently of the increased and increasing heat, there was another
very conclusive demonstration that the earth had thus suddenly
approximated towards the sun. The diameter of the solar disc was now
exactly twice what it ordinarily looks to the naked eye; in fact, it was
precisely such as it would appear to an observer on the surface of the planet
Venus. The most obvious inference would therefore be that the earth’s
distance from the sun had been diminished from 91,000,000 to 66,000,000
miles. If the just equilibrium of the earth had thus been destroyed, and
should this diminution of distance still continue, would there not be reason
to fear that the terrestrial world would be carried onwards to actual contact
with the sun, which must result in its total annihilation?
The continuance of the splendid weather afforded Servadac every facility
for observing the heavens. Night after night, constellations in their beauty
lay stretched before his eyes—an alphabet which, to his mortification, not
to say his rage, he was unable to decipher. In the apparent dimensions of the
fixed stars, in their distance, in their relative position with regard to each
other, he could observe no change. Although it is established that our sun is
approaching the constellation of Hercules at the rate of more than
126,000,000 miles a year, and although Arcturus is traveling through space
at the rate of fifty-four miles a second—three times faster than the earth
goes round the sun,—yet such is the remoteness of those stars that no
appreciable change is evident to the senses. The fixed stars taught him
nothing.
Far otherwise was it with the planets. The orbits of Venus and Mercury
are within the orbit of the earth, Venus rotating at an average distance of
66,130,000 miles from the sun, and Mercury at that of 35,393,000. After
pondering long, and as profoundly as he could, upon these figures, Captain
Servadac came to the conclusion that, as the earth was now receiving about
double the amount of light and heat that it had been receiving before the
catastrophe, it was receiving about the same as the planet Venus; he was
driven, therefore, to the estimate of the measure in which the earth must

have approximated to the sun, a deduction in which he was confirmed when
the opportunity came for him to observe Venus herself in the splendid
proportions that she now assumed.
That magnificent planet which—as Phosphorus or Lucifer, Hesperus or
Vesper, the evening star, the morning star, or the shepherd’s star—has never
failed to attract the rapturous admiration of the most indifferent observers,
here revealed herself with unprecedented glory, exhibiting all the phases of
a lustrous moon in miniature. Various indentations in the outline of its
crescent showed that the solar beams were refracted into regions of its
surface where the sun had already set, and proved, beyond a doubt, that the
planet had an atmosphere of her own; and certain luminous points
projecting from the crescent as plainly marked the existence of mountains.
As the result of Servadac’s computations, he formed the opinion that Venus
could hardly be at a greater distance than 6,000,000 miles from the earth.
“And a very safe distance, too,” said Ben Zoof, when his master told him
the conclusion at which he had arrived.
“All very well for two armies, but for a couple of planets not quite so
safe, perhaps, as you may imagine. It is my impression that it is more than
likely we may run foul of Venus,” said the captain.
“Plenty of air and water there, sir?” inquired the orderly.
“Yes; as far as I can tell, plenty,” replied Servadac.
“Then why shouldn’t we go and visit Venus?”
Servadac did his best to explain that as the two planets were of about
equal volume, and were traveling with great velocity in opposite directions,
any collision between them must be attended with the most disastrous
consequences to one or both of them. But Ben Zoof failed to see that, even
at the worst, the catastrophe could be much more serious than the collision
of two railway trains.
The captain became exasperated. “You idiot!” he angrily exclaimed;
“cannot you understand that the planets are traveling a thousand times faster
than the fastest express, and that if they meet, either one or the other must
be destroyed? What would become of your darling Montmartre then?”
The captain had touched a tender chord. For a moment Ben Zoof stood
with clenched teeth and contracted muscles; then, in a voice of real concern,
he inquired whether anything could be done to avert the calamity.

“Nothing whatever; so you may go about your own business,” was the
captain’s brusque rejoinder.
All discomfited and bewildered, Ben Zoof retired without a word.
During the ensuing days the distance between the two planets continued
to decrease, and it became more and more obvious that the earth, on her
new orbit, was about to cross the orbit of Venus. Throughout this time the
earth had been making a perceptible approach towards Mercury, and that
planet—which is rarely visible to the naked eye, and then only at what are
termed the periods of its greatest eastern and western elongations—now
appeared in all its splendor. It amply justified the epithet of “sparkling”
which the ancients were accustomed to confer upon it, and could scarcely
fail to awaken a new interest. The periodic recurrence of its phases; its
reflection of the sun’s rays, shedding upon it a light and a heat seven times
greater than that received by the earth; its glacial and its torrid zones,
which, on account of the great inclination of the axis, are scarcely
separable; its equatorial bands; its mountains eleven miles high;—were all
subjects of observation worthy of the most studious regard.
But no danger was to be apprehended from Mercury; with Venus only did
collision appear imminent. By the 18th of January the distance between that
planet and the earth had become reduced to between two and three millions
of miles, and the intensity of its light cast heavy shadows from all terrestrial
objects. It might be observed to turn upon its own axis in twenty-three
hours twenty-one minutes—an evidence, from the unaltered duration of its
days, that the planet had not shared in the disturbance. On its disc the
clouds formed from its atmospheric vapor were plainly perceptible, as also
were the seven spots, which, according to Bianchini, are a chain of seas. It
was now visible in broad daylight. Buonaparte, when under the Directory,
once had his attention called to Venus at noon, and immediately hailed it
joyfully, recognizing it as his own peculiar star in the ascendant. Captain
Servadac, it may well be imagined, did not experience the same gratifying
emotion.
On the 20th, the distance between the two bodies had again sensibly
diminished. The captain had ceased to be surprised that no vessel had been
sent to rescue himself and his companion from their strange imprisonment;
the governor general and the minister of war were doubtless far differently
occupied, and their interests far otherwise engrossed. What sensational

articles, he thought, must now be teeming to the newspapers! What crowds
must be flocking to the churches! The end of the world approaching! the
great climax close at hand! Two days more, and the earth, shivered into a
myriad atoms, would be lost in boundless space!
These dire forebodings, however, were not destined to be realized.
Gradually the distance between the two planets began to increase; the
planes of their orbits did not coincide, and accordingly the dreaded
catastrophe did not ensue. By the 25th, Venus was sufficiently remote to
preclude any further fear of collision. Ben Zoof gave a sigh of relief when
the captain communicated the glad intelligence.
Their proximity to Venus had been close enough to demonstrate that
beyond a doubt that planet has no moon or satellite such as Cassini, Short,
Montaigne of Limoges, Montbarron, and some other astronomers have
imagined to exist. “Had there been such a satellite,” said Servadac, “we
might have captured it in passing. But what can be the meaning,” he added
seriously, “of all this displacement of the heavenly bodies?”
“What is that great building at Paris, captain, with a top like a cap?”
asked Ben Zoof.
“Do you mean the Observatory?”
“Yes, the Observatory. Are there not people living in the Observatory
who could explain all this?”
“Very likely; but what of that?”
“Let us be philosophers, and wait patiently until we can hear their
explanation.”
Servadac smiled. “Do you know what it is to be a philosopher, Ben
Zoof?” he asked.
“I am a soldier, sir,” was the servant’s prompt rejoinder, “and I have
learnt to know that ‘what can’t be cured must be endured.’”
The captain made no reply, but for a time, at least, he desisted from
puzzling himself over matters which he felt he was utterly incompetent to
explain. But an event soon afterwards occurred which awakened his keenest
interest.
About nine o’clock on the morning of the 27th, Ben Zoof walked
deliberately into his master’s apartment, and, in reply to a question as to

what he wanted, announced with the utmost composure that a ship was in
sight.
“A ship!” exclaimed Servadac, starting to his feet. “A ship! Ben Zoof,
you donkey! you speak as unconcernedly as though you were telling me
that my dinner was ready.”
“Are we not philosophers, captain?” said the orderly.
But the captain was out of hearing.

CHAPTER IX. INQUIRIES UNSATISFIED
Fast as his legs could carry him, Servadac had made his way to the top of
the cliff. It was quite true that a vessel was in sight, hardly more than six
miles from the shore; but owing to the increase in the earth’s convexity, and
the consequent limitation of the range of vision, the rigging of the topmasts
alone was visible above the water. This was enough, however, to indicate
that the ship was a schooner—an impression that was confirmed when, two
hours later, she came entirely in sight.
“The Dobryna!” exclaimed Servadac, keeping his eye unmoved at his
telescope.
“Impossible, sir!” rejoined Ben Zoof; “there are no signs of smoke.”
“The Dobryna!” repeated the captain, positively. “She is under sail; but
she is Count Timascheff’s yacht.”
He was right. If the count were on board, a strange fatality was bringing
him to the presence of his rival. But no longer now could Servadac regard
him in the light of an adversary; circumstances had changed, and all
animosity was absorbed in the eagerness with which he hailed the prospect
of obtaining some information about the recent startling and inexplicable
events. During the twenty-seven days that she had been absent, the
Dobryna, he conjectured, would have explored the Mediterranean, would
very probably have visited Spain, France, or Italy, and accordingly would
convey to Gourbi Island some intelligence from one or other of those
countries. He reckoned, therefore, not only upon ascertaining the extent of
the late catastrophe, but upon learning its cause. Count Timascheff was, no
doubt, magnanimously coming to the rescue of himself and his orderly.
The wind being adverse, the Dobryna did not make very rapid progress;
but as the weather, in spite of a few clouds, remained calm, and the sea was
quite smooth, she was enabled to hold a steady course. It seemed
unaccountable that she should not use her engine, as whoever was on board,
would be naturally impatient to reconnoiter the new island, which must just
have come within their view. The probability that suggested itself was that
the schooner’s fuel was exhausted.

Servadac took it for granted that the Dobryna was endeavoring to put in.
It occurred to him, however, that the count, on discovering an island where
he had expected to find the mainland of Africa, would not unlikely be at a
loss for a place of anchorage. The yacht was evidently making her way in
the direction of the former mouth of the Shelif, and the captain was struck
with the idea that he would do well to investigate whether there was any
suitable mooring towards which he might signal her. Zephyr and Galette
were soon saddled, and in twenty minutes had carried their riders to the
western extremity of the island, where they both dismounted and began to
explore the coast.
They were not long in ascertaining that on the farther side of the point
there was a small well-sheltered creek of sufficient depth to accommodate a
vessel of moderate tonnage. A narrow channel formed a passage through the
ridge of rocks that protected it from the open sea, and which, even in the
roughest weather, would ensure the calmness of its waters.
Whilst examining the rocky shore, the captain observed, to his great
surprise, long and well-defined rows of seaweed, which undoubtedly
betokened that there had been a very considerable ebb and flow of the
waters—a thing unknown in the Mediterranean, where there is scarcely any
perceptible tide. What, however, seemed most remarkable, was the manifest
evidence that ever since the highest flood (which was caused, in all
probability, by the proximity of the body of which the huge disc had been
so conspicuous on the night of the 31st of December) the phenomenon had
been gradually lessening, and in fact was now reduced to the normal limits
which had characterized it before the convulsion.
Without doing more than note the circumstance, Servadac turned his
entire attention to the Dobryna, which, now little more than a mile from
shore, could not fail to see and understand his signals. Slightly changing her
course, she first struck her mainsail, and, in order to facilitate the
movements of her helmsman, soon carried nothing but her two topsails,
brigantine and jib. After rounding the peak, she steered direct for the
channel to which Servadac by his gestures was pointing her, and was not
long in entering the creek. As soon as the anchor, imbedded in the sandy
bottom, had made good its hold, a boat was lowered. In a few minutes more
Count Timascheff had landed on the island. Captain Servadac hastened
towards him.

“First of all, count,” he exclaimed impetuously, “before we speak one
other word, tell me what has happened.”
The count, whose imperturbable composure presented a singular contrast
to the French officer’s enthusiastic vivacity, made a stiff bow, and in his
Russian accent replied: “First of all, permit me to express my surprise at
seeing you here. I left you on a continent, and here I have the honor of
finding you on an island.”
“I assure you, count, I have never left the place.”
“I am quite aware of it. Captain Servadac, and I now beg to offer you my
sincere apologies for failing to keep my appointment with you.”
“Never mind, now,” interposed the captain; “we will talk of that by-and-
by. First, tell me what has happened.”
“The very question I was about to put to you, Captain Servadac.”
“Do you mean to say you know nothing of the cause, and can tell me
nothing of the extent, of the catastrophe which has transformed this part of
Africa into an island?”
“Nothing more than you know yourself.”
“But surely, Count Timascheff, you can inform me whether upon the
northern shore of the Mediterranean—”
“Are you certain that this is the Mediterranean?” asked the count
significantly, and added, “I have discovered no sign of land.”
The captain stared in silent bewilderment. For some moments he seemed
perfectly stupefied; then, recovering himself, he began to overwhelm the
count with a torrent of questions. Had he noticed, ever since the 1st of
January, that the sun had risen in the west? Had he noticed that the days had
been only six hours long, and that the weight of the atmosphere was so
much diminished? Had he observed that the moon had quite disappeared,
and that the earth had been in imminent hazard of running foul of the planet
Venus? Was he aware, in short, that the entire motions of the terrestrial
sphere had undergone a complete modification? To all these inquiries, the
count responded in the affirmative. He was acquainted with everything that
had transpired; but, to Servadac’s increasing astonishment, he could throw
no light upon the cause of any of the phenomena.
“On the night of the 31st of December,” he said, “I was proceeding by
sea to our appointed place of meeting, when my yacht was suddenly caught

on the crest of an enormous wave, and carried to a height which it is beyond
my power to estimate. Some mysterious force seemed to have brought
about a convulsion of the elements. Our engine was damaged, nay disabled,
and we drifted entirely at the mercy of the terrible hurricane that raged
during the succeeding days. That the Dobryna escaped at all is little less
than a miracle, and I can only attribute her safety to the fact that she
occupied the center of the vast cyclone, and consequently did not
experience much change of position.”
He paused, and added: “Your island is the first land we have seen.”
“Then let us put out to sea at once and ascertain the extent of the
disaster,” cried the captain, eagerly. “You will take me on board, count, will
you not?”
“My yacht is at your service, sir, even should you require to make a tour
round the world.”
“A tour round the Mediterranean will suffice for the present, I think,”
said the captain, smiling.
The count shook his head.
“I am not sure,” said he, “but what the tour of the Mediterranean will
prove to be the tour of the world.”
Servadac made no reply, but for a time remained silent and absorbed in
thought.
After the silence was broken, they consulted as to what course was best
to pursue; and the plan they proposed was, in the first place, to discover
how much of the African coast still remained, and to carry on the tidings of
their own experiences to Algiers; or, in the event of the southern shore
having actually disappeared, they would make their way northwards and put
themselves in communication with the population on the river banks of
Europe.
Before starting, it was indispensable that the engine of the Dobryna
should be repaired: to sail under canvas only would in contrary winds and
rough seas be both tedious and difficult. The stock of coal on board was
adequate for two months’ consumption; but as it would at the expiration of
that time be exhausted, it was obviously the part of prudence to employ it in
reaching a port where fuel could be replenished.

The damage sustained by the engine proved to be not very serious; and in
three days after her arrival the Dobryna was again ready to put to sea.
Servadac employed the interval in making the count acquainted with all
he knew about his small domain. They made an entire circuit of the island,
and both agreed that it must be beyond the limits of that circumscribed
territory that they must seek an explanation of what had so strangely
transpired.
It was on the last day of January that the repairs of the schooner were
completed. A slight diminution in the excessively high temperature which
had prevailed for the last few weeks, was the only apparent change in the
general order of things; but whether this was to be attributed to any
alteration in the earth’s orbit was a question which would still require
several days to decide. The weather remained fine, and although a few
clouds had accumulated, and might have caused a trifling fall of the
barometer, they were not sufficiently threatening to delay the departure of
the Dobryna.
Doubts now arose, and some discussion followed, whether or not it was
desirable for Ben Zoof to accompany his master. There were various
reasons why he should be left behind, not the least important being that the
schooner had no accommodation for horses, and the orderly would have
found it hard to part with Zephyr, and much more with his own favorite
Galette; besides, it was advisable that there should be some one left to
receive any strangers that might possibly arrive, as well as to keep an eye
upon the herds of cattle which, in the dubious prospect before them, might
prove to be the sole resource of the survivors of the catastrophe. Altogether,
taking into consideration that the brave fellow would incur no personal risk
by remaining upon the island, the captain was induced with much
reluctance to forego the attendance of his servant, hoping very shortly to
return and to restore him to his country, when he had ascertained the reason
of the mysteries in which they were enveloped.
On the 31st, then, Ben Zoof was “invested with governor’s powers,” and
took an affecting leave of his master, begging him, if chance should carry
him near Montmartre, to ascertain whether the beloved “mountain” had
been left unmoved.
Farewells over, the Dobryna was carefully steered through the creek, and
was soon upon the open sea.

CHAPTER X. A SEARCH FOR ALGERIA
The Dobryna, a strong craft of 200 tons burden, had been built in the
famous shipbuilding yards in the Isle of Wight. Her sea going qualities were
excellent, and would have amply sufficed for a circumnavigation of the
globe. Count Timascheff was himself no sailor, but had the greatest
confidence in leaving the command of his yacht in the hands of Lieutenant
Procope, a man of about thirty years of age, and an excellent seaman. Born
on the count’s estates, the son of a serf who had been emancipated long
before the famous edict of the Emperor Alexander, Procope was sincerely
attached, by a tie of gratitude as well as of duty and affection, to his
patron’s service. After an apprenticeship on a merchant ship he had entered
the imperial navy, and had already reached the rank of lieutenant when the
count appointed him to the charge of his own private yacht, in which he was
accustomed to spend by far the greater part of his time, throughout the
winter generally cruising in the Mediterranean, whilst in the summer he
visited more northern waters.
The ship could not have been in better hands. The lieutenant was well
informed in many matters outside the pale of his profession, and his
attainments were alike creditable to himself and to the liberal friend who
had given him his education. He had an excellent crew, consisting of Tiglew
the engineer, four sailors named Niegoch, Tolstoy, Etkef, and Panofka, and
Mochel the cook. These men, without exception, were all sons of the
count’s tenants, and so tenaciously, even out at sea, did they cling to their
old traditions, that it mattered little to them what physical disorganization
ensued, so long as they felt they were sharing the experiences of their lord
and master. The late astounding events, however, had rendered Procope
manifestly uneasy, and not the less so from his consciousness that the count
secretly partook of his own anxiety.
Steam up and canvas spread, the schooner started eastwards. With a
favorable wind she would certainly have made eleven knots an hour had not
the high waves somewhat impeded her progress. Although only a moderate
breeze was blowing, the sea was rough, a circumstance to be accounted for
only by the diminution in the force of the earth’s attraction rendering the

liquid particles so buoyant, that by the mere effect of oscillation they were
carried to a height that was quite unprecedented. M. Arago has fixed
twenty-five or twenty-six feet as the maximum elevation ever attained by
the highest waves, and his astonishment would have been very great to see
them rising fifty or even sixty feet. Nor did these waves in the usual way
partially unfurl themselves and rebound against the sides of the vessel; they
might rather be described as long undulations carrying the schooner (its
weight diminished from the same cause as that of the water) alternately to
such heights and depths, that if Captain Servadac had been subject to
seasickness he must have found himself in sorry plight. As the pitching,
however, was the result of a long uniform swell, the yacht did not labor
much harder than she would against the ordinary short strong waves of the
Mediterranean; the main inconvenience that was experienced was the
diminution in her proper rate of speed.
For a few miles she followed the line hitherto presumably occupied by
the coast of Algeria; but no land appeared to the south. The changed
positions of the planets rendered them of no avail for purposes of nautical
observation, nor could Lieutenant Procope calculate his latitude and
longitude by the altitude of the sun, as his reckonings would be useless
when applied to charts that had been constructed for the old order of things;
but nevertheless, by means of the log, which gave him the rate of progress,
and by the compass which indicated the direction in which they were
sailing, he was able to form an estimate of his position that was sufficiently
free from error for his immediate need.
Happily the recent phenomena had no effect upon the compass; the
magnetic needle, which in these regions had pointed about 22 degrees from
the north pole, had never deviated in the least—a proof that, although east
and west had apparently changed places, north and south continued to retain
their normal position as cardinal points. The log and the compass, therefore,
were able to be called upon to do the work of the sextant, which had
become utterly useless.
On the first morning of the cruise Lieutenant Procope, who, like most
Russians, spoke French fluently, was explaining these peculiarities to
Captain Servadac; the count was present, and the conversation perpetually
recurred, as naturally it would, to the phenomena which remained so
inexplicable to them all.

“It is very evident,” said the lieutenant, “that ever since the 1st of January
the earth has been moving in a new orbit, and from some unknown cause
has drawn nearer to the sun.”
“No doubt about that,” said Servadac; “and I suppose that, having
crossed the orbit of Venus, we have a good chance of running into the orbit
of Mercury.”
“And finish up by a collision with the sun!” added the count.
“There is no fear of that, sir. The earth has undoubtedly entered upon a
new orbit, but she is not incurring any probable risk of being precipitated
onto the sun.”
“Can you satisfy us of that?” asked the count.
“I can, sir. I can give you a proof which I think you will own is
conclusive. If, as you suppose, the earth is being drawn on so as to be
precipitated against the sun, the great center of attraction of our system, it
could only be because the centrifugal and centripetal forces that cause the
planets to rotate in their several orbits had been entirely suspended: in that
case, indeed, the earth would rush onwards towards the sun, and in sixty-
four days and a half the catastrophe you dread would inevitably happen.”
“And what demonstration do you offer,” asked Servadac eagerly, “that it
will not happen?”
“Simply this, captain: that since the earth entered her new orbit half the
sixty-four days has already elapsed, and yet it is only just recently that she
has crossed the orbit of Venus, hardly one-third of the distance to be
traversed to reach the sun.”
The lieutenant paused to allow time for reflection, and added: “Moreover,
I have every reason to believe that we are not so near the sun as we have
been. The temperature has been gradually diminishing; the heat upon
Gourbi Island is not greater now than we might ordinarily expect to find in
Algeria. At the same time, we have the problem still unsolved that the
Mediterranean has evidently been transported to the equatorial zone.”
Both the count and the captain expressed themselves reassured by his
representations, and observed that they must now do all in their power to
discover what had become of the vast continent of Africa, of which, they
were hitherto failing so completely to find a vestige.

Twenty-four hours after leaving the island, the Dobryna had passed over
the sites where Tenes, Cherchil, Koleah, and Sidi-Feruch once had been, but
of these towns not one appeared within range of the telescope. Ocean
reigned supreme. Lieutenant Procope was absolutely certain that he had not
mistaken his direction; the compass showed that the wind had never shifted
from the west, and this, with the rate of speed as estimated by the log,
combined to assure him that at this date, the 2d of February, the schooner
was in lat. 36 degrees 49 min N. and long. 3 degrees 25 min E., the very
spot which ought to have been occupied by the Algerian capital. But
Algiers, like all the other coast-towns, had apparently been absorbed into
the bowels of the earth.
Captain Servadac, with clenched teeth and knitted brow, stood sternly,
almost fiercely, regarding the boundless waste of water. His pulse beat fast
as he recalled the friends and comrades with whom he had spent the last
few years in that vanished city. All the images of his past life floated upon
his memory; his thoughts sped away to his native France, only to return
again to wonder whether the depths of ocean would reveal any traces of the
Algerian metropolis.
“Is it not impossible,” he murmured aloud, “that any city should
disappear so completely? Would not the loftiest eminences of the city at
least be visible? Surely some portion of the Casbah must still rise above the
waves? The imperial fort, too, was built upon an elevation of 750 feet; it is
incredible that it should be so totally submerged. Unless some vestiges of
these are found, I shall begin to suspect that the whole of Africa has been
swallowed in some vast abyss.”
Another circumstance was most remarkable. Not a material object of any
kind was to be noticed floating on the surface of the water; not one branch
of a tree had been seen drifting by, nor one spar belonging to one of the
numerous vessels that a month previously had been moored in the
magnificent bay which stretched twelve miles across from Cape Matafuz to
Point Pexade. Perhaps the depths might disclose what the surface failed to
reveal, and Count Timascheff, anxious that Servadac should have every
facility afforded him for solving his doubts, called for the sounding-line.
Forthwith, the lead was greased and lowered. To the surprise of all, and
especially of Lieutenant Procope, the line indicated a bottom at a nearly
uniform depth of from four to five fathoms; and although the sounding was

persevered with continuously for more than two hours over a considerable
area, the differences of level were insignificant, not corresponding in any
degree to what would be expected over the site of a city that had been
terraced like the seats of an amphitheater. Astounding as it seemed, what
alternative was left but to suppose that the Algerian capital had been
completely leveled by the flood?
The sea-bottom was composed of neither rock, mud, sand, nor shells; the
sounding-lead brought up nothing but a kind of metallic dust, which
glittered with a strange iridescence, and the nature of which it was
impossible to determine, as it was totally unlike what had ever been known
to be raised from the bed of the Mediterranean.
“You must see, lieutenant, I should think, that we are not so near the
coast of Algeria as you imagined.”
The lieutenant shook his head. After pondering awhile, he said: “If we
were farther away I should expect to find a depth of two or three hundred
fathoms instead of five fathoms. Five fathoms! I confess I am puzzled.”
For the next thirty-six hours, until the 4th of February, the sea was
examined and explored with the most unflagging perseverance. Its depth
remained invariable, still four, or at most five, fathoms; and although its
bottom was assiduously dredged, it was only to prove it barren of marine
production of any type.
The yacht made its way to lat. 36 degrees, and by reference to the charts
it was tolerably certain that she was cruising over the site of the Sahel, the
ridge that had separated the rich plain of the Mitidja from the sea, and of
which the highest peak, Mount Boujereah, had reached an altitude of 1,200
feet; but even this peak, which might have been expected to emerge like an
islet above the surface of the sea, was nowhere to be traced. Nothing was to
be done but to put about, and return in disappointment towards the north.
Thus the Dobryna regained the waters of the Mediterranean without
discovering a trace of the missing province of Algeria.

CHAPTER XI. AN ISLAND TOMB
No longer, then, could there be any doubt as to the annihilation of a
considerable portion of the colony. Not merely had there been a submersion
of the land, but the impression was more and more confirmed that the very
bowels of the earth must have yawned and closed again upon a large
territory. Of the rocky substratum of the province it became more evident
than ever that not a trace remained, and a new soil of unknown formation
had certainly taken the place of the old sandy sea-bottom. As it altogether
transcended the powers of those on board to elucidate the origin of this
catastrophe, it was felt to be incumbent on them at least to ascertain its
extent.
After a long and somewhat wavering discussion, it was at length decided
that the schooner should take advantage of the favorable wind and weather,
and proceed at first towards the east, thus following the outline of what had
formerly represented the coast of Africa, until that coast had been lost in
boundless sea.
Not a vestige of it all remained; from Cape Matafuz to Tunis it had all
gone, as though it had never been. The maritime town of Dellis, built like
Algiers, amphitheater-wise, had totally disappeared; the highest points were
quite invisible; not a trace on the horizon was left of the Jurjura chain, the
topmost point of which was known to have an altitude of more than 7,000
feet.
Unsparing of her fuel, the Dobryna made her way at full steam towards
Cape Blanc. Neither Cape Negro nor Cape Serrat was to be seen. The town
of Bizerta, once charming in its oriental beauty, had vanished utterly; its
marabouts, or temple-tombs, shaded by magnificent palms that fringed the
gulf, which by reason of its narrow mouth had the semblance of a lake, all
had disappeared, giving place to a vast waste of sea, the transparent waves
of which, as still demonstrated by the sounding-line, had ever the same
uniform and arid bottom.
In the course of the day the schooner rounded the point where, five
weeks previously, Cape Blanc had been so conspicuous an object, and she

was now stemming the waters of what once had been the Bay of Tunis. But
bay there was none, and the town from which it had derived its name, with
the Arsenal, the Goletta, and the two peaks of Bou-Kournein, had all
vanished from the view. Cape Bon, too, the most northern promontory of
Africa and the point of the continent nearest to the island of Sicily, had been
included in the general devastation.
Before the occurrence of the recent prodigy, the bottom of the
Mediterranean just at this point had formed a sudden ridge across the Straits
of Libya. The sides of the ridge had shelved to so great an extent that, while
the depth of water on the summit had been little more than eleven fathoms,
that on either hand of the elevation was little short of a hundred fathoms. A
formation such as this plainly indicated that at some remote epoch Cape
Bon had been connected with Cape Furina, the extremity of Sicily, in the
same manner as Ceuta has doubtless been connected with Gibraltar.
Lieutenant Procope was too well acquainted with the Mediterranean to be
unaware of this peculiarity, and would not lose the opportunity of
ascertaining whether the submarine ridge still existed, or whether the sea-
bottom between Sicily and Africa had undergone any modification.
Both Timascheff and Servadac were much interested in watching the
operations. At a sign from the lieutenant, a sailor who was stationed at the
foot of the fore-shrouds dropped the sounding-lead into the water, and in
reply to Procope’s inquiries, reported—“Five fathoms and a flat bottom.”
The next aim was to determine the amount of depression on either side of
the ridge, and for this purpose the Dobryna was shifted for a distance of
half a mile both to the right and left, and the soundings taken at each
station. “Five fathoms and a flat bottom,” was the unvaried announcement
after each operation. Not only, therefore, was it evident that the submerged
chain between Cape Bon and Cape Furina no longer existed, but it was
equally clear that the convulsion had caused a general leveling of the sea-
bottom, and that the soil, degenerated, as it has been said, into a metallic
dust of unrecognized composition, bore no trace of the sponges, sea-
anemones, star-fish, sea-nettles, hydrophytes, and shells with which the
submarine rocks of the Mediterranean had hitherto been prodigally clothed.
The Dobryna now put about and resumed her explorations in a southerly
direction. It remained, however, as remarkable as ever how completely
throughout the voyage the sea continued to be deserted; all expectations of

hailing a vessel bearing news from Europe were entirely falsified, so that
more and more each member of the crew began to be conscious of his
isolation, and to believe that the schooner, like a second Noah’s ark, carried
the sole survivors of a calamity that had overwhelmed the earth.
On the 9th of February the Dobryna passed over the site of the city of
Dido, the ancient Byrsa—a Carthage, however, which was now more
completely destroyed than ever Punic Carthage had been destroyed by
Scipio Africanus or Roman Carthage by Hassan the Saracen.
In the evening, as the sun was sinking below the eastern horizon, Captain
Servadac was lounging moodily against the taffrail. From the heaven above,
where stars kept peeping fitfully from behind the moving clouds, his eye
wandered mechanically to the waters below, where the long waves were
rising and falling with the evening breeze.
All at once, his attention was arrested by a luminous speck straight ahead
on the southern horizon. At first, imagining that he was the victim of some
spectral illusion, he observed it with silent attention; but when, after some
minutes, he became convinced that what he saw was actually a distant light,
he appealed to one of the sailors, by whom his impression was fully
corroborated. The intelligence was immediately imparted to Count
Timascheff and the lieutenant.
“Is it land, do you suppose?” inquired Servadac, eagerly.
“I should be more inclined to think it is a light on board some ship,”
replied the count.
“Whatever it is, in another hour we shall know all about it,” said
Servadac.
“No, captain,” interposed Lieutenant Procope; “we shall know nothing
until to-morrow.”
“What! not bear down upon it at once?” asked the count in surprise.
“No, sir; I should much rather lay to and wait till daylight. If we are
really near land, I should be afraid to approach it in the dark.”
The count expressed his approval of the lieutenant’s caution, and
thereupon all sail was shortened so as to keep the Dobryna from making
any considerable progress all through the hours of night. Few as those hours
were, they seemed to those on board as if their end would never come.
Fearful lest the faint glimmer should at any moment cease to be visible,

Hector Servadac did not quit his post upon the deck; but the light continued
unchanged. It shone with about the same degree of luster as a star of the
second magnitude, and from the fact of its remaining stationary, Procope
became more and more convinced that it was on land and did not belong to
a passing vessel.
At sunrise every telescope was pointed with keenest interest towards the
center of attraction. The light, of course, had ceased to be visible, but in the
direction where it had been seen, and at a distance of about ten miles, there
was the distinct outline of a solitary island of very small extent; rather, as
the count observed, it had the appearance of being the projecting summit of
a mountain all but submerged. Whatever it was, it was agreed that its true
character must be ascertained, not only to gratify their own curiosity, but for
the benefit of all future navigators. The schooner accordingly was steered
directly towards it, and in less than an hour had cast anchor within a few
cables’ lengths of the shore.
The little island proved to be nothing more than an arid rock rising
abruptly about forty feet above the water. It had no outlying reefs, a
circumstance that seemed to suggest the probability that in the recent
convulsion it had sunk gradually, until it had reached its present position of
equilibrium.
Without removing his eye from his telescope, Servadac exclaimed:
“There is a habitation on the place; I can see an erection of some kind quite
distinctly. Who can tell whether we shall not come across a human being?”
Lieutenant Procope looked doubtful. The island had all the appearance of
being deserted, nor did a cannon-shot fired from the schooner have the
effect of bringing any resident to the shore. Nevertheless, it was undeniable
that there was a stone building situated on the top of the rock, and that this
building had much the character of an Arabian mosque.
The boat was lowered and manned by the four sailors; Servadac,
Timascheff and Procope were quickly rowed ashore, and lost no time in
commencing their ascent of the steep acclivity. Upon reaching the summit,
they found their progress arrested by a kind of wall, or rampart of singular
construction, its materials consisting mainly of vases, fragments of
columns, carved bas-reliefs, statues, and portions of broken stelae, all piled
promiscuously together without any pretense to artistic arrangement. They
made their way into the enclosure, and finding an open door, they passed

through and soon came to a second door, also open, which admitted them to
the interior of the mosque, consisting of a single chamber, the walls of
which were ornamented in the Arabian style by sculptures of indifferent
execution. In the center was a tomb of the very simplest kind, and above the
tomb was suspended a large silver lamp with a capacious reservoir of oil, in
which floated a long lighted wick, the flame of which was evidently the
light that had attracted Servadac’s attention on the previous night.
“Must there not have been a custodian of the shrine?” they mutually
asked; but if such there had ever been, he must, they concluded, either have
fled or have perished on that eventful night. Not a soul was there in charge,
and the sole living occupants were a flock of wild cormorants which,
startled at the entrance of the intruders, rose on wing, and took a rapid flight
towards the south.
An old French prayer-book was lying on the corner of the tomb; the
volume was open, and the page exposed to view was that which contained
the office for the celebration of the 25th of August. A sudden revelation
dashed across Servadac’s mind. The solemn isolation of the island tomb, the
open breviary, the ritual of the ancient anniversary, all combined to apprise
him of the sanctity of the spot upon which he stood.
“The tomb of St. Louis!” he exclaimed, and his companions involuntarily
followed his example, and made a reverential obeisance to the venerated
monument.
It was, in truth, the very spot on which tradition asserts that the canonized
monarch came to die, a spot to which for six centuries and more his
countrymen had paid the homage of a pious regard. The lamp that had been
kindled at the memorial shrine of a saint was now in all probability the only
beacon that threw a light across the waters of the Mediterranean, and even
this ere long must itself expire.
There was nothing more to explore. The three together quitted the
mosque, and descended the rock to the shore, whence their boat re-
conveyed them to the schooner, which was soon again on her southward
voyage; and it was not long before the tomb of St. Louis, the only spot that
had survived the mysterious shock, was lost to view.

CHAPTER XII. AT THE MERCY OF THE
WINDS
As the affrighted cormorants had winged their flight towards the south,
there sprang up a sanguine hope on board the schooner that land might be
discovered in that direction. Thither, accordingly, it was determined to
proceed, and in a few hours after quitting the island of the tomb, the
Dobryna was traversing the shallow waters that now covered the peninsula
of Dakhul, which had separated the Bay of Tunis from the Gulf of
Hammamet. For two days she continued an undeviating course, and after a
futile search for the coast of Tunis, reached the latitude of 34 degrees.
Here, on the 11th of February, there suddenly arose the cry of “Land!”
and in the extreme horizon, right ahead, where land had never been before,
it was true enough that a shore was distinctly to be seen. What could it be?
It could not be the coast of Tripoli; for not only would that low-lying shore
be quite invisible at such a distance, but it was certain, moreover, that it lay
two degrees at least still further south. It was soon observed that this newly
discovered land was of very irregular elevation, that it extended due east
and west across the horizon, thus dividing the gulf into two separate
sections and completely concealing the island of Jerba, which must lie
behind. Its position was duly traced on the Dobryna’s chart.
“How strange,” exclaimed Hector Servadac, “that after sailing all this
time over sea where we expected to find land, we have at last come upon
land where we thought to find sea!”
“Strange, indeed,” replied Lieutenant Procope; “and what appears to me
almost as remarkable is that we have never once caught sight either of one
of the Maltese tartans or one of the Levantine xebecs that traffic so
regularly on the Mediterranean.”
“Eastwards or westwards,” asked the count—“which shall be our course?
All farther progress to the south is checked.”
“Westwards, by all means,” replied Servadac quickly. “I am longing to
know whether anything of Algeria is left beyond the Shelif; besides, as we
pass Gourbi Island we might take Ben Zoof on board, and then make away

for Gibraltar, where we should be sure to learn something, at least, of
European news.”
With his usual air of stately courtesy, Count Timascheff begged the
captain to consider the yacht at his own disposal, and desired him to give
the lieutenant instructions accordingly.
Lieutenant Procope, however, hesitated, and after revolving matters for a
few moments in his mind, pointed out that as the wind was blowing directly
from the west, and seemed likely to increase, if they went to the west in the
teeth of the weather, the schooner would be reduced to the use of her engine
only, and would have much difficulty in making any headway; on the other
hand, by taking an eastward course, not only would they have the advantage
of the wind, but, under steam and canvas, might hope in a few days to be
off the coast of Egypt, and from Alexandria or some other port they would
have the same opportunity of getting tidings from Europe as they would at
Gibraltar.
Intensely anxious as he was to revisit the province of Oran, and eager,
too, to satisfy himself of the welfare of his faithful Ben Zoof, Servadac
could not but own the reasonableness of the lieutenant’s objections, and
yielded to the proposal that the eastward course should be adopted. The
wind gave signs only too threatening of the breeze rising to a gale; but,
fortunately, the waves did not culminate in breakers, but rather in a long
swell which ran in the same direction as the vessel.
During the last fortnight the high temperature had been gradually
diminishing, until it now reached an average of 20 degrees Cent. (or 68
degrees Fahr.), and sometimes descended as low as 15 degrees. That this
diminution was to be attributed to the change in the earth’s orbit was a
question that admitted of little doubt. After approaching so near to the sun
as to cross the orbit of Venus, the earth must now have receded so far from
the sun that its normal distance of ninety-one millions of miles was greatly
increased, and the probability was great that it was approximating to the
orbit of Mars, that planet which in its physical constitution most nearly
resembles our own. Nor was this supposition suggested merely by the
lowering of the temperature; it was strongly corroborated by the reduction
of the apparent diameter of the sun’s disc to the precise dimensions which it
would assume to an observer actually stationed on the surface of Mars. The
necessary inference that seemed to follow from these phenomena was that

the earth had been projected into a new orbit, which had the form of a very
elongated ellipse.
Very slight, however, in comparison was the regard which these
astronomical wonders attracted on board the Dobryna. All interest there was
too much absorbed in terrestrial matters, and in ascertaining what changes
had taken place in the configuration of the earth itself, to permit much
attention to be paid to its erratic movements through space.
The schooner kept bravely on her way, but well out to sea, at a distance
of two miles from land. There was good need of this precaution, for so
precipitous was the shore that a vessel driven upon it must inevitably have
gone to pieces; it did not offer a single harbor of refuge, but, smooth and
perpendicular as the walls of a fortress, it rose to a height of two hundred,
and occasionally of three hundred feet. The waves dashed violently against
its base. Upon the general substratum rested a massive conglomerate, the
crystallizations of which rose like a forest of gigantic pyramids and
obelisks.
But what struck the explorers more than anything was the appearance of
singular newness that pervaded the whole of the region. It all seemed so
recent in its formation that the atmosphere had had no opportunity of
producing its wonted effect in softening the hardness of its lines, in
rounding the sharpness of its angles, or in modifying the color of its
surface; its outline was clearly marked against the sky, and its substance,
smooth and polished as though fresh from a founder’s mold, glittered with
the metallic brilliancy that is characteristic of pyrites. It seemed impossible
to come to any other conclusion but that the land before them, continent or
island, had been upheaved by subterranean forces above the surface of the
sea, and that it was mainly composed of the same metallic element as had
characterized the dust so frequently uplifted from the bottom.
The extreme nakedness of the entire tract was likewise very
extraordinary. Elsewhere, in various quarters of the globe, there may be
sterile rocks, but there are none so adamant as to be altogether unfurrowed
by the filaments engendered in the moist residuum of the condensed vapor;
elsewhere there may be barren steeps, but none so rigid as not to afford
some hold to vegetation, however low and elementary may be its type; but
here all was bare, and blank, and desolate—not a symptom of vitality was
visible.

Such being the condition of the adjacent land, it could hardly be a matter
of surprise that all the sea-birds, the albatross, the gull, the sea-mew, sought
continual refuge on the schooner; day and night they perched fearlessly
upon the yards, the report of a gun failing to dislodge them, and when food
of any sort was thrown upon the deck, they would dart down and fight with
eager voracity for the prize. Their extreme avidity was recognized as a
proof that any land where they could obtain a sustenance must be far
remote.
Onwards thus for several days the Dobryna followed the contour of the
inhospitable coast, of which the features would occasionally change,
sometimes for two or three miles assuming the form of a simple arris,
sharply defined as though cut by a chisel, when suddenly the prismatic
lamellae soaring in rugged confusion would again recur; but all along there
was the same absence of beach or tract of sand to mark its base, neither
were there any of those shoals of rock that are ordinarily found in shallow
water. At rare intervals there were some narrow fissures, but not a creek
available for a ship to enter to replenish its supply of water; and the wide
roadsteads were unprotected and exposed to well-nigh every point of the
compass.
But after sailing two hundred and forty miles, the progress of the
Dobryna was suddenly arrested. Lieutenant Procope, who had sedulously
inserted the outline of the newly revealed shore upon the maps, announced
that it had ceased to run east and west, and had taken a turn due north, thus
forming a barrier to their continuing their previous direction. It was, of
course, impossible to conjecture how far this barrier extended; it coincided
pretty nearly with the fourteenth meridian of east longitude; and if it
reached, as probably it did, beyond Sicily to Italy, it was certain that the
vast basin of the Mediterranean, which had washed the shores alike of
Europe, Asia, and Africa, must have been reduced to about half its original
area.
It was resolved to proceed upon the same plan as heretofore, following
the boundary of the land at a safe distance. Accordingly, the head of the
Dobryna was pointed north, making straight, as it was presumed, for the
south of Europe. A hundred miles, or somewhat over, in that direction, and
it was to be anticipated she would come in sight of Malta, if only that
ancient island, the heritage in succession of Phoenicians, Carthaginians,

Sicilians, Romans, Vandals, Greeks, Arabians, and the knights of Rhodes,
should still be undestroyed.
But Malta, too, was gone; and when, upon the 14th, the sounding-line
was dropped upon its site, it was only with the same result so oftentimes
obtained before.
“The devastation is not limited to Africa,” observed the count.
“Assuredly not,” assented the lieutenant; adding, “and I confess I am
almost in despair whether we shall ever ascertain its limits. To what quarter
of Europe, if Europe still exists, do you propose that I should now direct
your course?”
“To Sicily, Italy, France!” ejaculated Servadac, eagerly,—“anywhere
where we can learn the truth of what has befallen us.”
“How if we are the sole survivors?” said the count, gravely.
Hector Servadac was silent; his own secret presentiment so thoroughly
coincided with the doubts expressed by the count, that he refrained from
saying another word.
The coast, without deviation, still tended towards the north. No
alternative, therefore, remained than to take a westerly course and to
attempt to reach the northern shores of the Mediterranean. On the 16th the
Dobryna essayed to start upon her altered way, but it seemed as if the
elements had conspired to obstruct her progress. A furious tempest arose;
the wind beat dead in the direction of the coast, and the danger incurred by
a vessel of a tonnage so light was necessarily very great.
Lieutenant Procope was extremely uneasy. He took in all sail, struck his
topmasts, and resolved to rely entirely on his engine. But the peril seemed
only to increase. Enormous waves caught the schooner and carried her up to
their crests, whence again she was plunged deep into the abysses that they
left. The screw failed to keep its hold upon the water, but continually
revolved with useless speed in the vacant air; and thus, although the steam
was forced on to the extremest limit consistent with safety, the vessel held
her way with the utmost difficulty, and recoiled before the hurricane.
Still, not a single resort for refuge did the inaccessible shore present.
Again and again the lieutenant asked himself what would become of him
and his comrades, even if they should survive the peril of shipwreck, and
gain a footing upon the cliff. What resources could they expect to find upon

that scene of desolation? What hope could they entertain that any portion of
the old continent still existed beyond that dreary barrier?
It was a trying time, but throughout it all the crew behaved with the
greatest courage and composure; confident in the skill of their commander,
and in the stability of their ship, they performed their duties with steadiness
and unquestioning obedience.
But neither skill, nor courage, nor obedience could avail; all was in vain.
Despite the strain put upon her engine, the schooner, bare of canvas (for not
even the smallest stay-sail could have withstood the violence of the storm),
was drifting with terrific speed towards the menacing precipices, which
were only a. few short miles to leeward. Fully alive to the hopelessness of
their situation, the crew were all on deck.
“All over with us, sir!” said Procope to the count. “I have done
everything that man could do; but our case is desperate. Nothing short of a
miracle can save us now. Within an hour we must go to pieces upon yonder
rocks.”
“Let us, then, commend ourselves to the providence of Him to Whom
nothing is impossible,” replied the count, in a calm, clear voice that could
be distinctly heard by all; and as he spoke, he reverently uncovered, an
example in which he was followed by all the rest.
The destruction of the vessel seeming thus inevitable, Lieutenant Procope
took the best measures he could to insure a few days’ supply of food for any
who might escape ashore. He ordered several cases of provisions and kegs
of water to be brought on deck, and saw that they were securely lashed to
some empty barrels, to make them float after the ship had gone down.
Less and less grew the distance from the shore, but no creek, no inlet,
could be discerned in the towering wall of cliff, which seemed about to
topple over and involve them in annihilation. Except a change of wind or, as
Procope observed, a supernatural rifting of the rock, nothing could bring
deliverance now. But the wind did not veer, and in a few minutes more the
schooner was hardly three cables’ distance from the fatal land. All were
aware that their last moment had arrived. Servadac and the count grasped
each other’s hands for a long farewell; and, tossed by the tremendous
waves, the schooner was on the very point of being hurled upon the cliff,
when a ringing shout was heard. “Quick, boys, quick! Hoist the jib, and
right the tiller!”

Sudden and startling as the unexpected orders were, they were executed
as if by magic.
The lieutenant, who had shouted from the bow, rushed astern and took
the helm, and before anyone had time to speculate upon the object of his
maneuvers, he shouted again, “Look out! sharp! watch the sheets!”
An involuntary cry broke forth from all on board. But it was no cry of
terror. Right ahead was a narrow opening in the solid rock; it was hardly
forty feet wide. Whether it was a passage or no, it mattered little; it was at
least a refuge; and, driven by wind and wave, the Dobryna, under the
dexterous guidance of the lieutenant, dashed in between its perpendicular
walls.
Had she not immured herself in a perpetual prison?

CHAPTER XIII. A ROYAL SALUTE
“Then I take your bishop, major,” said Colonel Murphy, as he made a
move that he had taken since the previous evening to consider.
“I was afraid you would,” replied Major Oliphant, looking intently at the
chess-board.
Such was the way in which a long silence was broken on the morning of
the 17th of February by the old calendar.
Another day elapsed before another move was made. It was a protracted
game; it had, in fact, already lasted some months—the players being so
deliberate, and so fearful of taking a step without the most mature
consideration, that even now they were only making the twentieth move.
Both of them, moreover, were rigid disciples of the renowned Philidor,
who pronounces that to play the pawns well is “the soul of chess”; and,
accordingly, not one pawn had been sacrificed without a most vigorous
defense.
The men who were thus beguiling their leisure were two officers in the
British army—Colonel Heneage Finch Murphy and Major Sir John Temple
Oliphant. Remarkably similar in personal appearance, they were hardly less
so in personal character. Both of them were about forty years of age; both of
them were tall and fair, with bushy whiskers and mustaches; both of them
were phlegmatic in temperament, and both much addicted to the wearing of
their uniforms. They were proud of their nationality, and exhibited a
manifest dislike, verging upon contempt, of everything foreign. Probably
they would have felt no surprise if they had been told that Anglo-Saxons
were fashioned out of some specific clay, the properties of which surpassed
the investigation of chemical analysis. Without any intentional
disparagement they might, in a certain way, be compared to two scarecrows
which, though perfectly harmless in themselves, inspire some measure of
respect, and are excellently adapted to protect the territory intrusted to their
guardianship.
English-like, the two officers had made themselves thoroughly at home
in the station abroad in which it had been their lot to be quartered. The

faculty of colonization seems to be indigenous to the native character; once
let an Englishman plant his national standard on the surface of the moon,
and it would not be long before a colony was established round it.
The officers had a servant, named Kirke, and a company of ten soldiers
of the line. This party of thirteen men were apparently the sole survivors of
an overwhelming catastrophe, which on the 1st of January had transformed
an enormous rock, garrisoned with well-nigh two thousand troops, into an
insignificant island far out to sea. But although the transformation had been
so marvelous, it cannot be said that either Colonel Murphy or Major
Oliphant had made much demonstration of astonishment.
“This is all very peculiar, Sir John,” observed the colonel.
“Yes, colonel; very peculiar,” replied the major.
“England will be sure to send for us,” said one officer.
“No doubt she will,” answered the other.
Accordingly, they came to the mutual resolution that they would “stick to
their post.”
To say the truth, it would have been a difficult matter for the gallant
officers to do otherwise; they had but one small boat; therefore, it was well
that they made a virtue of necessity, and resigned themselves to patient
expectation of the British ship which, in due time, would bring relief.
They had no fear of starvation. Their island was mined with subterranean
stores, more than ample for thirteen men—nay, for thirteen Englishmen—
for the next five years at least. Preserved meat, ale, brandy—all were in
abundance; consequently, as the men expressed it, they were in this respect
“all right.”
Of course, the physical changes that had taken place had attracted the
notice both of officers and men. But the reversed position of east and west,
the diminution of the force of gravity, the altered rotation of the earth, and
her projection upon a new orbit, were all things that gave them little
concern and no uneasiness; and when the colonel and the major had
replaced the pieces on the board which had been disturbed by the
convulsion, any surprise they might have felt at the chess-men losing some
portion of their weight was quite forgotten in the satisfaction of seeing them
retain their equilibrium.

One phenomenon, however, did not fail to make its due impression upon
the men; this was the diminution in the length of day and night. Three days
after the catastrophe, Corporal Pim, on behalf of himself and his comrades,
solicited a formal interview with the officers. The request having been
granted, Pim, with the nine soldiers, all punctiliously wearing the
regimental tunic of scarlet and trousers of invisible green, presented
themselves at the door of the colonel’s room, where he and his brother-
officer were continuing their game. Raising his hand respectfully to his cap,
which he wore poised jauntily over his right ear, and scarcely held on by the
strap below his under lip, the corporal waited permission to speak.
After a lingering survey of the chess-board, the colonel slowly lifted his
eyes, and said with official dignity, “Well, men, what is it?”
“First of all, sir,” replied the corporal, “we want to speak to you about our
pay, and then we wish to have a word with the major about our rations.”
“Say on, then,” said Colonel Murphy. “What is it about your pay?”
“Just this, sir; as the days are only half as long as they were, we should
like to know whether our pay is to be diminished in proportion.”
The colonel was taken somewhat aback, and did not reply immediately,
though by some significant nods towards the major, he indicated that he
thought the question very reasonable. After a few moments’ reflection, he
replied, “It must, I think, be allowed that your pay was calculated from
sunrise to sunrise; there was no specification of what the interval should be.
Your pay will continue as before. England can afford it.”
A buzz of approval burst involuntarily from all the men, but military
discipline and the respect due to their officers kept them in check from any
boisterous demonstration of their satisfaction.
“And now, corporal, what is your business with me?” asked Major
Oliphant.
“We want to know whether, as the days are only six hours long, we are to
have but two meals instead of four?”
The officers looked at each other, and by their glances agreed that the
corporal was a man of sound common sense.
“Eccentricities of nature,” said the major, “cannot interfere with military
regulations. It is true that there will be but an interval of an hour and a half

between them, but the rule stands good—four meals a day. England is too
rich to grudge her soldiers any of her soldiers’ due. Yes; four meals a day.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the soldiers, unable this time to keep their delight
within the bounds of military decorum; and, turning to the right-about, they
marched away, leaving the officers to renew the all-absorbing game.
However confident everyone upon the island might profess to be that
succor would be sent them from their native land—for Britain never
abandons any of her sons—it could not be disguised that that succor was
somewhat tardy in making its appearance. Many and various were the
conjectures to account for the delay. Perhaps England was engrossed with
domestic matters, or perhaps she was absorbed in diplomatic difficulties; or
perchance, more likely than all, Northern Europe had received no tidings of
the convulsion that had shattered the south. The whole party throve
remarkably well upon the liberal provisions of the commissariat
department, and if the officers failed to show the same tendency to
embonpoint which was fast becoming characteristic of the men, it was only
because they deemed it due to their rank to curtail any indulgences which
might compromise the fit of their uniform.
On the whole, time passed indifferently well. An Englishman rarely
suffers from ennui, and then only in his own country, when required to
conform to what he calls “the humbug of society”; and the two officers,
with their similar tastes, ideas, and dispositions, got on together admirably.
It is not to be questioned that they were deeply affected by a sense of regret
for their lost comrades, and astounded beyond measure at finding
themselves the sole survivors of a garrison of 1,895 men, but with true
British pluck and self-control, they had done nothing more than draw up a
report that 1,882 names were missing from the muster-roll.
The island itself, the sole surviving fragment of an enormous pile of rock
that had reared itself some 1,600 feet above the sea, was not, strictly
speaking, the only land that was visible; for about twelve miles to the south
there was another island, apparently the very counterpart of what was now
occupied by the Englishmen. It was only natural that this should awaken
some interest even in the most imperturbable minds, and there was no doubt
that the two officers, during one of the rare intervals when they were not
absorbed in their game, had decided that it would be desirable at least to
ascertain whether the island was deserted, or whether it might not be

occupied by some others, like themselves, survivors from the general
catastrophe. Certain it is that one morning, when the weather was bright and
calm, they had embarked alone in the little boat, and been absent for seven
or eight hours. Not even to Corporal Pim did they communicate the object
of their excursion, nor say one syllable as to its result, and it could only be
inferred from their manner that they were quite satisfied with what they had
seen; and very shortly afterwards Major Oliphant was observed to draw up
a lengthy document, which was no sooner finished than it was formally
signed and sealed with the seal of the 33rd Regiment. It was directed:

To the First Lord of the Admiralty,
London,

and kept in readiness for transmission by the first ship that should hail in
sight. But time elapsed, and here was the 18th of February without an
opportunity having been afforded for any communication with the British
Government.
At breakfast that morning, the colonel observed to the major that he was
under the most decided impression that the 18th of February was a royal
anniversary; and he went on to say that, although he had received no
definite instructions on the subject, he did not think that the peculiar
circumstances under which they found themselves should prevent them
from giving the day its due military honors.
The major quite concurred; and it was mutually agreed that the occasion
must be honored by a bumper of port, and by a royal salute. Corporal Pim
must be sent for. The corporal soon made his appearance, smacking his lips,
having, by a ready intuition, found a pretext for a double morning ration of
spirits.
“The 18th of February, you know, Pim,” said the colonel; “we must have
a salute of twenty-one guns.”
“Very good,” replied Pim, a man of few words.
“And take care that your fellows don’t get their arms and legs blown off,”
added the officer.
“Very good, sir,” said the corporal; and he made his salute and withdrew.
Of all the bombs, howitzers, and various species of artillery with which
the fortress had been crowded, one solitary piece remained. This was a
cumbrous muzzle-loader of 9-inch caliber, and, in default of the smaller

ordnance generally employed for the purpose, had to be brought into
requisition for the royal salute.
A sufficient number of charges having been provided, the corporal
brought his men to the reduct, whence the gun’s mouth projected over a
sloping embrasure. The two officers, in cocked hats and full staff uniform,
attended to take charge of the proceedings. The gun was maneuvered in
strict accordance with the rules of “The Artilleryman’s Manual,” and the
firing commenced.
Not unmindful of the warning he had received, the corporal was most
careful between each discharge to see that every vestige of fire was
extinguished, so as to prevent an untimely explosion while the men were
reloading; and accidents, such as so frequently mar public rejoicings, were
all happily avoided.
Much to the chagrin of both Colonel Murphy and Major Oliphant, the
effect of the salute fell altogether short of their anticipations. The weight of
the atmosphere was so reduced that there was comparatively little resistance
to the explosive force of the gases, liberated at the cannon’s mouth, and
there was consequently none of the reverberation, like rolling thunder, that
ordinarily follows the discharge of heavy artillery.
Twenty times had the gun been fired, and it was on the point of being
loaded for the last time, when the colonel laid his hand upon the arm of the
man who had the ramrod. “Stop!” he said; “we will have a ball this time.
Let us put the range of the piece to the test.”
“A good idea!” replied the major. “Corporal, you hear the orders.”
In quick time an artillery-wagon was on the spot, and the men lifted out a
full-sized shot, weighing 200 lbs., which, under ordinary circumstances, the
cannon would carry about four miles. It was proposed, by means of
telescopes, to note the place where the ball first touched the water, and thus
to obtain an approximation sufficiently accurate as to the true range.
Having been duly charged with powder and ball, the gun was raised to an
angle of something under 45 degrees, so as to allow proper development to
the curve that the projectile would make, and, at a signal from the major, the
light was applied to the priming.
“Heavens!” “By all that’s good!” exclaimed both officers in one breath,
as, standing open-mouthed, they hardly knew whether they were to believe

the evidence of their own senses. “Is it possible?”
The diminution of the force of attraction at the earth’s surface was so
considerable that the ball had sped beyond the horizon.
“Incredible!” ejaculated the colonel.
“Incredible!” echoed the major.
“Six miles at least!” observed the one.
“Ay, more than that!” replied the other.
Awhile, they gazed at the sea and at each other in mute amazement. But
in the midst of their perplexity, what sound was that which startled them?
Was it mere fancy? Was it the reverberation of the cannon still booming in
their ears? Or was it not truly the report of another and a distant gun in
answer to their own? Attentively and eagerly they listened. Twice, thrice did
the sound repeat itself. It was quite distinct. There could be no mistake.
“I told you so,” cried the colonel, triumphantly. “I knew our country
would not forsake us; it is an English ship, no doubt.”
In half an hour two masts were visible above the horizon. “See! Was I not
right? Our country was sure to send to our relief. Here is the ship.”
“Yes,” replied the major; “she responded to our gun.”
“It is to be hoped,” muttered the corporal, “that our ball has done her no
damage.”
Before long the hull was full in sight. A long trail of smoke betokened her
to be a steamer; and very soon, by the aid of the glass, it could be
ascertained that she was a schooner-yacht, and making straight for the
island. A flag at her mast-head fluttered in the breeze, and towards this the
two officers, with the keenest attention, respectively adjusted their focus.
Simultaneously the two telescopes were lowered. The colonel and the
major stared at each other in blank astonishment. “Russian!” they gasped.
And true it was that the flag that floated at the head of yonder mast was
the blue cross of Russia.

CHAPTER XIV. SENSITIVE NATIONALITY
When the schooner had approached the island, the Englishmen were able
to make out the name “Dobryna” painted on the aft-board. A sinuous
irregularity of the coast had formed a kind of cove, which, though hardly
spacious enough for a few fishing-smacks, would afford the yacht a
temporary anchorage, so long as the wind did not blow violently from either
west or south. Into this cove the Dobryna was duly signaled, and as soon as
she was safely moored, she lowered her four-oar, and Count Timascheff and
Captain Servadac made their way at once to land.
Colonel Heneage Finch Murphy and Major Sir John Temple Oliphant
stood, grave and prim, formally awaiting the arrival of their visitors.
Captain Servadac, with the uncontrolled vivacity natural to a Frenchman,
was the first to speak.
“A joyful sight, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “It will give us unbounded
pleasure to shake hands again with some of our fellow-creatures. You, no
doubt, have escaped the same disaster as ourselves.”
But the English officers, neither by word nor gesture, made the slightest
acknowledgment of this familiar greeting.
“What news can you give us of France, England, or Russia?” continued
Servadac, perfectly unconscious of the stolid rigidity with which his
advances were received. “We are anxious to hear anything you can tell us.
Have you had communications with Europe? Have you—”
“To whom have we the honor of speaking?” at last interposed Colonel
Murphy, in the coldest and most measured tone, and drawing himself up to
his full height.
“Ah! how stupid! I forgot,” said Servadac, with the slightest possible
shrug of the shoulders; “we have not been introduced.”
Then, with a wave of his hand towards his companion, who meanwhile
had exhibited a reserve hardly less than that of the British officers, he said:
“Allow me to introduce you to Count Wassili Timascheff.”
“Major Sir John Temple Oliphant,” replied the colonel.

The Russian and the Englishman mutually exchanged the stiffest of
bows.
“I have the pleasure of introducing Captain Servadac,” said the count in
his turn.
“And this is Colonel Heneage Finch Murphy,” was the major’s grave
rejoinder.
More bows were interchanged and the ceremony brought to its due
conclusion. It need hardly be said that the conversation had been carried on
in French, a language which is generally known both by Russians and
Englishmen—a circumstance that is probably in some measure to be
accounted for by the refusal of Frenchmen to learn either Russian or
English.
The formal preliminaries of etiquette being thus complete, there was no
longer any obstacle to a freer intercourse. The colonel, signing to his guests
to follow, led the way to the apartment occupied jointly by himself and the
major, which, although only a kind of casemate hollowed in the rock,
nevertheless wore a general air of comfort. Major Oliphant accompanied
them, and all four having taken their seats, the conversation was
commenced.
Irritated and disgusted at all the cold formalities, Hector Servadac
resolved to leave all the talking to the count; and he, quite aware that the
Englishmen would adhere to the fiction that they could be supposed to
know nothing that had transpired previous to the introduction felt himself
obliged to recapitulate matters from the very beginning.
“You must be aware, gentlemen,” began the count, “that a most singular
catastrophe occurred on the 1st of January last. Its cause, its limits we have
utterly failed to discover, but from the appearance of the island on which we
find you here, you have evidently experienced its devastating
consequences.”
The Englishmen, in silence, bowed assent.
“Captain Servadac, who accompanies me,” continued the count, “has
been most severely tried by the disaster. Engaged as he was in an important
mission as a staff-officer in Algeria—”
“A French colony, I believe,” interposed Major Oliphant, half shutting his
eyes with an expression of supreme indifference.

Servadac was on the point of making some cutting retort, but Count
Timascheff, without allowing the interruption to be noticed, calmly
continued his narrative:
“It was near the mouth of the Shelif that a portion of Africa, on that
eventful night, was transformed into an island which alone survived; the
rest of the vast continent disappeared as completely as if it had never been.”
The announcement seemed by no means startling to the phlegmatic
colonel.
“Indeed!” was all he said.
“And where were you?” asked Major Oliphant.
“I was out at sea, cruising in my yacht; hard by; and I look upon it as a
miracle, and nothing less, that I and my crew escaped with our lives.”
“I congratulate you on your luck,” replied the major.
The count resumed: “It was about a month after the great disruption that I
was sailing—my engine having sustained some damage in the shock—
along the Algerian coast, and had the pleasure of meeting with my previous
acquaintance, Captain Servadac, who was resident upon the island with his
orderly, Ben Zoof.”
“Ben who?” inquired the major.
“Zoof! Ben Zoof!” ejaculated Servadac, who could scarcely shout loud
enough to relieve his pent-up feelings.
Ignoring this ebullition of the captain’s spleen, the count went on to say:
“Captain Servadac was naturally most anxious to get what news he could.
Accordingly, he left his servant on the island in charge of his horses, and
came on board the Dobryna with me. We were quite at a loss to know
where we should steer, but decided to direct our course to what previously
had been the east, in order that we might, if possible, discover the colony of
Algeria; but of Algeria not a trace remained.”
The colonel curled his lip, insinuating only too plainly that to him it was
by no means surprising that a French colony should be wanting in the
element of stability. Servadac observed the supercilious look, and half rose
to his feet, but, smothering his resentment, took his seat again without
speaking.

“The devastation, gentlemen,” said the count, who persistently refused to
recognize the Frenchman’s irritation, “everywhere was terrible and
complete. Not only was Algeria lost, but there was no trace of Tunis, except
one solitary rock, which was crowned by an ancient tomb of one of the
kings of France—”
“Louis the Ninth, I presume,” observed the colonel.
“Saint Louis,” blurted out Servadac, savagely.
Colonel Murphy slightly smiled.
Proof against all interruption, Count Timascheff, as if he had not heard it,
went on without pausing. He related how the schooner had pushed her way
onwards to the south, and had reached the Gulf of Cabes; and how she had
ascertained for certain that the Sahara Sea had no longer an existence.
The smile of disdain again crossed the colonel’s face; he could not
conceal his opinion that such a destiny for the work of a Frenchman could
be no matter of surprise.
“Our next discovery,” continued the count, “was that a new coast had
been upheaved right along in front of the coast of Tripoli, the geological
formation of which was altogether strange, and which extended to the north
as far as the proper place of Malta.”
“And Malta,” cried Servadac, unable to control himself any longer;
“Malta—town, forts, soldiers, governor, and all—has vanished just like
Algeria.”
For a moment a cloud rested upon the colonel’s brow, only to give place
to an expression of decided incredulity.
“The statement seems highly incredible,” he said.
“Incredible?” repeated Servadac. “Why is it that you doubt my word?”
The captain’s rising wrath did not prevent the colonel from replying
coolly, “Because Malta belongs to England.”
“I can’t help that,” answered Servadac, sharply; “it has gone just as
utterly as if it had belonged to China.”
Colonel Murphy turned deliberately away from Servadac, and appealed
to the count: “Do you not think you may have made some error, count, in
reckoning the bearings of your yacht?”

“No, colonel, I am quite certain of my reckonings; and not only can I
testify that Malta has disappeared, but I can affirm that a large section of the
Mediterranean has been closed in by a new continent. After the most
anxious investigation, we could discover only one narrow opening in all the
coast, and it is by following that little channel that we have made our way
hither. England, I fear, has suffered grievously by the late catastrophe. Not
only has Malta been entirely lost, but of the Ionian Islands that were under
England’s protection, there seems to be but little left.”
“Ay, you may depend upon it,” said Servadac, breaking in upon the
conversation petulantly, “your grand resident lord high commissioner has
not much to congratulate himself about in the condition of Corfu.”
The Englishmen were mystified.
“Corfu, did you say?” asked Major Oliphant.
“Yes, Corfu; I said Corfu,” replied Servadac, with a sort of malicious
triumph.
The officers were speechless with astonishment.
The silence of bewilderment was broken at length by Count Timascheff
making inquiry whether nothing had been heard from England, either by
telegraph or by any passing ship.
“No,” said the colonel; “not a ship has passed; and the cable is broken.”
“But do not the Italian telegraphs assist you?” continued the count.
“Italian! I do not comprehend you. You must mean the Spanish, surely.”
“How?” demanded Timascheff.
“Confound it!” cried the impatient Servadac. “What matters whether it be
Spanish or Italian? Tell us, have you had no communication at all from
Europe?—no news of any sort from London?”
“Hitherto, none whatever,” replied the colonel; adding with a stately
emphasis, “but we shall be sure to have tidings from England before long.”
“Whether England is still in existence or not, I suppose,” said Servadac,
in a tone of irony.
The Englishmen started simultaneously to their feet.
“England in existence?” the colonel cried. “England! Ten times more
probable that France—”

“France!” shouted Servadac in a passion. “France is not an island that can
be submerged; France is an integral portion of a solid continent. France, at
least, is safe.”
A scene appeared inevitable, and Count Timascheff’s efforts to conciliate
the excited parties were of small avail.
“You are at home here,” said Servadac, with as much calmness as he
could command; “it will be advisable, I think, for this discussion to be
carried on in the open air.” And hurriedly he left the room. Followed
immediately by the others, he led the way to a level piece of ground, which
he considered he might fairly claim as neutral territory.
“Now, gentlemen,” he began haughtily, “permit me to represent that, in
spite of any loss France may have sustained in the fate of Algeria, France is
ready to answer any provocation that affects her honor. Here I am the
representative of my country, and here, on neutral ground—”
“Neutral ground?” objected Colonel Murphy; “I beg your pardon. This,
Captain Servadac, is English territory. Do you not see the English flag?”
and, as he spoke, he pointed with national pride to the British standard
floating over the top of the island.
“Pshaw!” cried Servadac, with a contemptuous sneer; “that flag, you
know, has been hoisted but a few short weeks.”
“That flag has floated where it is for ages,” asserted the colonel.
“An imposture!” shouted Servadac, as he stamped with rage.
Recovering his composure in a degree, he continued: “Can you suppose
that I am not aware that this island on which we find you is what remains of
the Ionian representative republic, over which you English exercise the
right of protection, but have no claim of government?”
The colonel and the major looked at each other in amazement.
Although Count Timascheff secretly sympathized with Servadac, he had
carefully refrained from taking part in the dispute; but he was on the point
of interfering, when the colonel, in a greatly subdued tone, begged to be
allowed to speak.
“I begin to apprehend,” he said, “that you must be la-boring under some
strange mistake. There is no room for questioning that the territory here is
England’s—England’s by right of conquest; ceded to England by the Treaty
of Utrecht. Three times, indeed—in 1727, 1779, and 1792—France and

Spain have disputed our title, but always to no purpose. You are, I assure
you, at the present moment, as much on English soil as if you were in
London, in the middle of Trafalgar Square.”
It was now the turn of the captain and the count to look surprised. “Are
we not, then, in Corfu?” they asked.
“You are at Gibraltar,” replied the colonel.
Gibraltar! The word fell like a thunderclap upon their ears. Gibraltar! the
western extremity of the Mediterranean! Why, had they not been sailing
persistently to the east? Could they be wrong in imagining that they had
reached the Ionian Islands? What new mystery was this?
Count Timascheff was about to proceed with a more rigorous
investigation, when the attention of all was arrested by a loud outcry.
Turning round, they saw that the crew of the Dobryna was in hot dispute
with the English soldiers. A general altercation had arisen from a
disagreement between the sailor Panofka and Corporal Pim. It had
transpired that the cannon-ball fired in experiment from the island had not
only damaged one of the spars of the schooner, but had broken Panofka’s
pipe, and, moreover, had just grazed his nose, which, for a Russian’s, was
unusually long. The discussion over this mishap led to mutual
recriminations, till the sailors had almost come to blows with the garrison.
Servadac was just in the mood to take Panofka’s part, which drew from
Major Oliphant the remark that England could not be held responsible for
any accidental injury done by her cannon, and if the Russian’s long nose
came in the way of the ball, the Russian must submit to the mischance.
This was too much for Count Timascheff, and having poured out a torrent
of angry invective against the English officers, he ordered his crew to
embark immediately.
“We shall meet again,” said Servadac, as they pushed off from shore.
“Whenever you please,” was the cool reply.
The geographical mystery haunted the minds of both the count and the
captain, and they felt they could never rest till they had ascertained what
had become of their respective countries. They were glad to be on board
again, that they might résumé their voyage of investigation, and in two
hours were out of sight of the sole remaining fragment of Gibraltar.

CHAPTER XV. AN ENIGMA FROM THE SEA
Lieutenant Procope had been left on board in charge of the Dobryna, and
on resuming the voyage it was a task of some difficulty to make him
understand the fact that had just come to light. Some hours were spent in
discussion and in attempting to penetrate the mysteries of the situation.
There were certain things of which they were perfectly certain. They
could be under no misapprehension as to the distance they had positively
sailed from Gourbi Island towards the east before their further progress was
arrested by the unknown shore; as nearly as possible that was fifteen
degrees; the length of the narrow strait by which they had made their way
across that land to regain the open sea was about three miles and a half;
thence onward to the island, which they had been assured, on evidence that
they could not disbelieve, to be upon the site of Gibraltar, was four degrees;
while from Gibraltar to Gourbi Island was seven degrees or but little more.
What was it altogether? Was it not less than thirty degrees? In that latitude,
the degree of longitude represents eight and forty miles. What, then, did it
all amount to? Indubitably, to less than 1,400 miles. So brief a voyage
would bring the Dobryna once again to her starting-point, or, in other
words, would enable her to complete the circumnavigation of the globe.
How changed the condition of things! Previously, to sail from Malta to
Gibraltar by an eastward course would have involved the passage of the
Suez Canal, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, the Pacific, the Atlantic; but
what had happened now? Why, Gibraltar had been reached as if it had been
just at Corfu, and some three hundred and thirty degrees of the earth’s
circuit had vanished utterly.
After allowing for a certain margin of miscalculation, the main fact
remained undeniable; and the necessary inference that Lieutenant Procope
drew from the round of the earth being completed in 1,400 miles, was that
the earth’s diameter had been reduced by about fifteen sixteenths of its
length.
“If that be so,” observed the count, “it accounts for some of the strange
phenomena we witness. If our world has become so insignificant a
spheroid, not only has its gravity diminished, but its rotary speed has been

accelerated; and this affords an adequate explanation of our days and nights
being thus curtailed. But how about the new orbit in which we are
moving?”
He paused and pondered, and then looked at Procope as though awaiting
from him some further elucidation of the difficulty. The lieutenant hesitated.
When, in a few moments, he began to speak, Servadac smiled intelligently,
anticipating the answer he was about to hear.
“My conjecture is,” said Procope, “that a fragment of considerable
magnitude has been detached from the earth; that it has carried with it an
envelope of the earth’s atmosphere, and that it is now traveling through the
solar system in an orbit that does not correspond at all with the proper orbit
of the earth.”
The hypothesis was plausible; but what a multitude of bewildering
speculations it entailed! If, in truth, a certain mass had been broken off from
the terrestrial sphere, whither would it wend its way? What would be the
measure of the eccentricity of its path? What would be its period round the
sun? Might it not, like a comet, be carried away into the vast infinity of
space? or, on the other hand, might it not be attracted to the great central
source of light and heat, and be absorbed in it? Did its orbit correspond with
the orbit of the ecliptic? and was there no chance of its ever uniting again
with the globe, from which it had been torn off by so sudden and violent a
disruption?
A thoughtful silence fell upon them all, which Servadac was the first to
break. “Lieutenant,” he said, “your explanation is ingenious, and accounts
for many appearances; but it seems to me that in one point it fails.”
“How so?” replied Procope. “To my mind the theory meets all
objections.”
“I think not,” Servadac answered. “In one point, at least, it appears to me
to break down completely.”
“What is that?” asked the lieutenant.
“Stop a moment,” said the captain. “Let us see that we understand each
other right. Unless I mistake you, your hypothesis is that a fragment of the
earth, comprising the Mediterranean and its shores from Gibraltar to Malta,
has been developed into a new asteroid, which is started on an independent
orbit in the solar regions. Is not that your meaning?”

“Precisely so,” the lieutenant acquiesced.
“Well, then,” continued Servadac, “it seems to me to be at fault in this
respect: it fails, and fails completely, to account for the geological character
of the land that we have found now encompassing this sea. Why, if the new
land is a fragment of the old—why does it not retain its old formation?
What has become of the granite and the calcareous deposits? How is it that
these should all be changed into a mineral concrete with which we have no
acquaintance?”
No doubt, it was a serious objection; for, however likely it might be that a
mass of the earth on being detached would be eccentric in its movements,
there was no probable reason to be alleged why the material of its substance
should undergo so complete a change. There was nothing to account for the
fertile shores, rich in vegetation, being transformed into rocks arid and
barren beyond precedent.
The lieutenant felt the difficulty, and owned himself unprepared to give at
once an adequate solution; nevertheless, he declined to renounce his theory.
He asserted that the arguments in favor of it carried conviction to his mind,
and that he entertained no doubt but that, in the course of time, all
apparently antagonistic circumstances would be explained so as to become
consistent with the view he took. He was careful, however, to make it
understood that with respect to the original cause of the disruption he had
no theory to offer; and although he knew what expansion might be the
result of subterranean forces, he did not venture to say that he considered it
sufficient to produce so tremendous an effect. The origin of the catastrophe
was a problem still to be solved.
“Ah! well,” said Servadac, “I don’t know that it matters much where our
new little planet comes from, or what it is made of, if only it carries France
along with it.”
“And Russia,” added the count.
“And Russia, of course,” said Servadac, with a polite bow.
There was, however, not much room for this sanguine expectation, for if
a new asteroid had thus been brought into existence, it must be a sphere of
extremely limited dimensions, and there could be little chance that it
embraced more than the merest fraction of either France or Russia. As to
England, the total cessation of all telegraphic communication between her

shores and Gibraltar was a virtual proof that England was beyond its
compass.
And what was the true measurement of the new little world? At Gourbi
Island the days and nights were of equal length, and this seemed to indicate
that it was situated on the equator; hence the distance by which the two
poles stood apart would be half what had been reckoned would be the
distance completed by the Dobryna in her circuit. That distance had been
already estimated to be something under 1,400 miles, so that the Arctic Pole
of their recently fashioned world must be about 350 miles to the north, and
the Antarctic about 350 miles to the south of the island. Compare these
calculations with the map, and it is at once apparent that the northernmost
limit barely touched the coast of Provence, while the southernmost reached
to about lat. 20 degrees N., and fell in the heart of the desert. The practical
test of these conclusions would be made by future investigation, but
meanwhile the fact appeared very much to strengthen the presumption that,
if Lieutenant Procope had not arrived at the whole truth, he had made a
considerable advance towards it.
The weather, ever since the storm that had driven the Dobryna into the
creek, had been magnificent. The wind continued favorable, and now under
both steam and canvas, she made a rapid progress towards the north, a
direction in which she was free to go in consequence of the total
disappearance of the Spanish coast, from Gibraltar right away to Alicante.
Malaga, Almeria, Cape Gata, Carthagena. Cape Palos—all were gone. The
sea was rolling over the southern extent of the peninsula, so that the yacht
advanced to the latitude of Seville before it sighted any land at all, and then,
not shores such as the shores of Andalusia, but a bluff and precipitous cliff,
in its geological features resembling exactly the stern and barren rock that
she had coasted beyond the site of Malta. Here the sea made a decided
indentation on the coast; it ran up in an acute-angled triangle till its apex
coincided with the very spot upon which Madrid had stood. But as hitherto
the sea had encroached upon the land, the land in its turn now encroached
upon the sea; for a frowning headland stood out far into the basin of the
Mediterranean, and formed a promontory stretching out beyond the proper
places of the Balearic Isles. Curiosity was all alive. There was the intensest
interest awakened to determine whether no vestige could be traced of
Majorca, Minorca, or any of the group, and it was during a deviation from
the direct course for the purpose of a more thorough scrutiny, that one of the

sailors raised a thrill of general excitement by shouting, “A bottle in the
sea!”
Here, then, at length was a communication from the outer world. Surely
now they would find a document which would throw some light upon all
the mysteries that had happened? Had not the day now dawned that should
set their speculations all at rest?
It was the morning of the 21st of February. The count, the captain, the
lieutenant, everybody hurried to the forecastle; the schooner was
dexterously put about, and all was eager impatience until the supposed
bottle was hauled on deck.
It was not, however, a bottle; it proved to be a round leather telescope-
case, about a foot long, and the first thing to do before investigating its
contents was to make a careful examination of its exterior. The lid was
fastened on by wax, and so securely that it would take a long immersion
before any water could penetrate; there was no maker’s name to be
deciphered; but impressed very plainly with a seal on the wax were the two
initials “P. R.”
When the scrutiny of the outside was finished, the wax was removed and
the cover opened, and the lieutenant drew out a slip of ruled paper,
evidently torn from a common note-book. The paper had an inscription
written in four lines, which were remarkable for the profusion of notes of
admiration and interrogation with which they were interspersed:

“Gallia???
Ab sole, au 15 fev. 59,000,000 l.!
Chemin parcouru de janv. a fev. 82,000,000 l.!!
Va bene! All right!! Parfait!!!”

There was a general sigh of disappointment. They turned the paper over
and over, and handed it from one to another. “What does it all mean?”
exclaimed the count.
“Something mysterious here!” said Servadac. “But yet,” he continued,
after a pause, “one thing is tolerably certain: on the 15th, six days ago,
someone was alive to write it.”
“Yes; I presume there is no reason to doubt the accuracy of the date,”
assented the count.

To this strange conglomeration of French, English, Italian, and Latin,
there was no signature attached; nor was there anything to give a clue as to
the locality in which it had been committed to the waves. A telescope-case
would probably be the property of some one on board a ship; and the
figures obviously referred to the astronomical wonders that had been
experienced.
To these general observations Captain Servadac objected that he thought
it unlikely that any one on board a ship would use a telescope-case for this
purpose, but would be sure to use a bottle as being more secure; and,
accordingly, he should rather be inclined to believe that the message had
been set afloat by some savant left alone, perchance, upon some isolated
coast.
“But, however interesting it might be,” observed the count, “to know the
author of the lines, to us it is of far greater moment to ascertain their
meaning.”
And taking up the paper again, he said, “Perhaps we might analyze it
word by word, and from its detached parts gather some clue to its sense as a
whole.”
“What can be the meaning of all that cluster of interrogations after
Gallia?” asked Servadac.
Lieutenant Procope, who had hitherto not spoken, now broke his silence
by saying, “I beg, gentlemen, to submit my opinion that this document goes
very far to confirm my hypothesis that a fragment of the earth has been
precipitated into space.”
Captain Servadac hesitated, and then replied, “Even if it does, I do not
see how it accounts in the least for the geological character of the new
asteroid.”
“But will you allow me for one minute to take my supposition for
granted?” said Procope. “If a new little planet has been formed, as I
imagine, by disintegration from the old, I should conjecture that Gallia is
the name assigned to it by the writer of this paper. The very notes of
interrogation are significant that he was in doubt what he should write.”
“You would presume that he was a Frenchman?” asked the count.
“I should think so,” replied the lieutenant.

“Not much doubt about that,” said Servadac; “it is all in French, except a
few scattered words of English, Latin, and Italian, inserted to attract
attention. He could not tell into whose hands the message would fall first.”
“Well, then,” said Count Timascheff, “we seem to have found a name for
the new world we occupy.”
“But what I was going especially to observe,” continued the lieutenant,
“is that the distance, 59,000,000 leagues, represents precisely the distance
we ourselves were from the sun on the 15th. It was on that day we crossed
the orbit of Mars.”
“Yes, true,” assented the others.
“And the next line,” said the lieutenant, after reading it aloud,
“apparently registers the distance traversed by Gallia, the new little planet,
in her own orbit. Her speed, of course, we know by Kepler’s laws, would
vary according to her distance from the sun, and if she were—as I
conjecture from the temperature at that date—on the 15th of January at her
perihelion, she would be traveling twice as fast as the earth, which moves at
the rate of between 50,000 and 60,000 miles an hour.”
“You think, then,” said Servadac, with a smile, “you have determined the
perihelion of our orbit; but how about the aphelion? Can you form a
judgment as to what distance we are likely to be carried?”
“You are asking too much,” remonstrated the count.
“I confess,” said the lieutenant, “that just at present I am not able to clear
away the uncertainty of the future; but I feel confident that by careful
observation at various points we shall arrive at conclusions which not only
will determine our path, but perhaps may clear up the mystery about our
geological structure.”
“Allow me to ask,” said Count Timascheff, “whether such a new asteroid
would not be subject to ordinary mechanical laws, and whether, once
started, it would not have an orbit that must be immutable?”
“Decidedly it would, so long as it was undisturbed by the attraction of
some considerable body; but we must recollect that, compared to the great
planets, Gallia must be almost infinitesimally small, and so might be
attracted by a force that is irresistible.”
“Altogether, then,” said Servadac, “we seem to have settled it to our
entire satisfaction that we must be the population of a young little world

called Gallia. Perhaps some day we may have the honor of being registered
among the minor planets.”
“No chance of that,” quickly rejoined Lieutenant Procope. “Those minor
planets all are known to rotate in a narrow zone between the orbits of Mars
and Jupiter; in their perihelia they cannot approximate the sun as we have
done; we shall not be classed with them.”
“Our lack of instruments,” said the count, “is much to be deplored; it
baffles our investigations in every way.”
“Ah, never mind! Keep up your courage, count!” said Servadac, cheerily.
And Lieutenant Procope renewed his assurances that he entertained good
hopes that every perplexity would soon be solved.
“I suppose,” remarked the count, “that we cannot attribute much
importance to the last line: ‘Va bene! All right!! Parfait!!!’”
The captain answered, “At least, it shows that whoever wrote it had no
murmuring or complaint to make, but was quite content with the new order
of things.”

CHAPTER XVI. THE RESIDUUM OF A
CONTINENT
Almost unconsciously, the voyagers in the Dobryna fell into the habit of
using Gallia as the name of the new world in which they became aware they
must be making an extraordinary excursion through the realms of space.
Nothing, however, was allowed to divert them from their ostensible object
of making a survey of the coast of the Mediterranean, and accordingly they
persevered in following that singular boundary which had revealed itself to
their extreme astonishment.
Having rounded the great promontory that had barred her farther progress
to the north, the schooner skirted its upper edge. A few more leagues and
they ought to be abreast of the shores of France. Yes, of France.
But who shall describe the feelings of Hector Servadac when, instead of
the charming outline of his native land, he beheld nothing but a solid
boundary of savage rock? Who shall paint the look of consternation with
which he gazed upon the stony rampart—rising perpendicularly for a
thousand feet—that had replaced the shores of the smiling south? Who shall
reveal the burning anxiety with which he throbbed to see beyond that cruel
wall?
But there seemed no hope. Onwards and onwards the yacht made her
way, and still no sign of France. It might have been supposed that
Servadac’s previous experiences would have prepared him for the discovery
that the catastrophe which had overwhelmed other sites had brought
destruction to his own country as well. But he had failed to realize how it
might extend to France; and when now he was obliged with his own eyes to
witness the waves of ocean rolling over what once had been the lovely
shores of Provence, he was well-nigh frantic with desperation.
“Am I to believe that Gourbi Island, that little shred of Algeria,
constitutes all that is left of our glorious France? No, no; it cannot be. Not
yet have we reached the pole of our new world. There is—there must be—
something more behind that frowning rock. Oh, that for a moment we could

scale its towering height and look beyond! By Heaven, I adjure you, let us
disembark, and mount the summit and explore! France lies beyond.”
Disembarkation, however, was an utter impossibility. There was no
semblance of a creek in which the Dobryna could find an anchorage. There
was no outlying ridge on which a footing could be gained. The precipice
was perpendicular as a wall, its topmost height crowned with the same
conglomerate of crystallized lamellae that had all along been so pronounced
a feature.
With her steam at high pressure, the yacht made rapid progress towards
the east. The weather remained perfectly fine, the temperature became
gradually cooler, so that there was little prospect of vapors accumulating in
the atmosphere; and nothing more than a few cirri, almost transparent,
veiled here and there the clear azure of the sky. Throughout the day the pale
rays of the sun, apparently lessened in its magnitude, cast only faint and
somewhat uncertain shadows; but at night the stars shone with surpassing
brilliancy. Of the planets, some, it was observed, seemed to be fading away
in remote distance. This was the case with Mars, Venus, and that unknown
orb which was moving in the orbit of the minor planets; but Jupiter, on the
other hand, had assumed splendid proportions; Saturn was superb in its
luster, and Uranus, which hitherto had been imperceptible without a
telescope was pointed out by Lieutenant Procope, plainly visible to the
naked eye. The inference was irresistible that Gallia was receding from the
sun, and traveling far away across the planetary regions.
On the 24th of February, after following the sinuous course of what
before the date of the convulsion had been the coast line of the department
of Var, and after a fruitless search for Hyeres, the peninsula of St. Tropez,
the Lerius Islands, and the gulfs of Cannes and Jouar, the Dobryna arrived
upon the site of the Cape of Antibes.
Here, quite unexpectedly, the explorers made the discovery that the
massive wall of cliff had been rent from the top to the bottom by a narrow
rift, like the dry bed of a mountain torrent, and at the base of the opening,
level with the sea, was a little strand upon which there was just space
enough for their boat to be hauled up.
“Joy! joy!” shouted Servadac, half beside himself with ecstasy; “we can
land at last!”

Count Timascheff and the lieutenant were scarcely less impatient than the
captain, and little needed his urgent and repeated solicitations: “Come on!
Quick! Come on! no time to lose!”
It was half-past seven in the morning, when they set their foot upon this
untried land. The bit of strand was only a few square yards in area, quite a
narrow strip. Upon it might have been recognized some fragments of that
agglutination of yellow limestone which is characteristic of the coast of
Provence. But the whole party was far too eager to wait and examine these
remnants of the ancient shore; they hurried on to scale the heights.
The narrow ravine was not only perfectly dry, but manifestly had never
been the bed of any mountain torrent. The rocks that rested at the bottom—
just as those which formed its sides—were of the same lamellous formation
as the entire coast, and had not hitherto been subject to the disaggregation
which the lapse of time never fails to work. A skilled geologist would
probably have been able to assign them their proper scientific classification,
but neither Servadac, Timascheff, nor the lieutenant could pretend to any
acquaintance with their specific character.
Although, however, the bottom of the chasm had never as yet been the
channel of a stream, indications were not wanting that at some future time it
would be the natural outlet of accumulated waters; for already, in many
places, thin layers of snow were glittering upon the surface of the fractured
rocks, and the higher the elevation that was gained, the more these layers
were found to increase in area and in depth.
“Here is a trace of fresh water, the first that Gallia has exhibited,” said
the count to his companions, as they toiled up the precipitous path.
“And probably,” replied the lieutenant, “as we ascend we shall find not
only snow but ice. We must suppose this Gallia of ours to be a sphere, and
if it is so, we must now be very close to her Arctic regions; it is true that her
axis is not so much inclined as to prolong day and night as at the poles of
the earth, but the rays of the sun must reach us here only very obliquely, and
the cold, in all likelihood, will be intense.”
“So cold, do you think,” asked Servadac, “that animal life must be
extinct?”
“I do not say that, captain,” answered the lieutenant; “for, however far
our little world may be removed from the sun, I do not see why its
temperature should fall below what prevails in those outlying regions

beyond our system where sky and air are not.” “And what temperature may
that be?” inquired the captain with a shudder.
“Fourier estimates that even in those vast unfathomable tracts, the
temperature never descends lower than 60 degrees,” said Procope.
“Sixty! Sixty degrees below zero!” cried the count. “Why, there’s not a
Russian could endure it!”
“I beg your pardon, count. It is placed on record that the English have
survived it, or something quite approximate, upon their Arctic expeditions.
When Captain Parry was on Melville Island, he knew the thermometer to
fall to 56 degrees,” said Procope.
As the explorers advanced, they seemed glad to pause from time to time,
that they might recover their breath; for the air, becoming more and more
rarefied, made respiration somewhat difficult and the ascent fatiguing.
Before they had reached an altitude of 600 feet they noticed a sensible
diminution of the temperature; but neither cold nor fatigue deterred them,
and they were resolved to persevere. Fortunately, the deep striae or furrows
in the surface of the rocks that made the bottom of the ravine in some
degree facilitated their progress, but it was not until they had been toiling
up for two hours more that they succeeded in reaching the summit of the
cliff.
Eagerly and anxiously did they look around. To the south there was
nothing but the sea they had traversed; to the north, nothing but one drear,
inhospitable stretch.
Servadac could not suppress a cry of dismay. Where was his beloved
France? Had he gained this arduous height only to behold the rocks
carpeted with ice and snow, and reaching interminably to the far-off
horizon? His heart sank within him.
The whole region appeared to consist of nothing but the same strange,
uniform mineral conglomerate, crystallized into regular hexagonal prisms.
But whatever was its geological character, it was only too evident that it had
entirely replaced the former soil, so that not a vestige of the old continent of
Europe could be discerned. The lovely scenery of Provence, with the grace
of its rich and undulating landscape; its gardens of citrons and oranges
rising tier upon tier from the deep red soil—all, all had vanished. Of the
vegetable kingdom, there was not a single representative; the most meager
of Arctic plants, the most insignificant of lichens, could obtain no hold upon

that stony waste. Nor did the animal world assert the feeblest sway. The
mineral kingdom reigned supreme.
Captain Servadac’s deep dejection was in strange contrast to his general
hilarity. Silent and tearful, he stood upon an ice-bound rock, straining his
eyes across the boundless vista of the mysterious territory. “It cannot be!”
he exclaimed. “We must somehow have mistaken our bearings. True, we
have encountered this barrier; but France is there beyond! Yes, France is
there! Come, count, come! By all that’s pitiful, I entreat you, come and
explore the farthest verge of the ice-bound track!”
He pushed onwards along the rugged surface of the rock, but had not
proceeded far before he came to a sudden pause. His foot had come in
contact with something hard beneath the snow, and, stooping down, he
picked up a little block of stony substance, which the first glance revealed
to be of a geological character altogether alien to the universal rocks
around. It proved to be a fragment of dis-colored marble, on which several
letters were inscribed, of which the only part at all decipherable was the
syllable “Vil.”
“Vil—Villa!” he cried out, in his excitement dropping the marble, which
was broken into atoms by the fall.
What else could this fragment be but the sole surviving remnant of some
sumptuous mansion that once had stood on this unrivaled site? Was it not
the residue of some edifice that had crowned the luxuriant headland of
Antibes, overlooking Nice, and commanding the gorgeous panorama that
embraced the Maritime Alps and reached beyond Monaco and Mentone to
the Italian height of Bordighera? And did it not give in its sad and too
convincing testimony that Antibes itself had been involved in the great
destruction? Servadac gazed upon the shattered marble, pensive and
disheartened.
Count Timascheff laid his hand kindly on the captain’s shoulder, and
said, “My friend, do you not remember the motto of the old Hope family?”
He shook his head mournfully.
“Orbe fracto, spes illoesa,” continued the count—“Though the world be
shattered, hope is unimpaired.”
Servadac smiled faintly, and replied that he felt rather compelled to take
up the despairing cry of Dante, “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”

“Nay, not so,” answered the count; “for the present at least, let our
maxim be Nil desperandum!”

CHAPTER XVII. A SECOND ENIGMA
Upon re-embarking, the bewildered explorers began to discuss the
question whether it would not now be desirable to make their way back to
Gourbi Island, which was apparently the only spot in their new world from
which they could hope to derive their future sustenance. Captain Servadac
tried to console himself with the reflection that Gourbi Island was, after all,
a fragment of a French colony, and as such almost like a bit of his dear
France; and the plan of returning thither was on the point of being adopted,
when Lieutenant Procope remarked that they ought to remember that they
had not hitherto made an entire circuit of the new shores of the sea on
which they were sailing.
“We have,” he said, “neither investigated the northern shore from the site
of Cape Antibes to the strait that brought us to Gibraltar, nor have we
followed the southern shore that stretches from the strait to the Gulf of
Cabes. It is the old coast, and not the new, that we have been tracing; as yet,
we cannot say positively that there is no outlet to the south; as yet, we
cannot assert that no oasis of the African desert has escaped the catastrophe.
Perhaps, even here in the north, we may find that Italy and Sicily and the
larger islands of the Mediterranean may still maintain their existence.”
“I entirely concur with you,” said Count Timascheff. “I quite think we
ought to make our survey of the confines of this new basin as complete as
possible before we withdraw.”
Servadac, although he acknowledged the justness of these observations,
could not help pleading that the explorations might be deferred until after a
visit had been paid to Gourbi Island.
“Depend upon it, captain, you are mistaken,” replied the lieutenant; “the
right thing to do is to use the Dobryna while she is available.”
“Available! What do you mean?” asked the count, somewhat taken by
surprise.
“I mean,” said Procope, “that the farther this Gallia of ours recedes from
the sun, the lower the temperature will fall. It is likely enough, I think, that
before long the sea will be frozen over, and navigation will be impossible.

Already you have learned something of the difficulties of traversing a field
of ice, and I am sure, therefore, you will acquiesce in my wish to continue
our explorations while the water is still open.”
“No doubt you are right, lieutenant,” said the count. “We will continue
our search while we can for some remaining fragment of Europe. Who shall
tell whether we may not meet with some more survivors from the
catastrophe, to whom it might be in our power to afford assistance, before
we go into our winter quarters?”
Generous and altogether unselfish as this sentiment really was, it was
obviously to the general interest that they should become acquainted, and if
possible establish friendly relations, with any human inhabitant who might
be sharing their own strange destiny in being rolled away upon a new planet
into the infinitude of space. All difference of race, all distinction of
nationality, must be merged into the one thought that, few as they were,
they were the sole surviving representatives of a world which it seemed
exceedingly improbable that they would ever see again; and common sense
dictated that they were bound to direct all their energies to insure that their
asteroid should at least have a united and sympathizing population.
It was on the 25th of February that the yacht left the little creek in which
she had taken refuge, and setting off at full steam eastwards, she continued
her way along the northern shore. A brisk breeze tended to increase the
keenness of the temperature, the thermometer being, on an average, about
two degrees below zero. Salt water freezes only at a lower temperature than
fresh; the course of the Dobryna was therefore unimpeded by ice, but it
could not be concealed that there was the greatest necessity to maintain the
utmost possible speed.
The nights continued lovely; the chilled condition of the atmosphere
prevented the formation of clouds; the constellations gleamed forth with
unsullied luster; and, much as Lieutenant Procope, from nautical
considerations, might regret the absence of the moon, he could not do
otherwise than own that the magnificent nights of Gallia were such as must
awaken the enthusiasm of an astronomer. And, as if to compensate for the
loss of the moonlight, the heavens were illuminated by a superb shower of
falling stars, far exceeding, both in number and in brilliancy, the
phenomena which are commonly distinguished as the August and
November meteors; in fact, Gallia was passing through that meteoric ring

which is known to lie exterior to the earth’s orbit, but almost concentric
with it. The rocky coast, its metallic surface reflecting the glow of the
dazzling luminaries, appeared literally stippled with light, whilst the sea, as
though spattered with burning hailstones, shone with a phosphorescence
that was perfectly splendid. So great, however, was the speed at which
Gallia was receding from the sun, that this meteoric storm lasted scarcely
more than four and twenty hours.
Next day the direct progress of the Dobryna was arrested by a long
projection of land, which obliged her to turn southwards, until she reached
what formerly would have been the southern extremity of Corsica. Of this,
however, there was now no trace; the Strait of Bonifacio had been replaced
by a vast expanse of water, which had at first all the appearance of being
utterly desert; but on the following morning the explorers unexpectedly
sighted a little island, which, unless it should prove, as was only too likely,
to be of recent origin they concluded, from its situation, must be a portion
of the northernmost territory of Sardinia.
The Dobryna approached the land as nearly as was prudent, the boat was
lowered, and in a few minutes the count and Servadac had landed upon the
islet, which was a mere plot of meadow land, not much more than two acres
in extent, dotted here and there with a few myrtle-bushes and lentisks,
interspersed with some ancient olives. Having ascertained, as they
imagined, that the spot was devoid of living creature, they were on the point
of returning to their boat, when their attention was arrested by a faint
bleating, and immediately afterwards a solitary she-goat came bounding
towards the shore. The creature had dark, almost black hair, and small
curved horns, and was a specimen of that domestic breed which, with
considerable justice, has gained for itself the title of “the poor man’s cow.”
So far from being alarmed at the presence of strangers, the goat ran nimbly
towards them, and then, by its movements and plaintive cries, seemed to be
enticing them to follow it.
“Come,” said Servadac; “let us see where it will lead us; it is more than
probable it is not alone.”
The count agreed; and the animal, as if comprehending what was said,
trotted on gently for about a hundred paces, and stopped in front of a kind
of cave or burrow that was half concealed by a grove of lentisks. Here a
little girl, seven or eight years of age, with rich brown hair and lustrous dark

eyes, beautiful as one of Murillo’s angels, was peeping shyly through the
branches. Apparently discovering nothing in the aspect of the strangers to
excite her apprehensions, the child suddenly gained confidence, darted
forwards with outstretched hands, and in a voice, soft and melodious as the
language which she spoke, said in Italian:
“I like you; you will not hurt me, will you?”
“Hurt you, my child?” answered Servadac. “No, indeed; we will be your
friends; we will take care of you.”
And after a few moments’ scrutiny of the pretty maiden, he added:
“Tell us your name, little one.”
“Nina!” was the child’s reply.
“Well, then, Nina, can you tell us where we are?”
“At Madalena, I think,” said the little girl; “at least, I know I was there
when that dreadful shock came and altered everything.”
The count knew that Madalena was close to Caprera, to the north of
Sardinia, which had entirely disappeared in the disaster. By dint of a series
of questions, he gained from the child a very intelligent account of her
experiences. She told him that she had no parents, and had been employed
in taking care of a flock of goats belonging to one of the landowners, when
one day, all of a sudden, everything around her, except this little piece of
land, had been swallowed up, and that she and Marzy, her pet goat, had
been left quite alone. She went on to say that at first she had been very
frightened; but when she found that the earth did not shake any more, she
had thanked the great God, and had soon made herself very happy living
with Marzy. She had enough food, she said, and had been waiting for a boat
to fetch her, and now a boat had come and she was quite ready to go away;
only they must let her goat go with her: they would both like so much to get
back to the old farm.
“Here, at least, is one nice little inhabitant of Gallia,” said Captain
Servadac, as he caressed the child and conducted her to the boat.
Half an hour later, both Nina and Marzy were safely quartered on board
the yacht. It is needless to say that they received the heartiest of welcomes.
The Russian sailors, ever superstitious, seemed almost to regard the coming
of the child as the appearance of an angel; and, incredible as it may seem,

more than one of them wondered whether she had wings, and amongst
themselves they commonly referred to her as “the little Madonna.”
Soon out of sight of Madalena, the Dobryna for some hours held a
southeasterly course along the shore, which here was fifty leagues in
advance of the former coast-line of Italy, demonstrating that a new
continent must have been formed, substituted as it were for the old
peninsula, of which not a vestige could be identified. At a latitude
corresponding with the latitude of Rome, the sea took the form of a deep
gulf, extending back far beyond the site of the Eternal City; the coast
making a wide sweep round to the former position of Calabria, and jutting
far beyond the outline of “the boot,” which Italy resembles. But the beacon
of Messina was not to be discerned; no trace, indeed, survived of any
portion of Sicily; the very peak of Etna, 11,000 feet as it had reared itself
above the level of the sea, had vanished utterly.
Another sixty leagues to the south, and the Dobryna sighted the entrance
of the strait which had afforded her so providential a refuge from the
tempest, and had conducted her to the fragmentary relic of Gibraltar. Hence
to the Gulf of Cabes had been already explored, and as it was universally
allowed that it was unnecessary to renew the search in that direction, the
lieutenant started off in a transverse course, towards a point hitherto
uninvestigated. That point was reached on the 3rd of March, and thence the
coast was continuously followed, as it led through what had been Tunis,
across the province of Constantine, away to the oasis of Ziban; where,
taking a sharp turn, it first reached a latitude of 32 degrees, and then
returned again, thus forming a sort of irregular gulf, enclosed by the same
unvarying border of mineral concrete. This colossal boundary then stretched
away for nearly 150 leagues over the Sahara desert, and, extending to the
south of Gourbi Island, occupied what, if Morocco had still existed, would
have been its natural frontier.
Adapting her course to these deviations of the coastline, the Dobryna was
steering northwards, and had barely reached the limit of the bay, when the
attention of all on board was arrested by the phenomenon of a volcano, at
least 3,000 feet high, its crater crowned with smoke, which occasionally
was streaked by tongues of flame.
“A burning mountain!” they exclaimed.
“Gallia, then, has some internal heat,” said Servadac.

“And why not, captain?” rejoined the lieutenant. “If our asteroid has
carried with it a portion of the old earth’s atmosphere, why should it not
likewise retain something of its central fire?”
“Ah, well!” said the captain, shrugging his shoulders, “I dare say there is
caloric enough in our little world to supply the wants of its population.”
Count Timascheff interrupted the silence that followed this conversation
by saying, “And now, gentlemen, as our course has brought us on our way
once more towards Gibraltar, what do you say to our renewing our
acquaintance with the Englishmen? They will be interested in the result of
our voyage.”
“For my part,” said Servadac, “I have no desire that way. They know
where to find Gourbi Island; they can betake themselves thither just when
they please. They have plenty of provisions. If the water freezes, 120
leagues is no very great distance. The reception they gave us was not so
cordial that we need put ourselves out of the way to repeat our visit.”
“What you say is too true,” replied the count. “I hope we shall show them
better manners when they condescend to visit us.”
“Ay,” said Servadac, “we must remember that we are all one people now;
no longer Russian, French, or English. Nationality is extinct.”
“I am sadly afraid, however,” continued the count, “that an Englishman
will be an Englishman ever.”
“Yes,” said the captain, “that is always their failing.”
And thus all further thought of making their way again to the little
garrison of Gibraltar was abandoned.
But even if their spirit of courtesy had disposed them to renew their
acquaintance with the British officers, there were two circumstances that
just then would have rendered such a proposal very unadvisable. In the first
place, Lieutenant Procope was convinced that it could not be much longer
now before the sea would be entirely frozen; and, besides this, the
consumption of their coal, through the speed they had maintained, had been
so great that there was only too much reason to fear that fuel would fail
them. Anyhow, the strictest economy was necessary, and it was accordingly
resolved that the voyage should not be much prolonged. Beyond the
volcanic peak, moreover, the waters seemed to expand into a boundless
ocean, and it might be a thing full of risk to be frozen up while the yacht

was so inadequately provisioned. Taking all these things into account, it
was agreed that further investigations should be deferred to a more
favorable season, and that, without delay, the Dobryna should return to
Gourbi Island.
This decision was especially welcome to Hector Servadac, who,
throughout the whole of the last five weeks, had been agitated by much
anxious thought on account of the faithful servant he had left behind.
The transit from the volcano to the island was not long, and was marked
by only one noticeable incident. This was the finding of a second
mysterious document, in character precisely similar to what they had found
before. The writer of it was evidently engaged upon a calculation, probably
continued from day to day, as to the motions of the planet Gallia upon its
orbit, and committing the results of his reckonings to the waves as the
channel of communication.
Instead of being enclosed in a telescope-case, it was this time secured in
a preserved-meat tin, hermetically sealed, and stamped with the same
initials on the wax that fastened it. The greatest care was used in opening it,
and it was found to contain the following message:
“Gallia Ab sole, au 1 mars, dist. 78,000,000 l.! Chemin parcouru de fev. a
mars: 59,000,000 1.! Va bene! All right! Nil desperandum!
“Enchante!”
“Another enigma!” exclaimed Servadac; “and still no intelligible
signature, and no address. No clearing up of the mystery!”
“I have no doubt, in my own mind,” said the count, “that it is one of a
series. It seems to me probable that they are being sent broadcast upon the
sea.”
“I wonder where the hare-brained savant that writes them can be living?”
observed Servadac.
“Very likely he may have met with the fate of AEsop’s abstracted
astronomer, who found himself at the bottom of a well.”
“Ay; but where is that well?” demanded the captain.
This was a question which the count was incapable of settling; and they
could only speculate afresh as to whether the author of the riddles was
dwelling upon some solitary island, or, like themselves, was navigating the

waters of the new Mediterranean. But they could detect nothing to guide
them to a definite decision.
After thoughtfully regarding the document for some time. Lieutenant
Procope proceeded to observe that he believed the paper might be
considered as genuine, and accordingly, taking its statements as reliable, he
deduced two important conclusions: first, that whereas, in the month of
January, the distance traveled by the planet (hypothetically called Gallia)
had been recorded as 82,000,000 leagues, the distance traveled in February
was only 59,000,000 leagues—a difference of 23,000,000 leagues in one
month; secondly, that the distance of the planet from the sun, which on the
15th of February had been 59,000,000 leagues, was on the 1st of March
78,000,000 leagues—an increase of 19,000,000 leagues in a fortnight. Thus,
in proportion as Gallia receded from the sun, so did the rate of speed
diminish by which she traveled along her orbit; facts to be observed in
perfect conformity with the known laws of celestial mechanism.
“And your inference?” asked the count.
“My inference,” replied the lieutenant, “is a confirmation of my surmise
that we are following an orbit decidedly elliptical, although we have not yet
the material to determine its eccentricity.”
“As the writer adheres to the appellation of Gallia, do you not think,”
asked the count, “that we might call these new waters the Gallian Sea?”
“There can be no reason to the contrary, count,” replied the lieutenant;
“and as such I will insert it upon my new chart.”
“Our friend,” said Servadac, “seems to be more and more gratified with
the condition of things; not only has he adopted our motto, ‘Nil
desperandum!’ but see how enthusiastically he has wound up with his
‘Enchante!’”
The conversation dropped.
A few hours later the man on watch announced that Gourbi Island was in
sight.

CHAPTER XVIII. AN UNEXPECTED
POPULATION
The Dobryna was now back again at the island. Her cruise had lasted
from the 31st of January to the 5th of March, a period of thirty-five days
(for it was leap year), corresponding to seventy days as accomplished by the
new little world.
Many a time during his absence Hector Servadac had wondered how his
present vicissitudes would end, and he had felt some misgivings as to
whether he should ever again set foot upon the island, and see his faithful
orderly, so that it was not without emotion that he had approached the coast
of the sole remaining fragment of Algerian soil. But his apprehensions were
groundless; Gourbi Island was just as he had left it, with nothing unusual in
its aspect, except that a very peculiar cloud was hovering over it, at an
altitude of little more than a hundred feet. As the yacht approached the
shore, this cloud appeared to rise and fall as if acted upon by some invisible
agency, and the captain, after watching it carefully, perceived that it was not
an accumulation of vapors at all, but a dense mass of birds packed as
closely together as a swarm of herrings, and uttering deafening and
discordant cries, amidst which from time to time the noise of the report of a
gun could be plainly distinguished.
The Dobryna signalized her arrival by firing her cannon, and dropped
anchor in the little port of the Shelif. Almost within a minute Ben Zoof was
seen running, gun in hand, towards the shore; he cleared the last ridge of
rocks at a single bound, and then suddenly halted. For a few seconds he
stood motionless, his eyes fixed, as if obeying the instructions of a drill
sergeant, on a point some fifteen yards distant, his whole attitude indicating
submission and respect; but the sight of the captain, who was landing, was
too much for his equanimity, and darting forward, he seized his master’s
hand and covered it with kisses. Instead, however, of uttering any
expressions of welcome or rejoicing at the captain’s return, Ben Zoof broke
out into the most vehement ejaculations.
“Thieves, captain! beastly thieves! Bedouins! pirates! devils!”

“Why, Ben Zoof, what’s the matter?” said Servadac soothingly.
“They are thieves! downright, desperate thieves! those infernal birds!
That’s what’s the matter. It is a good thing you have come. Here have I for a
whole month been spending my powder and shot upon them, and the more I
kill them, the worse they get; and yet, if I were to leave them alone, we
should not have a grain of corn upon the island.”
It was soon evident that the orderly had only too much cause for alarm.
The crops had ripened rapidly during the excessive heat of January, when
the orbit of Gallia was being traversed at its perihelion, and were now
exposed to the depredations of many thousands of birds; and although a
goodly number of stacks attested the industry of Ben Zoof during the time
of the Dobryna’s voyage, it was only too apparent that the portion of the
harvest that remained ungathered was liable to the most imminent risk of
being utterly devoured. It was, perhaps, only natural that this clustered mass
of birds, as representing the whole of the feathered tribe upon the surface of
Gallia, should resort to Gourbi Island, of which the meadows seemed to be
the only spot from which they could get sustenance at all; but as this
sustenance would be obtained at the expense, and probably to the serious
detriment, of the human population, it was absolutely necessary that every
possible resistance should be made to the devastation that was threatened.
Once satisfied that Servadac and his friends would cooperate with him in
the raid upon “the thieves,” Ben Zoof became calm and content, and began
to make various inquiries. “And what has become,” he said, “of all our old
comrades in Africa?”
“As far as I can tell you,” answered the captain, “they are all in Africa
still; only Africa isn’t by any means where we expected to find it.”
“And France? Montmartre?” continued Ben Zoof eagerly. Here was the
cry of the poor fellow’s heart.
As briefly as he could, Servadac endeavored to explain the true condition
of things; he tried to communicate the fact that Paris, France, Europe, nay,
the whole world was more than eighty millions of leagues away from
Gourbi Island; as gently and cautiously as he could he expressed his fear
that they might never see Europe, France, Paris, Montmartre again.
“No, no, sir!” protested Ben Zoof emphatically; “that is all nonsense. It is
altogether out of the question to suppose that we are not to see Montmartre

again.” And the orderly shook his head resolutely, with the air of a man
determined, in spite of argument, to adhere to his own opinion.
“Very good, my brave fellow,” replied Servadac, “hope on, hope while
you may. The message has come to us over the sea, ‘Never despair’; but
one thing, nevertheless, is certain; we must forthwith commence
arrangements for making this island our permanent home.”
Captain Servadac now led the way to the gourbi, which, by his servant’s
exertions, had been entirely rebuilt; and here he did the honors of his
modest establishment to his two guests, the count and the lieutenant, and
gave a welcome, too, to little Nina, who had accompanied them on shore,
and between whom and Ben Zoof the most friendly relations had already
been established.
The adjacent building continued in good preservation, and Captain
Servadac’s satisfaction was very great in finding the two horses, Zephyr and
Galette, comfortably housed there and in good condition.
After the enjoyment of some refreshment, the party proceeded to a
general consultation as to what steps must be taken for their future welfare.
The most pressing matter that came before them was the consideration of
the means to be adopted to enable the inhabitants of Gallia to survive the
terrible cold, which, in their ignorance of the true eccentricity of their orbit,
might, for aught they knew, last for an almost indefinite period. Fuel was
far from abundant; of coal there was none; trees and shrubs were few in
number, and to cut them down in prospect of the cold seemed a very
questionable policy; but there was no doubt some expedient must be
devised to prevent disaster, and that without delay.
The victualing of the little colony offered no immediate difficulty. Water
was abundant, and the cisterns could hardly fail to be replenished by the
numerous streams that meandered along the plains; moreover, the Gallian
Sea would ere long be frozen over, and the melted ice (water in its
congealed state being divested of every particle of salt) would afford a
supply of drink that could not be exhausted. The crops that were now ready
for the harvest, and the flocks and herds scattered over the island, would
form an ample reserve. There was little doubt that throughout the winter the
soil would remain unproductive, and no fresh fodder for domestic animals
could then be obtained; it would therefore be necessary, if the exact

duration of Gallia’s year should ever be calculated, to proportion the
number of animals to be reserved to the real length of the winter.
The next thing requisite was to arrive at a true estimate of the number of
the population. Without including the thirteen Englishmen at Gibraltar,
about whom he was not particularly disposed to give himself much concern
at present, Servadac put down the names of the eight Russians, the two
Frenchman, and the little Italian girl, eleven in all, as the entire list of the
inhabitants of Gourbi Island.
“Oh, pardon me,” interposed Ben Zoof, “you are mistaking the state of
the case altogether. You will be surprised to learn that the total of people on
the island is double that. It is twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two!” exclaimed the captain; “twenty-two people on this island?
What do you mean?”
“The opportunity has not occurred,” answered Ben Zoof, “for me to tell
you before, but I have had company.”
“Explain yourself, Ben Zoof,” said Servadac. “What company have you
had?”
“You could not suppose,” replied the orderly, “that my own unassisted
hands could have accomplished all that harvest work that you see has been
done.”
“I confess,” said Lieutenant Procope, “we do not seem to have noticed
that.”
“Well, then,” said Ben Zoof, “if you will be good enough to come with
me for about a mile, I shall be able to show you my companions. But we
must take our guns.”
“Why take our guns?” asked Servadac. “I hope we are not going to
fight.”
“No, not with men,” said Ben Zoof; “but it does not answer to throw a
chance away for giving battle to those thieves of birds.”
Leaving little Nina and her goat in the gourbi, Servadac, Count
Timascheff, and the lieutenant, greatly mystified, took up their guns and
followed the orderly. All along their way they made unsparing slaughter of
the birds that hovered over and around them. Nearly every species of the
feathered tribe seemed to have its representative in that living cloud. There
were wild ducks in thousands; snipe, larks, rooks, and swallows; a countless

variety of sea-birds—widgeons, gulls, and seamews; beside a quantity of
game—quails, partridges, and woodcocks. The sportsmen did their best;
every shot told; and the depredators fell by dozens on either hand.
Instead of following the northern shore of the island, Ben Zoof cut
obliquely across the plain. Making their progress with the unwonted
rapidity which was attributable to their specific lightness, Servadac and his
companions soon found themselves near a grove of sycamores and
eucalyptus massed in picturesque confusion at the base of a little hill. Here
they halted.
“Ah! the vagabonds! the rascals! the thieves!” suddenly exclaimed Ben
Zoof, stamping his foot with rage.
“How now? Are your friends the birds at their pranks again?” asked the
captain.
“No, I don’t mean the birds: I mean those lazy beggars that are shirking
their work. Look here; look there!” And as Ben Zoof spoke, he pointed to
some scythes, and sickles, and other implements of husbandry that had been
left upon the ground.
“What is it you mean?” asked Servadac, getting somewhat impatient.
“Hush, hush! listen!” was all Ben Zoof’s reply; and he raised his finger
as if in warning.
Listening attentively, Servadac and his associates could distinctly
recognize a human voice, accompanied by the notes of a guitar and by the
measured click of castanets.
“Spaniards!” said Servadac.
“No mistake about that, sir,” replied Ben Zoof; “a Spaniard would rattle
his castanets at the cannon’s mouth.”
“But what is the meaning of it all?” asked the captain, more puzzled than
before.
“Hark!” said Ben Zoof; “it is the old man’s turn.”
And then a voice, at once gruff and harsh, was heard vociferating, “My
money! my money! when will you pay me my money? Pay me what you
owe me, you miserable majos.”
Meanwhile the song continued:

“Tu sandunga y cigarro,

Y una cana de Jerez,
Mi jamelgo y un trabuco,
Que mas gloria puede haver?”

Servadac’s knowledge of Gascon enabled him partially to comprehend
the rollicking tenor of the Spanish patriotic air, but his attention was again
arrested by the voice of the old man growling savagely, “Pay me you shall;
yes, by the God of Abraham, you shall pay me.”
“A Jew!” exclaimed Servadac.
“Ay, sir, a German Jew,” said Ben Zoof.
The party was on the point of entering the thicket, when a singular
spectacle made them pause. A group of Spaniards had just begun dancing
their national fandango, and the extraordinary lightness which had become
the physical property of every object in the new planet made the dancers
bound to a height of thirty feet or more into the air, considerably above the
tops of the trees. What followed was irresistibly comic. Four sturdy majos
had dragged along with them an old man incapable of resistance, and
compelled him, nolens volens, to join in the dance; and as they all kept
appearing and disappearing above the bank of foliage, their grotesque
attitudes, combined with the pitiable countenance of their helpless victim,
could not do otherwise than recall most forcibly the story of Sancho Panza
tossed in a blanket by the merry drapers of Segovia.
Servadac, the count, Procope, and Ben Zoof now proceeded to make their
way through the thicket until they came to a little glade, where two men
were stretched idly on the grass, one of them playing the guitar, and the
other a pair of castanets; both were exploding with laughter, as they urged
the performers to greater and yet greater exertions in the dance. At the sight
of strangers they paused in their music, and simultaneously the dancers,
with their victim, alighted gently on the sward.
Breathless and half exhausted as was the Jew, he rushed with an effort
towards Servadac, and exclaimed in French, marked by a strong Teutonic
accent, “Oh, my lord governor, help me, help! These rascals defraud me of
my rights; they rob me; but, in the name of the God of Israel, I ask you to
see justice done!”
The captain glanced inquiringly towards Ben Zoof, and the orderly, by a
significant nod, made his master understand that he was to play the part that
was implied by the title. He took the cue, and promptly ordered the Jew to

hold his tongue at once. The man bowed his head in servile submission, and
folded his hands upon his breast.
Servadac surveyed him leisurely. He was a man of about fifty, but from
his appearance might well have been taken for at least ten years older.
Small and skinny, with eyes bright and cunning, a hooked nose, a short
yellow beard, unkempt hair, huge feet, and long bony hands, he presented
all the typical characteristics of the German Jew, the heartless, wily usurer,
the hardened miser and skinflint. As iron is attracted by the magnet, so was
this Shylock attracted by the sight of gold, nor would he have hesitated to
draw the life-blood of his creditors, if by such means he could secure his
claims.
His name was Isaac Hakkabut, and he was a native of Cologne. Nearly
the whole of his time, however, he informed Captain Servadac, had been
spent upon the sea, his real business being that of a merchant trading at all
the ports of the Mediterranean. A tartan, a small vessel of two hundred tons
burden, conveyed his entire stock of merchandise, and, to say the truth, was
a sort of floating emporium, conveying nearly every possible article of
commerce, from a lucifer match to the radiant fabrics of Frankfort and
Epinal. Without wife or children, and having no settled home, Isaac
Hakkabut lived almost entirely on board the Hansa, as he had named his
tartan; and engaging a mate, with a crew of three men, as being adequate to
work so light a craft, he cruised along the coasts of Algeria, Tunis, Egypt,
Turkey, and Greece, visiting, moreover, most of the harbors of the Levant.
Careful to be always well supplied with the products in most general
demand—coffee, sugar, rice, tobacco, cotton stuffs, and gunpowder—and
being at all times ready to barter, and prepared to deal in secondhand wares,
he had contrived to amass considerable wealth.
On the eventful night of the 1st of January the Hansa had been at Ceuta,
the point on the coast of Morocco exactly opposite Gibraltar. The mate and
three sailors had all gone on shore, and, in common with many of their
fellow-creatures, had entirely disappeared; but the most projecting rock of
Ceuta had been undisturbed by the general catastrophe, and half a score of
Spaniards, who had happened to be upon it, had escaped with their lives.
They were all Andalusian majos, agricultural laborers, and naturally as
careless and apathetic as men of their class usually are, but they could not
help being very considerably embarrassed when they discovered that they

were left in solitude upon a detached and isolated rock. They took what
mutual counsel they could, but became only more and more perplexed. One
of them was named Negrete, and he, as having traveled somewhat more
than the rest, was tacitly recognized as a sort of leader; but although he was
by far the most enlightened of them all, he was quite incapable of forming
the least conception of the nature of what had occurred. The one thing upon
which they could not fail to be conscious was that they had no prospect of
obtaining provisions, and consequently their first business was to devise a
scheme for getting away from their present abode. The Hansa was lying off
shore. The Spaniards would not have had the slightest hesitation in
summarily taking possession of her, but their utter ignorance of seamanship
made them reluctantly come to the conclusion that the more prudent policy
was to make terms with the owner.
And now came a singular part of the story. Negrete and his companions
had meanwhile received a visit from two English officers from Gibraltar.
What passed between them the Jew did not know; he only knew that,
immediately after the conclusion of the interview, Negrete came to him and
ordered him to set sail at once for the nearest point of Morocco. The Jew,
afraid to disobey, but with his eye ever upon the main chance, stipulated
that at the end of their voyage the Spaniards should pay for their passage—
terms to which, as they would to any other, they did not demur, knowing
that they had not the slightest intention of giving him a single real.
The Hansa had weighed anchor on the 3rd of February. The wind blew
from the west, and consequently the working of the tartan was easy enough.
The unpracticed sailors had only to hoist their sails and, though they were
quite unconscious of the fact, the breeze carried them to the only spot upon
the little world they occupied which could afford them a refuge.
Thus it fell out that one morning Ben Zoof, from his lookout on Gourbi
Island, saw a ship, not the Dobryna, appear upon the horizon, and make
quietly down towards what had formerly been the right bank of the Shelif.
Such was Ben Zoof’s version of what had occurred, as he had gathered it
from the new-comers. He wound up his recital by remarking that the cargo
of the Hansa would be of immense service to them; he expected, indeed,
that Isaac Hakkabut would be difficult to manage, but considered there
could be no harm in appropriating the goods for the common welfare, since
there could be no opportunity now for selling them.

Ben Zoof added, “And as to the difficulties between the Jew and his
passengers, I told him that the governor general was absent on a tour of
inspection, and that he would see everything equitably settled.”
Smiling at his orderly’s tactics, Servadac turned to Hakkabut, and told
him that he would take care that his claims should be duly investigated and
all proper demands should be paid. The man appeared satisfied, and, for the
time at least, desisted from his complaints and importunities.
When the Jew had retired, Count Timascheff asked, “But how in the
world can you ever make those fellows pay anything?”
“They have lots of money,” said Ben Zoof.
“Not likely,” replied the count; “when did you ever know Spaniards like
them to have lots of money?”
“But I have seen it myself,” said Ben Zoof; “and it is English money.”
“English money!” echoed Servadac; and his mind again reverted to the
excursion made by the colonel and the major from Gibraltar, about which
they had been so reticent. “We must inquire more about this,” he said.
Then, addressing Count Timascheff, he added, “Altogether, I think the
countries of Europe are fairly represented by the population of Gallia.”
“True, captain,” answered the count; “we have only a fragment of a
world, but it contains natives of France, Russia, Italy, Spain, and England.
Even Germany may be said to have a representative in the person of this
miserable Jew.”
“And even in him,” said Servadac, “perhaps we shall not find so
indifferent a representative as we at present imagine.”

CHAPTER XIX. GALLIA’S GOVERNOR
GENERAL
The Spaniards who had arrived on board the Hansa consisted of nine
men and a lad of twelve years of age, named Pablo. They all received
Captain Servadac, whom Ben Zoof introduced as the governor general, with
due respect, and returned quickly to their separate tasks. The captain and his
friends, followed at some distance by the eager Jew, soon left the glade and
directed their steps towards the coast where the Hansa was moored.
As they went they discussed their situation. As far as they had
ascertained, except Gourbi Island, the sole surviving fragments of the Old
World were four small islands: the bit of Gibraltar occupied by the
Englishmen; Ceuta, which had just been left by the Spaniards; Madalena,
where they had picked up the little Italian girl; and the site of the tomb of
Saint Louis on the coast of Tunis. Around these there was stretched out the
full extent of the Gallian Sea, which apparently comprised about one-half of
the Mediterranean, the whole being encompassed by a barrier like a
framework of precipitous cliffs, of an origin and a substance alike
unknown.
Of all these spots only two were known to be inhabited: Gibraltar, where
the thirteen Englishmen were amply provisioned for some years to come,
and their own Gourbi Island. Here there was a population of twenty-two,
who would all have to subsist upon the natural products of the soil. It was
indeed not to be forgotten that, perchance, upon some remote and
undiscovered isle there might be the solitary writer of the mysterious papers
which they had found, and if so, that would raise the census of their new
asteroid to an aggregate of thirty-six.
Even upon the supposition that at some future date the whole population
should be compelled to unite and find a residence upon Gourbi Island, there
did not appear any reason to question but that eight hundred acres of rich
soil, under good management, would yield them all an ample sustenance.
The only critical matter was how long the cold season would last; every
hope depended upon the land again becoming productive; at present, it

seemed impossible to determine, even if Gallia’s orbit were really elliptic,
when she would reach her aphelion, and it was consequently necessary that
the Gallians for the time being should reckon on nothing beyond their
actual and present resources.
These resources were, first, the provisions of the Dobryna, consisting of
preserved meat, sugar, wine, brandy, and other stores sufficient for about
two months; secondly, the valuable cargo of the Hansa, which, sooner or
later, the owner, whether he would or not, must be compelled to surrender
for the common benefit; and lastly, the produce of the island, animal and
vegetable, which with proper economy might be made to last for a
considerable period.
In the course of the conversation, Count Timascheff took an opportunity
of saying that, as Captain Servadac had already been presented to the
Spaniards as governor of the island, he thought it advisable that he should
really assume that position.
“Every body of men,” he observed, “must have a head, and you, as a
Frenchman, should, I think, take the command of this fragment of a French
colony. My men, I can answer for it, are quite prepared to recognize you as
their superior officer.”
“Most unhesitatingly,” replied Servadac, “I accept the post with all its
responsibilities. We understand each other so well that I feel sure we shall
try and work together for the common good; and even if it be our fate never
again to behold our fellow creatures, I have no misgivings but that we shall
be able to cope with whatever difficulties may be before us.”
As he spoke, he held out his hand. The count took it, at the same time
making a slight bow. It was the first time since their meeting that the two
men had shaken hands; on the other hand, not a single word about their
former rivalry had ever escaped their lips; perhaps that was all forgotten
now.
The silence of a few moments was broken by Servadac saying, “Do you
not think we ought to explain our situation to the Spaniards?”
“No, no, your Excellency,” burst in Ben Zoof, emphatically; “the fellows
are chicken-hearted enough already; only tell them what has happened, and
in sheer despondency they will not do another stroke of work.”

“Besides,” said Lieutenant Procope, who took very much the same view
as the orderly, “they are so miserably ignorant they would be sure to
misunderstand you.”
“Understand or misunderstand,” replied Servadac, “I do not think it
matters. They would not care. They are all fatalists. Only give them a guitar
and their castanets, and they will soon forget all care and anxiety. For my
own part, I must adhere to my belief that it will be advisable to tell them
everything. Have you any opinion to offer, count?”
“My own opinion, captain, coincides entirely with yours. I have followed
the plan of explaining all I could to my men on board the Dobryna, and no
inconvenience has arisen.”
“Well, then, so let it be,” said the captain; adding, “It is not likely that
these Spaniards are so ignorant as not to have noticed the change in the
length of the days; neither can they be unaware of the physical changes that
have transpired. They shall certainly be told that we are being carried away
into unknown regions of space, and that this island is nearly all that remains
of the Old World.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Ben Zoof, aloud; “it will be fine sport to watch the old
Jew’s face, when he is made to comprehend that he is flying away millions
and millions of leagues from all his debtors.”
Isaac Hakkabut was about fifty yards behind, and was consequently
unable to overhear the conversation. He went shambling along, half
whimpering and not unfrequently invoking the God of Israel; but every now
and then a cunning light gleamed from his eyes, and his lips became
compressed with a grim significance.
None of the recent phenomena had escaped his notice, and more than
once he had attempted to entice Ben Zoof into conversation upon the
subject; but the orderly made no secret of his antipathy to him, and
generally replied to his advances either by satire or by banter. He told him
that he had everything to gain under the new system of nights and days, for,
instead of living the Jew’s ordinary life of a century, he would reach to the
age of two centuries; and he congratulated him upon the circumstance of
things having become so light, because it would prevent him feeling the
burden of his years. At another time he would declare that, to an old usurer
like him, it could not matter in the least what had become of the moon, as
he could not possibly have advanced any money upon her. And when Isaac,

undaunted by his jeers, persevered in besetting him with questions, he tried
to silence him by saying, “Only wait till the governor general comes; he is a
shrewd fellow, and will tell you all about it.”
“But will he protect my property?” poor Isaac would ask tremulously.
“To be sure he will! He would confiscate it all rather than that you should
be robbed of it.”
With this Job’s comfort the Jew had been obliged to content himself as
best he could, and to await the promised arrival of the governor.
When Servadac and his companions reached the shore, they found that
the Hansa had anchored in an exposed bay, protected but barely by a few
projecting rocks, and in such a position that a gale rising from the west
would inevitably drive her on to the land, where she must be dashed in
pieces. It would be the height of folly to leave her in her present moorings;
without loss of time she must be brought round to the mouth of the Shelif,
in immediate proximity to the Russian yacht.
The consciousness that his tartan was the subject of discussion made the
Jew give way to such vehement ejaculations of anxiety, that Servadac
turned round and peremptorily ordered him to desist from his clamor.
Leaving the old man under the surveillance of the count and Ben Zoof, the
captain and the lieutenant stepped into a small boat and were soon
alongside the floating emporium.
A very short inspection sufficed to make them aware that both the tartan
and her cargo were in a perfect state of preservation. In the hold were sugar-
loaves by hundreds, chests of tea, bags of coffee, hogsheads of tobacco,
pipes of wine, casks of brandy, barrels of dried herrings, bales of cotton,
clothing of every kind, shoes of all sizes, caps of various shape, tools,
household utensils, china and earthenware, reams of paper, bottles of ink,
boxes of lucifer matches, blocks of salt, bags of pepper and spices, a stock
of huge Dutch cheeses, and a collection of almanacs and miscellaneous
literature. At a rough guess the value could not be much under pounds 5,000
sterling. A new cargo had been taken in only a few days before the
catastrophe, and it had been Isaac Hakkabut’s intention to cruise from Ceuta
to Tripoli, calling wherever he had reason to believe there was likely to be a
market for any of his commodities.
“A fine haul, lieutenant,” said the captain.

“Yes, indeed,” said the lieutenant; “but what if the owner refuses to part
with it?”
“No fear; no fear,” replied the captain. “As soon as ever the old rascal
finds that there are no more Arabs or Algerians for him to fleece, he will be
ready enough to transact a little business with us. We will pay him by bills
of acceptance on some of his old friends in the Old World.”
“But why should he want any payment?” inquired the lieutenant. “Under
the circumstances, he must know that you have a right to make a requisition
of his goods.”
“No, no,” quickly rejoined Servadac; “we will not do that. Just because
the fellow is a German we shall not be justified in treating him in German
fashion. We will transact our business in a business way. Only let him once
realize that he is on a new globe, with no prospect of getting back to the old
one, and he will be ready enough to come to terms with us.”
“Perhaps you are right,” replied the lieutenant; “I hope you are. But
anyhow, it will not do to leave the tartan here; not only would she be in
danger in the event of a storm, but it is very questionable whether she could
resist the pressure of the ice, if the water were to freeze.”
“Quite true, Procope; and accordingly I give you the commission to see
that your crew bring her round to the Shelif as soon as may be.”
“To-morrow morning it shall be done,” answered the lieutenant,
promptly.
Upon returning to the shore, it was arranged that the whole of the little
colony should forthwith assemble at the gourbi. The Spaniards were
summoned and Isaac, although he could only with reluctance take his
wistful gaze from his tartan, obeyed the governor’s orders to follow.
An hour later and the entire population of twenty-two had met in the
chamber adjoining the gourbi. Young Pablo made his first acquaintance
with little Nina, and the child seemed highly delighted to find a companion
so nearly of her own age. Leaving the children to entertain each other,
Captain Servadac began his address.
Before entering upon further explanation, he said that he counted upon
the cordial co-operation of them all for the common welfare.
Negrete interrupted him by declaring that no promises or pledges could
be given until he and his countrymen knew how soon they could be sent

back to Spain.
“To Spain, do you say?” asked Servadac.
“To Spain!” echoed Isaac Hakkabut, with a hideous yell. “Do they expect
to go back to Spain till they have paid their debts? Your Excellency, they
owe me twenty reals apiece for their passage here; they owe me two
hundred reals. Are they to be allowed...?”
“Silence, Mordecai, you fool!” shouted Ben Zoof, who was accustomed
to call the Jew by any Hebrew name that came uppermost to his memory.
“Silence!”
Servadac was disposed to appease the old man’s anxiety by promising to
see that justice was ultimately done; but, in a fever of frantic excitement, he
went on to implore that he might have the loan of a few sailors to carry his
ship to Algiers.
“I will pay you honestly; I will pay you well,” he cried; but his ingrained
propensity for making a good bargain prompted him to add, “provided you
do not overcharge me.”
Ben Zoof was about again to interpose some angry exclamation; but
Servadac checked him, and continued in Spanish: “Listen to me, my
friends. Something very strange has happened. A most wonderful event has
cut us off from Spain, from France, from Italy, from every country of
Europe. In fact, we have left the Old World entirely. Of the whole earth,
nothing remains except this island on which you are now taking refuge. The
old globe is far, far away. Our present abode is but an insignificant fragment
that is left. I dare not tell you that there is any chance of your ever again
seeing your country or your homes.”
He paused. The Spaniards evidently had no conception of his meaning.
Negrete begged him to tell them all again. He repeated all that he had
said, and by introducing some illustrations from familiar things, he
succeeded to a certain extent in conveying some faint idea of the convulsion
that had happened. The event was precisely what he had foretold. The
communication was received by all alike with the most supreme
indifference.
Hakkabut did not say a word. He had listened with manifest attention, his
lips twitching now and then as if suppressing a smile. Servadac turned to

him, and asked whether he was still disposed to put out to sea and make for
Algiers.
The Jew gave a broad grin, which, however, he was careful to conceal
from the Spaniards. “Your Excellency jests,” he said in French; and turning
to Count Timascheff, he added in Russian: “The governor has made up a
wonderful tale.”
The count turned his back in disgust, while the Jew sidled up to little
Nina and muttered in Italian. “A lot of lies, pretty one; a lot of lies!”
“Confound the knave!” exclaimed Ben Zoof; “he gabbles every tongue
under the sun!”
“Yes,” said Servadac; “but whether he speaks French, Russian, Spanish,
German, or Italian, he is neither more nor less than a Jew.”

CHAPTER XX. A LIGHT ON THE HORIZON
On the following day, without giving himself any further concern about
the Jew’s incredulity, the captain gave orders for the Hansa to be shifted
round to the harbor of the Shelif. Hakkabut raised no objection, not only
because he was aware that the move insured the immediate safety of his
tartan, but because he was secretly entertaining the hope that he might
entice away two or three of the Dobryna’s crew and make his escape to
Algiers or some other port.
Operations now commenced for preparing proper winter quarters.
Spaniards and Russians alike joined heartily in the work, the diminution of
atmospheric pressure and of the force of attraction contributing such an
increase to their muscular force as materially facilitated all their labors.
The first business was to accommodate the building adjacent to the
gourbi to the wants of the little colony. Here for the present the Spaniards
were lodged, the Russians retaining their berths upon the yacht, while the
Jew was permitted to pass his nights upon the Hansa. This arrangement,
however, could be only temporary. The time could not be far distant when
ships’ sides and ordinary walls would fail to give an adequate protection
from the severity of the cold that must be expected; the stock of fuel was
too limited to keep up a permanent supply of heat in their present quarters,
and consequently they must be driven to seek some other refuge, the
internal temperature of which would at least be bearable.
The plan that seemed to commend itself most to their consideration was,
that they should dig out for themselves some subterraneous pits similar to
“silos,” such as are used as receptacles for grain. They presumed that when
the surface of Gallia should be covered by a thick layer of ice, which is a
bad conductor of heat, a sufficient amount of warmth for animal vitality
might still be retained in excavations of this kind. After a long consultation
they failed to devise any better expedient, and were forced to resign
themselves to this species of troglodyte existence.
In one respect they congratulated themselves that they should be better
off than many of the whalers in the polar seas, for as it is impossible to get

below the surface of a frozen ocean, these adventurers have to seek refuge
in huts of wood and snow erected on their ships, which at best can give but
slight protection from extreme cold; but here, with a solid subsoil, the
Gallians might hope to dig down a hundred feet or so and secure for
themselves a shelter that would enable them to brave the hardest severity of
climate.
The order, then, was at once given. The work was commenced. A stock of
shovels, mattocks, and pick-axes was brought from the gourbi, and with
Ben Zoof as overseer, both Spanish majos and Russian sailors set to work
with a will.
It was not long, however, before a discovery, more unexpected than
agreeable, suddenly arrested their labors. The spot chosen for the
excavation was a little to the right of the gourbi, on a slight elevation of the
soil. For the first day everything went on prosperously enough; but at a
depth of eight feet below the surface, the navvies came in contact with a
hard surface, upon which all their tools failed to make the slightest
impression. Servadac and the count were at once apprised of the fact, and
had little difficulty in recognizing the substance that had revealed itself as
the very same which composed the shores as well as the subsoil of the
Gallian sea. It evidently formed the universal substructure of the new
asteroid. Means for hollowing it failed them utterly. Harder and more
resisting than granite, it could not be blasted by ordinary powder; dynamite
alone could suffice to rend it.
The disappointment was very great. Unless some means of protection
were speedily devised, death seemed to be staring them in the face. Were
the figures in the mysterious documents correct? If so, Gallia must now be a
hundred millions of leagues from the sun, nearly three times the distance of
the earth at the remotest section of her orbit. The intensity of the solar light
and heat, too, was very seriously diminishing, although Gourbi Island
(being on the equator of an orb which had its axes always perpendicular to
the plane in which it revolved) enjoyed a position that gave it a permanent
summer. But no advantage of this kind could compensate for the
remoteness of the sun. The temperature fell steadily; already, to the
discomfiture of the little Italian girl, nurtured in sunshine, ice was beginning
to form in the crevices of the rocks, and manifestly the time was impending
when the sea itself would freeze.

Some shelter must be found before the temperature should fall to 60
degrees below zero. Otherwise death was inevitable. Hitherto, for the last
few days, the thermometer had been registering an average of about 6
degrees below zero, and it had become matter of experience that the stove,
although replenished with all the wood that was available, was altogether
inadequate to effect any sensible mitigation of the severity of the cold. Nor
could any amount of fuel be enough. It was certain that ere long the very
mercury and spirit in the thermometers would be congealed. Some other
resort must assuredly be soon found, or they must perish. That was clear.
The idea of betaking themselves to the Dobryna and Hansa could not for
a moment be seriously entertained; not only did the structure of the vessels
make them utterly insufficient to give substantial shelter, but they were
totally unfitted to be trusted as to their stability when exposed to the
enormous pressure of the accumulated ice.
Neither Servadac, nor the count, nor Lieutenant Procope were men to be
easily disheartened, but it could not be concealed that they felt themselves
in circumstances by which they were equally harassed and perplexed. The
sole expedient that their united counsel could suggest was to obtain a refuge
below ground, and that was denied them by the strange and impenetrable
substratum of the soil; yet hour by hour the sun’s disc was lessening in its
dimensions, and although at midday some faint radiance and glow were to
be distinguished, during the night the painfulness of the cold was becoming
almost intolerable.
Mounted upon Zephyr and Galette, the captain and the count scoured the
island in search of some available retreat. Scarcely a yard of ground was
left unexplored, the horses clearing every obstacle as if they were, like
Pegasus, furnished with wings. But all in vain. Soundings were made again
and again, but invariably with the same result; the rock, hard as adamant,
never failed to reveal itself within a few feet of the surface of the ground.
The excavation of any silo being thus manifestly hopeless, there seemed
nothing to be done except to try and render the buildings alongside the
gourbi impervious to frost. To contribute to the supply of fuel, orders were
given to collect every scrap of wood, dry or green, that the island produced;
and this involved the necessity of felling the numerous trees that were
scattered over the plain. But toil as they might at the accumulation of
firewood, Captain Servadac and his companions could not resist the

conviction that the consumption of a very short period would exhaust the
total stock. And what would happen then?
Studious if possible to conceal his real misgivings, and anxious that the
rest of the party should be affected as little as might be by his own
uneasiness, Servadac would wander alone about the island, racking his
brain for an idea that would point the way out of the serious difficulty. But
still all in vain.
One day he suddenly came upon Ben Zoof, and asked him whether he
had no plan to propose. The orderly shook his head, but after a few
moments’ pondering, said: “Ah! master, if only we were at Montmartre, we
would get shelter in the charming stone-quarries.”
“Idiot!” replied the captain, angrily, “if we were at Montmartre, you don’t
suppose that we should need to live in stone-quarries?”
But the means of preservation which human ingenuity had failed to
secure were at hand from the felicitous provision of Nature herself. It was
on the 10th of March that the captain and Lieutenant Procope started off
once more to investigate the northwest corner of the island; on their way
their conversation naturally was engrossed by the subject of the dire
necessities which only too manifestly were awaiting them. A discussion
more than usually animated arose between them, for the two men were not
altogether of the same mind as to the measures that ought to be adopted in
order to open the fairest chance of avoiding a fatal climax to their exposure;
the captain persisted that an entirely new abode must be sought, while the
lieutenant was equally bent upon devising a method of some sort by which
their present quarters might be rendered sufficiently warm. All at once, in
the very heat of his argument, Procope paused; he passed his hand across
his eyes, as if to dispel a mist, and stood, with a fixed gaze centered on a
point towards the south. “What is that?” he said, with a kind of hesitation.
“No, I am not mistaken,” he added; “it is a light on the horizon.”
“A light!” exclaimed Servadac; “show me where.”
“Look there!” answered the lieutenant, and he kept pointing steadily in
its direction, until Servadac also distinctly saw the bright speck in the
distance.
It increased in clearness in the gathering shades of evening. “Can it be a
ship?” asked the captain.

“If so, it must be in flames; otherwise we should not be able to see it so
far off,” replied Procope.
“It does not move,” said Servadac; “and unless I am greatly deceived, I
can hear a kind of reverberation in the air.”
For some seconds the two men stood straining eyes and ears in rapt
attention. Suddenly an idea struck Servadac’s mind. “The volcano!” he
cried; “may it not be the volcano that we saw, whilst we were on board the
Dobryna?”
The lieutenant agreed that it was very probable.
“Heaven be praised!” ejaculated the captain, and he went on in the tones
of a keen excitement: “Nature has provided us with our winter quarters; the
stream of burning lava that is flowing there is the gift of a bounteous
Providence; it will provide us all the warmth we need. No time to lose! To-
morrow, my dear Procope, to-morrow we will explore it all; no doubt the
life, the heat we want is reserved for us in the heart and bowels of our own
Gallia!”
Whilst the captain was indulging in his expressions of enthusiasm,
Procope was endeavoring to collect his thoughts. Distinctly he remembered
the long promontory which had barred the Dobryna’s progress while
coasting the southern confines of the sea, and which had obliged her to
ascend northwards as far as the former latitude of Oran; he remembered
also that at the extremity of the promontory there was a rocky headland
crowned with smoke; and now he was convinced that he was right in
identifying the position, and in believing that the smoke had given place to
an eruption of flame.
When Servadac gave him a chance of speaking, he said, “The more I
consider it, captain, the more I am satisfied that your conjecture is correct.
Beyond a doubt, what we see is the volcano, and to-morrow we will not fail
to visit it.”
On returning to the gourbi, they communicated their discovery to Count
Timascheff only, deeming any further publication of it to be premature. The
count at once placed his yacht at their disposal, and expressed his intention
of accompanying them.
“The yacht, I think,” said Procope, “had better remain where she is; the
weather is beautifully calm, and the steam-launch will answer our purpose

better; at any rate, it will convey us much closer to shore than the
schooner.”
The count replied that the lieutenant was by all means to use his own
discretion, and they all retired for the night.
Like many other modern pleasure-yachts, the Dobryna, in addition to her
four-oar, was fitted with a fast-going little steam-launch, its screw being
propelled, on the Oriolle system, by means of a boiler, small but very
effective. Early next morning, this handy little craft was sufficiently
freighted with coal (of which there was still about ten tons on board the
Dobryna), and manned by nobody except the captain, the count, and the
lieutenant, left the harbor of the Shelif, much to the bewilderment of Ben
Zoof, who had not yet been admitted into the secret. The orderly, however,
consoled himself with the reflection that he had been temporarily invested
with the full powers of governor general, an office of which he was not a
little proud.
The eighteen miles between the island and the headland were made in
something less than three hours. The volcanic eruption was manifestly very
considerable, the entire summit of the promontory being enveloped in
flames. To produce so large a combustion either the oxygen of Gallia’s
atmosphere had been brought into contact with the explosive gases
contained beneath her soil, or perhaps, still more probable, the volcano, like
those in the moon, was fed by an internal supply of oxygen of her own.
It took more than half an hour to settle on a suitable landing-place. At
length, a small semi-circular creek was discovered among the rocks, which
appeared advantageous, because, if circumstances should so require, it
would form a safe anchorage for both the Dobryna and the Hansa.
The launch securely moored, the passengers landed on the side of the
promontory opposite to that on which a torrent of burning lava was
descending to the sea. With much satisfaction they experienced, as they
approached the mountain, a sensible difference in the temperature, and their
spirits could not do otherwise than rise at the prospect of having their hopes
confirmed, that a deliverance from the threatened calamity had so
opportunely been found. On they went, up the steep acclivity, scrambling
over its rugged projections, scaling the irregularities of its gigantic strata,
bounding from point to point with the agility of chamois, but never

alighting on anything except on the accumulation of the same hexagonal
prisms with which they had now become so familiar.
Their exertions were happily rewarded. Behind a huge pyramidal rock
they found a hole in the mountain-side, like the mouth of a great tunnel.
Climbing up to this orifice, which was more than sixty feet above the level
of the sea, they ascertained that it opened into a long dark gallery. They
entered and groped their way cautiously along the sides. A continuous
rumbling, that increased as they advanced, made them aware that they must
be approaching the central funnel of the volcano; their only fear was lest
some insuperable wall of rock should suddenly bar their further progress.
Servadac was some distance ahead.
“Come on!” he cried cheerily, his voice ringing through the darkness,
“come on! Our fire is lighted! no stint of fuel! Nature provides that! Let us
make haste and warm ourselves!”
Inspired by his confidence, the count and the lieutenant advanced bravely
along the unseen and winding path. The temperature was now at least
fifteen degrees above zero, and the walls of the gallery were beginning to
feel quite warm to the touch, an indication, not to be overlooked, that the
substance of which the rock was composed was metallic in its nature, and
capable of conducting heat.
“Follow me!” shouted Servadac again; “we shall soon find a regular
stove!”
Onwards they made their way, until at last a sharp turn brought them into
a sudden flood of light. The tunnel had opened into a vast cavern, and the
gloom was exchanged for an illumination that was perfectly dazzling.
Although the temperature was high, it was not in any way intolerable.
One glance was sufficient to satisfy the explorers that the grateful light
and heat of this huge excavation were to be attributed to a torrent of lava
that was rolling downwards to the sea, completely subtending the aperture
of the cave. Not inaptly might the scene be compared to the celebrated
Grotto of the Winds at the rear of the central fall of Niagara, only with the
exception that here, instead of a curtain of rushing water, it was a curtain of
roaring flame that hung before the cavern’s mouth.
“Heaven be praised!” cried Servadac, with glad emotion; “here is all that
we hoped for, and more besides!”

CHAPTER XXI. WINTER QUARTERS
The habitation that had now revealed itself, well lighted and thoroughly
warm, was indeed marvelous. Not only would it afford ample
accommodation for Hector Servadac and “his subjects,” as Ben Zoof
delighted to call them, but it would provide shelter for the two horses, and
for a considerable number of domestic animals.
This enormous cavern was neither more or less than the common
junction of nearly twenty tunnels (similar to that which had been traversed
by the explorers), forming ramifications in the solid rock, and the pores, as
it were, by which the internal heat exuded from the heart of the mountain.
Here, as long as the volcano retained its activity, every living creature on
the new asteroid might brave the most rigorous of climates; and as Count
Timascheff justly remarked, since it was the only burning mountain they
had sighted, it was most probably the sole outlet for Gallia’s subterranean
fires, and consequently the eruption might continue unchanged for ages to
come.
But not a day, not an hour, was to be lost now. The steam-launch returned
to Gourbi Island, and preparations were forthwith taken in hand for
conveying man and beast, corn and fodder, across to the volcanic headland.
Loud and hearty were the acclamations of the little colony, especially of the
Spaniards, and great was the relief of Nina, when Servadac announced to
them the discovery of their future domicile; and with requickened energies
they labored hard at packing, anxious to reach their genial winter quarters
without delay.
For three successive days the Dobryna, laden to her very gunwale, made
a transit to and fro. Ben Zoof was left upon the island to superintend the
stowage of the freight, whilst Servadac found abundant occupation in
overlooking its disposal within the recesses of the mountain. First of all, the
large store of corn and fodder, the produce of the recent harvest, was landed
and deposited in one of the vaults; then, on the 15th, about fifty head of live
cattle—bullocks, cows, sheep, and pigs—were conveyed to their rocky
stalls. These were saved for the sake of preserving the several breeds, the
bulk of the island cattle being slaughtered, as the extreme severity of the

climate insured all meat remaining fresh for almost an indefinite period.
The winter which they were expecting would probably be of unprecedented
length; it was quite likely that it would exceed the six months’ duration by
which many arctic explorers have been tried; but the population of Gallia
had no anxiety in the matter of provisions—their stock was far more than
adequate; while as for drink, as long as they were satisfied with pure water,
a frozen sea would afford them an inexhaustible reservoir.
The need for haste in forwarding their preparations became more and
more manifest; the sea threatened to be un-navigable very soon, as ice was
already forming which the noonday sun was unable to melt. And if haste
were necessary, so also were care, ingenuity, and forethought. It was
indispensable that the space at their command should be properly utilized,
and yet that the several portions of the store should all be readily accessible.
On further investigation an unexpected number of galleries was
discovered, so that, in fact, the interior of the mountain was like a vast bee-
hive perforated with innumerable cells; and in compliment to the little
Italian it was unanimously voted by the colony that their new home should
be called “Nina’s Hive.”
The first care of Captain Servadac was to ascertain how he could make
the best possible use of the heat which nature had provided for them so
opportunely and with so lavish a hand. By opening fresh vents in the solid
rock (which by the action of the heat was here capable of fissure) the stream
of burning lava was diverted into several new channels, where it could be
available for daily use; and thus Mochel, the Dobryna’s cook, was furnished
with an admirable kitchen, provided with a permanent stove, where he was
duly installed with all his culinary apparatus.
“What a saving of expense it would be,” exclaimed Ben Zoof, “if every
household could be furnished with its own private volcano!”
The large cavern at the general junction of the galleries was fitted up as a
drawing-room, and arranged with all the best furniture both of the gourbi
and of the cabin of the Dobryna. Hither was also brought the schooner’s
library, containing a good variety of French and Russian books; lamps were
suspended over the different tables; and the walls of the apartment were
tapestried with the sails and adorned with the flags belonging to the yacht.
The curtain of fire extending over the opening of the cavern provided it, as
already stated, with light and heat.

The torrent of lava fell into a small rock-bound basin that had no
apparent communication with the sea, and was evidently the aperture of a
deep abyss, of which the waters, heated by the descent of the eruptive
matter, would no doubt retain their liquid condition long after the Gallian
Sea had become a sheet of ice.
A small excavation to the left of the common hall was allotted for the
special use of Servadac and the count; another on the right was appropriated
to the lieutenant and Ben Zoof; whilst a third recess, immediately at the
back, made a convenient little chamber for Nina. The Spaniards and the
Russian sailors took up their sleeping-quarters in the adjacent galleries, and
found the temperature quite comfortable.
Such were the internal arrangements of Nina’s Hive, the refuge where the
little colony were full of hope that they would be able to brave the rigors of
the stern winter-time that lay before them—a winter-time during which
Gallia might possibly be projected even to the orbit of Jupiter, where the
temperature would not exceed one twenty-fifth of the normal winter
temperature of the earth.
The only discontented spirit was Isaac Hakkabut. Throughout all the
preparations which roused even the Spaniards to activity, the Jew, still
incredulous and deaf to every representation of the true state of things,
insisted upon remaining in the creek at Gourbi Island; nothing could induce
him to leave his tartan, where, like a miser, he would keep guard over his
precious cargo, ever grumbling and growling, but with his weather-eye
open in the hope of catching sight of some passing sail. It must be owned
that the whole party were far from sorry to be relieved of his presence; his
uncomely figure and repulsive countenance was a perpetual bugbear. He
had given out in plain terms that he did not intend to part with any of his
property, except for current money, and Servadac, equally resolute, had
strictly forbidden any purchases to be made, hoping to wear out the rascal’s
obstinacy.
Hakkabut persistently refused to credit the real situation; he could not
absolutely deny that some portions of the terrestrial globe had undergone a
certain degree of modification, but nothing could bring him to believe that
he was not, sooner or later, to résumé his old line of business in the
Mediterranean. With his wonted distrust of all with whom he came in
contact, he regarded every argument that was urged upon him only as

evidence of a plot that had been devised to deprive him of his goods.
Repudiating, as he did utterly, the hypothesis that a fragment had become
detached from the earth, he scanned the horizon for hours together with an
old telescope, the case of which had been patched up till it looked like a
rusty stove-pipe, hoping to descry the passing trader with which he might
effect some bartering upon advantageous terms.
At first he professed to regard the proposed removal into winter-quarters
as an attempt to impose upon his credulity; but the frequent voyages made
by the Dobryna to the south, and the repeated consignments of corn and
cattle, soon served to make him aware that Captain Servadac and his
companions were really contemplating a departure from Gourbi Island.
The movement set him thinking. What, he began to ask himself—what if
all that was told him was true? What if this sea was no longer the
Mediterranean? What if he should never again behold his German
fatherland? What if his marts for business were gone for ever? A vague idea
of ruin began to take possession of his mind: he must yield to necessity; he
must do the best he could. As the result of his cogitations, he occasionally
left his tartan and made a visit to the shore. At length he endeavored to
mingle with the busy group, who were hurrying on their preparations; but
his advances were only met by jeers and scorn, and, ridiculed by all the rest,
he was fain to turn his attention to Ben Zoof, to whom he offered a few
pinches of tobacco.
“No, old Zebulon,” said Ben Zoof, steadily refusing the gift, “it is against
orders to take anything from you. Keep your cargo to yourself; eat and
drink it all if you can; we are not to touch it.”
Finding the subordinates incorruptible, Isaac determined to go to the
fountain-head. He addressed himself to Servadac, and begged him to tell
him the whole truth, piteously adding that surely it was unworthy of a
French officer to deceive a poor old man like himself.
“Tell you the truth, man!” cried Servadac. “Confound it, I have told you
the truth twenty times. Once for all, I tell you now, you have left yourself
barely time enough to make your escape to yonder mountain.”
“God and Mahomet have mercy on me!” muttered the Jew, whose creed
frequently assumed a very ambiguous character.
“I will tell you what,” continued the captain—“you shall have a few men
to work the Hansa across, if you like.”

“But I want to go to Algiers,” whimpered Hakkabut.
“How often am I to tell you that Algiers is no longer in existence? Only
say yes or no—are you coming with us into winter-quarters?”
“God of Israel! what is to become of all my property?”
“But, mind you,” continued the captain, not heeding the interruption, “if
you do not choose voluntarily to come with us, I shall have the Hansa, by
my orders, removed to a place of safety. I am not going to let your cursed
obstinacy incur the risk of losing your cargo altogether.”
“Merciful Heaven! I shall be ruined!” moaned Isaac, in despair.
“You are going the right way to ruin yourself, and it would serve you
right to leave you to your own devices. But be off! I have no more to say.”
And, turning contemptuously on his heel, Servadac left the old man
vociferating bitterly, and with uplifted hands protesting vehemently against
the rapacity of the Gentiles.
By the 20th all preliminary arrangements were complete, and everything
ready for a final departure from the island. The thermometer stood on an
average at 8 degrees below zero, and the water in the cistern was
completely frozen. It was determined, therefore, for the colony to embark
on the following day, and take up their residence in Nina’s Hive.
A final consultation was held about the Hansa. Lieutenant Procope
pronounced his decided conviction that it would be impossible for the tartan
to resist the pressure of the ice in the harbor of the Shelif, and that there
would be far more safety in the proximity of the volcano. It was agreed on
all hands that the vessel must be shifted; and accordingly orders were given,
four Russian sailors were sent on board, and only a few minutes elapsed
after the Dobryna had weighed anchor, before the great lateen sail of the
tartan was unfurled, and the “shop-ship,” as Ben Zoof delighted to call it,
was also on her way to the southward.
Long and loud were the lamentations of the Jew. He kept exclaiming that
he had given no orders, that he was being moved against his will, that he
had asked for no assistance, and needed none; but it required no very keen
discrimination to observe that all along there was a lurking gleam of
satisfaction in his little gray eyes, and when, a few hours later, he found
himself securely anchored, and his property in a place of safety, he quite
chuckled with glee.

“God of Israel!” he said in an undertone, “they have made no charge; the
idiots have piloted me here for nothing.”
For nothing! His whole nature exulted in the consciousness that he was
enjoying a service that had been rendered gratuitously.
Destitute of human inhabitants, Gourbi Island was now left to the
tenancy of such birds and beasts as had escaped the recent promiscuous
slaughter. Birds, indeed, that had migrated in search of warmer shores, had
returned, proving that this fragment of the French colony was the only shred
of land that could yield them any sustenance; but their life must necessarily
be short. It was utterly impossible that they could survive the cold that
would soon ensue.
The colony took possession of their new abode with but few formalities.
Everyone, however, approved of all the internal arrangements of Nina’s
Hive, and were profuse in their expressions of satisfaction at finding
themselves located in such comfortable quarters. The only malcontent was
Hakkabut; he had no share in the general enthusiasm, refused even to enter
or inspect any of the galleries, and insisted on remaining on board his
tartan.
“He is afraid,” said Ben Zoof, “that he will have to pay for his lodgings.
But wait a bit; we shall see how he stands the cold out there; the frost, no
doubt, will drive the old fox out of his hole.”
Towards evening the pots were set boiling, and a bountiful supper, to
which all were invited, was spread in the central hall. The stores of the
Dobryna contained some excellent wine, some of which was broached to do
honor to the occasion. The health of the governor general was drunk, as
well as the toast “Success to his council,” to which Ben Zoof was called
upon to return thanks. The entertainment passed off merrily. The Spaniards
were in the best of spirits; one of them played the guitar, another the
castanets, and the rest joined in a ringing chorus. Ben Zoof contributed the
famous Zouave refrain, well known throughout the French army, but rarely
performed in finer style than by this virtuoso:

“Misti goth dar dar tire lyre!
Flic! floc! flac! lirette, lira!
Far la rira,
Tour tala rire,
Tour la Ribaud,
Ricandeau,
Sans repos, repit, repit, repos, ris pot, ripette!

Si vous attrapez mon refrain,
Fameux vous etes.”

The concert was succeeded by a ball, unquestionably the first that had
ever taken place in Gallia. The Russian sailors exhibited some of their
national dances, which gained considerable applause, even although they
followed upon the marvelous fandangos of the Spaniards. Ben Zoof, in his
turn, danced a pas seul (often performed in the Elysee Montmartre) with an
elegance and vigor that earned many compliments from Negrete.
It was nine o’clock before the festivities came to an end, and by that time
the company, heated by the high temperature of the hall, and by their own
exertions, felt the want of a little fresh air. Accordingly the greater portion
of the party, escorted by Ben Zoof, made their way into one of the adjacent
galleries that led to the shore. Servadac, with the count and lieutenant, did
not follow immediately; but shortly afterwards they proceeded to join them,
when on their way they were startled by loud cries from those in advance.
Their first impression was that they were cries of distress, and they were
greatly relieved to find that they were shouts of delight, which the dryness
and purity of the atmosphere caused to re-echo like a volley of musketry.
Reaching the mouth of the gallery, they found the entire group pointing
with eager interest to the sky.
“Well, Ben Zoof,” asked the captain, “what’s the matter now?”
“Oh, your Excellency,” ejaculated the orderly, “look there! look there!
The moon! the moon’s come back!”
And, sure enough, what was apparently the moon was rising above the
mists of evening.

CHAPTER XXII. A FROZEN OCEAN
The moon! She had disappeared for weeks; was she now returning? Had
she been faithless to the earth? and had she now approached to be a satellite
of the new-born world?
“Impossible!” said Lieutenant Procope; “the earth is millions and
millions of leagues away, and it is not probable that the moon has ceased to
revolve about her.”
“Why not?” remonstrated Servadac. “It would not be more strange than
the other phenomena which we have lately witnessed. Why should not the
moon have fallen within the limits of Gallia’s attraction, and become her
satellite?”
“Upon that supposition,” put in the count, “I should think that it would be
altogether unlikely that three months would elapse without our seeing her.”
“Quite incredible!” continued Procope. “And there is another thing which
totally disproves the captain’s hypothesis; the magnitude of Gallia is far too
insignificant for her power of attraction to carry off the moon.”
“But,” persisted Servadac, “why should not the same convulsion that tore
us away from the earth have torn away the moon as well? After wandering
about as she would for a while in the solar regions, I do not see why she
should not have attached herself to us.”
The lieutenant repeated his conviction that it was not likely.
“But why not?” again asked Servadac impetuously.
“Because, I tell you, the mass of Gallia is so inferior to that of the moon,
that Gallia would become the moon’s satellite; the moon could not possibly
become hers.”
“Assuming, however,” continued Servadac, “such to be the case—”
“I am afraid,” said the lieutenant, interrupting him, “that I cannot assume
anything of the sort even for a moment.”
Servadac smiled good-humoredly.
“I confess you seem to have the best of the argument, and if Gallia had
become a satellite of the moon, it would not have taken three months to

catch sight of her. I suppose you are right.”
While this discussion had been going on, the satellite, or whatever it
might be, had been rising steadily above the horizon, and had reached a
position favorable for observation. Telescopes were brought, and it was
very soon ascertained, beyond a question, that the new luminary was not the
well-known Phoebe of terrestrial nights; it had no feature in common with
the moon. Although it was apparently much nearer to Gallia than the moon
to the earth, its superficies was hardly one-tenth as large, and so feebly did
it reflect the light of the remote sun, that it scarcely emitted radiance
enough to extinguish the dim luster of stars of the eighth magnitude. Like
the sun, it had risen in the west, and was now at its full. To mistake its
identity with the moon was absolutely impossible; not even Servadac could
discover a trace of the seas, chasms, craters, and mountains which have
been so minutely delineated in lunar charts, and it could not be denied that
any transient hope that had been excited as to their once again being about
to enjoy the peaceful smiles of “the queen of night” must all be resigned.
Count Timascheff finally suggested, though somewhat doubtfully, the
question of the probability that Gallia, in her course across the zone of the
minor planets, had carried off one of them; but whether it was one of the
169 asteroids already included in the astronomical catalogues, or one
previously unknown, he did not presume to determine. The idea to a certain
extent was plausible, inasmuch as it has been ascertained that several of the
telescopic planets are of such small dimensions that a good walker might
make a circuit of them in four and twenty hours; consequently Gallia, being
of superior volume, might be supposed capable of exercising a power of
attraction upon any of these miniature microcosms.
The first night in Nina’s Hive passed without special incident; and next
morning a regular scheme of life was definitely laid down. “My lord
governor,” as Ben Zoof until he was peremptorily forbidden delighted to
call Servadac, had a wholesome dread of idleness and its consequences, and
insisted upon each member of the party undertaking some special duty to
fulfill. There was plenty to do. The domestic animals required a great deal
of attention; a supply of food had to be secured and preserved; fishing had
to be carried on while the condition of the sea would allow it; and in several
places the galleries had to be further excavated to render them more

available for use. Occupation, then, need never be wanting, and the daily
round of labor could go on in orderly routine.
A perfect concord ruled the little colony. The Russians and Spaniards
amalgamated well, and both did their best to pick up various scraps of
French, which was considered the official language of the place. Servadac
himself undertook the tuition of Pablo and Nina, Ben Zoof being their
companion in play-hours, when he entertained them with enchanting stories
in the best Parisian French, about “a lovely city at the foot of a mountain,”
where he always promised one day to take them.
The end of March came, but the cold was not intense to such a degree as
to confine any of the party to the interior of their resort; several excursions
were made along the shore, and for a radius of three or four miles the
adjacent district was carefully explored. Investigation, however, always
ended in the same result; turn their course in whatever direction they would,
they found that the country retained everywhere its desert character, rocky,
barren, and without a trace of vegetation. Here and there a slight layer of
snow, or a thin coating of ice arising from atmospheric condensation
indicated the existence of superficial moisture, but it would require a period
indefinitely long, exceeding human reckoning, before that moisture could
collect into a stream and roll downwards over the stony strata to the sea. It
seemed at present out of their power to determine whether the land upon
which they were so happily settled was an island or a continent, and till the
cold was abated they feared to undertake any lengthened expedition to
ascertain the actual extent of the strange concrete of metallic crystallization.
By ascending one day to the summit of the volcano, Captain Servadac
and the count succeeded in getting a general idea of the aspect of the
country. The mountain itself was an enormous block rising symmetrically to
a height of nearly 3,000 feet above the level of the sea, in the form of a
truncated cone, of which the topmost section was crowned by a wreath of
smoke issuing continuously from the mouth of a narrow crater.
Under the old condition of terrestrial things, the ascent of this steep
acclivity would have been attended with much fatigue, but as the effect of
the altered condition of the law of gravity, the travelers performed perpetual
prodigies in the way of agility, and in little over an hour reached the edge of
the crater, without more sense of exertion than if they had traversed a

couple of miles on level ground. Gallia had its drawbacks, but it had some
compensating advantages.
Telescopes in hand, the explorers from the summit scanned the
surrounding view. Their anticipations had already realized what they saw.
Just as they expected, on the north, east, and west lay the Gallian Sea,
smooth and motionless as a sheet of glass, the cold having, as it were,
congealed the atmosphere so that there was not a breath of wind. Towards
the south there seemed no limit to the land, and the volcano formed the
apex of a triangle, of which the base was beyond the reach of vision.
Viewed even from this height, whence distance would do much to soften
the general asperity, the surface nevertheless seemed to be bristling with its
myriads of hexagonal lamellae, and to present difficulties which, to an
ordinary pedestrian, would be insurmountable.
“Oh for some wings, or else a balloon!” cried Servadac, as he gazed
around him; and then, looking down to the rock upon which they were
standing, he added, “We seem to have been transplanted to a soil strange
enough in its chemical character to bewilder the savants at a museum.”
“And do you observe, captain,” asked the count, “how the convexity of
our little world curtails our view? See, how circumscribed is the horizon!”
Servadac replied that he had noticed the same circumstance from the top
of the cliffs of Gourbi Island.
“Yes,” said the count; “it becomes more and more obvious that ours is a
very tiny world, and that Gourbi Island is the sole productive spot upon its
surface. We have had a short summer, and who knows whether we are not
entering upon a winter that may last for years, perhaps for centuries?”
“But we must not mind, count,” said Servadac, smiling. “We have
agreed, you know, that, come what may, we are to be philosophers.”
“Ay, true, my friend,” rejoined the count; “we must be philosophers and
something more; we must be grateful to the good Protector who has hitherto
befriended us, and we must trust His mercy to the end.”
For a few moments they both stood in silence, and contemplated land and
sea; then, having given a last glance over the dreary panorama, they
prepared to wend their way down the mountain. Before, however, they
commenced their descent, they resolved to make a closer examination of
the crater. They were particularly struck by what seemed to them almost the

mysterious calmness with which the eruption was effected. There was none
of the wild disorder and deafening tumult that usually accompany the
discharge of volcanic matter, but the heated lava, rising with a uniform
gentleness, quietly overran the limits of the crater, like the flow of water
from the bosom of a peaceful lake. Instead of a boiler exposed to the action
of an angry fire, the crater rather resembled a brimming basin, of which the
contents were noiselessly escaping. Nor were there any igneous stones or
red-hot cinders mingled with the smoke that crowned the summit; a
circumstance that quite accorded with the absence of the pumice-stones,
obsidians, and other minerals of volcanic origin with which the base of a
burning mountain is generally strewn.
Captain Servadac was of opinion that this peculiarity augured favorably
for the continuance of the eruption. Extreme violence in physical, as well as
in moral nature, is never of long duration. The most terrible storms, like the
most violent fits of passion, are not lasting; but here the calm flow of the
liquid fire appeared to be supplied from a source that was inexhaustible, in
the same way as the waters of Niagara, gliding on steadily to their final
plunge, would defy all effort to arrest their course.
Before the evening of this day closed in, a most important change was
effected in the condition of the Gallian Sea by the intervention of human
agency. Notwithstanding the increasing cold, the sea, unruffled as it was by
a breath of wind, still retained its liquid state. It is an established fact that
water, under this condition of absolute stillness, will remain uncongealed at
a temperature several degrees below zero, whilst experiment, at the same
time, shows that a very slight shock will often be sufficient to convert it into
solid ice. It had occurred to Servadac that if some communication could be
opened with Gourbi Island, there would be a fine scope for hunting
expeditions. Having this ultimate object in view, he assembled his little
colony upon a projecting rock at the extremity of the promontory, and
having called Nina and Pablo out to him in front, he said: “Now, Nina, do
you think you could throw something into the sea?”
“I think I could,” replied the child, “but I am sure that Pablo would throw
it a great deal further than I can.”
“Never mind, you shall try first.”
Putting a fragment of ice into Nina’s hand, he addressed himself to Pablo:

“Look out, Pablo; you shall see what a nice little fairy Nina is! Throw,
Nina, throw, as hard as you can.”
Nina balanced the piece of ice two or three times in her hand, and threw
it forward with all her strength.
A sudden thrill seemed to vibrate across the motionless waters to the
distant horizon, and the Gallian Sea had become a solid sheet of ice!

CHAPTER XXIII. A CARRIER-PIGEON
When, three hours after sunset, on the 23d of March, the Gallian moon
rose upon the western horizon, it was observed that she had entered upon
her last quarter. She had taken only four days to pass from syzygy to
quadrature, and it was consequently evident that she would be visible for
little more than a week at a time, and that her lunation would be
accomplished within sixteen days. The lunar months, like the solar days,
had been diminished by one-half. Three days later the moon was in
conjunction with the sun, and was consequently lost to view; Ben Zoof, as
the first observer of the satellite, was extremely interested in its movements,
and wondered whether it would ever reappear.
On the 26th, under an atmosphere perfectly clear and dry, the
thermometer fell to 12 degrees F. below zero. Of the present distance of
Gallia from the sun, and the number of leagues she had traversed since the
receipt of the last mysterious document, there were no means of judging;
the extent of diminution in the apparent disc of the sun did not afford
sufficient basis even for an approximate calculation; and Captain Servadac
was perpetually regretting that they could receive no further tidings from
the anonymous correspondent, whom he persisted in regarding as a fellow-
countryman.
The solidity of the ice was perfect; the utter stillness of the air at the time
when the final congelation of the waters had taken place had resulted in the
formation of a surface that for smoothness would rival a skating-rink;
without a crack or flaw it extended far beyond the range of vision.
The contrast to the ordinary aspect of polar seas was very remarkable.
There, the ice-fields are an agglomeration of hummocks and icebergs,
massed in wild confusion, often towering higher than the masts of the
largest whalers, and from the instability of their foundations liable to an
instantaneous loss of equilibrium; a breath of wind, a slight modification of
the temperature, not unfrequently serving to bring about a series of changes
outrivaling the most elaborate transformation scenes of a pantomime. Here,
on the contrary, the vast white plain was level as the desert of Sahara or the

Russian steppes; the waters of the Gallian Sea were imprisoned beneath the
solid sheet, which became continually stouter in the increasing cold.
Accustomed to the uneven crystallizations of their own frozen seas, the
Russians could not be otherwise than delighted with the polished surface
that afforded them such excellent opportunity for enjoying their favorite
pastime of skating. A supply of skates, found hidden away amongst the
Dobryna’s stores, was speedily brought into use. The Russians undertook
the instruction of the Spaniards, and at the end of a few days, during which
the temperature was only endurable through the absence of wind, there was
not a Gallian who could not skate tolerably well, while many of them could
describe figures involving the most complicated curves. Nina and Pablo
earned loud applause by their rapid proficiency; Captain Servadac, an adept
in athletics, almost outvied his instructor, the count; and Ben Zoof, who had
upon some rare occasions skated upon the Lake of Montmartre (in his eyes,
of course, a sea), performed prodigies in the art.
This exercise was not only healthful in itself, but it was acknowledged
that, in case of necessity, it might become a very useful means of
locomotion. As Captain Servadac remarked, it was almost a substitute for
railways, and as if to illustrate this proposition, Lieutenant Procope, perhaps
the greatest expert in the party, accomplished the twenty miles to Gourbi
Island and back in considerably less than four hours.
The temperature, meanwhile, continued to decrease, and the average
reading of the thermometer was about 16 degrees F. below zero; the light
also diminished in proportion, and all objects appeared to be enveloped in a
half-defined shadow, as though the sun were undergoing a perpetual eclipse.
It was not surprising that the effect of this continuously overhanging gloom
should be to induce a frequent depression of spirits amongst the majority of
the little population, exiles as they were from their mother earth, and not
unlikely, as it seemed, to be swept far away into the regions of another
planetary sphere. Probably Count Timascheff, Captain Servadac, and
Lieutenant Procope were the only members of the community who could
bring any scientific judgment to bear upon the uncertainty that was before
them, but a general sense of the strangeness of their situation could not fail
at times to weigh heavily upon the minds of all. Under these circumstances
it was very necessary to counteract the tendency to despond by continual
diversion; and the recreation of skating thus opportunely provided, seemed

just the thing to arouse the flagging spirits, and to restore a wholesome
excitement.
With dogged obstinacy, Isaac Hakkabut refused to take any share either
in the labors or the amusements of the colony. In spite of the cold, he had
not been seen since the day of his arrival from Gourbi Island. Captain
Servadac had strictly forbidden any communication with him; and the
smoke that rose from the cabin chimney of the Hansa was the sole
indication of the proprietor being still on board. There was nothing to
prevent him, if he chose, from partaking gratuitously of the volcanic light
and heat which were being enjoyed by all besides; but rather than abandon
his close and personal oversight of his precious cargo, he preferred to
sacrifice his own slender stock of fuel.
Both the schooner and the tartan had been carefully moored in the way
that seemed to promise best for withstanding the rigor of the winter. After
seeing the vessels made secure in the frozen creek. Lieutenant Procope,
following the example of many Arctic explorers, had the precaution to have
the ice beveled away from the keels, so that there should be no risk of the
ships’ sides being crushed by the increasing pressure; he hoped that they
would follow any rise in the level of the ice-field, and when the thaw should
come, that they would easily regain their proper water-line.
On his last visit to Gourbi Island, the lieutenant had ascertained that
north, east, and west, far as the eye could reach, the Gallian Sea had
become one uniform sheet of ice. One spot alone refused to freeze; this was
the pool immediately below the central cavern, the receptacle for the stream
of burning lava. It was entirely enclosed by rocks, and if ever a few icicles
were formed there by the action of the cold, they were very soon melted by
the fiery shower. Hissing and spluttering as the hot lava came in contact
with it, the water was in a continual state of ebullition, and the fish that
abounded in its depths defied the angler’s craft; they were, as Ben Zoof
remarked, “too much boiled to bite.”
At the beginning of April the weather changed. The sky became overcast,
but there was no rise in the temperature. Unlike the polar winters of the
earth, which ordinarily are affected by atmospheric influence, and liable to
slight intermissions of their severity at various shiftings of the wind,
Gallia’s winter was caused by her immense distance from the source of all
light and heat, and the cold was consequently destined to go on steadily

increasing until it reached the limit ascertained by Fourier to be the normal
temperature of the realms of space.
With the over-clouding of the heavens there arose a violent tempest; but
although the wind raged with an almost inconceivable fury, it was
unaccompanied by either snow or rain. Its effect upon the burning curtain
that covered the aperture of the central hall was very remarkable. So far
from there being any likelihood of the fire being extinguished by the
vehemence of the current of air, the hurricane seemed rather to act as a
ventilator, which fanned the flame into greater activity, and the utmost care
was necessary to avoid being burnt by the fragments of lava that were
drifted into the interior of the grotto. More than once the curtain itself was
rifted entirely asunder, but only to close up again immediately after
allowing a momentary draught of cold air to penetrate the hall in a way that
was refreshing and rather advantageous than otherwise.
On the 4th of April, after an absence of about four days, the new satellite,
to Ben Zoof’s great satisfaction, made its reappearance in a crescent form, a
circumstance that seemed to justify the anticipation that henceforward it
would continue to make a periodic revolution every fortnight.
The crust of ice and snow was far too stout for the beaks of the strongest
birds to penetrate, and accordingly large swarms had left the island, and,
following the human population, had taken refuge on the volcanic
promontory; not that there the barren shore had anything in the way of
nourishment to offer them, but their instinct impelled them to haunt now the
very habitations which formerly they would have shunned. Scraps of food
were thrown to them from the galleries; these were speedily devoured, but
were altogether inadequate in quantity to meet the demand. At length,
emboldened by hunger, several hundred birds ventured through the tunnel,
and took up their quarters actually in Nina’s Hive. Congregating in the large
hall, the half-famished creatures did not hesitate to snatch bread, meat, or
food of any description from the hands of the residents as they sat at table,
and soon became such an intolerable nuisance that it formed one of the
daily diversions to hunt them down; but although they were vigorously
attacked by stones and sticks, and even occasionally by shot, it was with
some difficulty that their number could be sensibly reduced.
By a systematic course of warfare the bulk of the birds were all expelled,
with the exception of about a hundred, which began to build in the crevices

of the rocks. These were left in quiet possession of their quarters, as not
only was it deemed advisable to perpetuate the various breeds, but it was
found that these birds acted as a kind of police, never failing either to chase
away or to kill any others of their species who infringed upon what they
appeared to regard as their own special privilege in intruding within the
limits of their domain.
On the 15th loud cries were suddenly heard issuing from the mouth of the
principal gallery.
“Help, help! I shall be killed!”
Pablo in a moment recognized the voice as Nina’s. Outrunning even Ben
Zoof he hurried to the assistance of his little playmate, and discovered that
she was being attacked by half a dozen great sea-gulls, and only after
receiving some severe blows from their beaks could he succeed by means
of a stout cudgel in driving them away.
“Tell me, Nina, what is this?” he asked as soon as the tumult had
subsided.
The child pointed to a bird which she was caressing tenderly in her
bosom.
“A pigeon!” exclaimed Ben Zoof, who had reached the scene of
commotion, adding:
“A carrier-pigeon! And by all the saints of Montmartre, there is a little
bag attached to its neck!”
He took the bird, and rushing into the hall placed it in Servadac’s hands.
“Another message, no doubt,” cried the captain, “from our unknown
friend. Let us hope that this time he has given us his name and address.”
All crowded round, eager to hear the news. In the struggle with the gulls
the bag had been partially torn open, but still contained the following
dispatch:
“Gallia!
Chemin parcouru du 1er Mars au 1er Avril: 39,000,000 l.!
Distance du soleil: 110,000,000 l.!
Capte Nerina en passant.
Vivres vont manquer et...”

The rest of the document had been so damaged by the beaks of the gulls
that it was illegible. Servadac was wild with vexation. He felt more and
more convinced that the writer was a Frenchman, and that the last line
indicated that he was in distress from scarcity of food. The very thought of
a fellow-countryman in peril of starvation drove him well-nigh to
distraction, and it was in vain that search was made everywhere near the
scene of conflict in hopes of finding the missing scrap that might bear a
signature or address.
Suddenly little Nina, who had again taken possession of the pigeon, and
was hugging it to her breast, said:
“Look here, Ben Zoof!”
And as she spoke she pointed to the left wing of the bird. The wing bore
the faint impress of a postage-stamp, and the one word: “FORMENTERA.”

CHAPTER XXIV. A SLEDGE-RIDE
Formentera was at once recognized by Servadac and the count as the
name of one of the smallest of the Balearic Islands. It was more than
probable that the unknown writer had thence sent out the mysterious
documents, and from the message just come to hand by the carrier-pigeon,
it appeared all but certain that at the beginning of April, a fortnight back, he
had still been there. In one important particular the present communication
differed from those that had preceded it: it was written entirely in French,
and exhibited none of the ecstatic exclamations in other languages that had
been remarkable in the two former papers. The concluding line, with its
intimation of failing provisions, amounted almost to an appeal for help.
Captain Servadac briefly drew attention to these points, and concluded by
saying, “My friends, we must, without delay, hasten to the assistance of this
unfortunate man.”
“For my part,” said the count, “I am quite ready to accompany you; it is
not unlikely that he is not alone in his distress.”
Lieutenant Procope expressed much surprise. “We must have passed
close to Formentera,” he said, “when we explored the site of the Balearic
Isles; this fragment must be very small; it must be smaller than the
remaining splinter of Gibraltar or Ceuta; otherwise, surely it would never
have escaped our observation.”
“However small it may be,” replied Servadac, “we must find it. How far
off do you suppose it is?”
“It must be a hundred and twenty leagues away,” said the lieutenant,
thoughtfully; “and I do not quite understand how you would propose to get
there.”
“Why, on skates of course; no difficulty in that, I should imagine,”
answered Servadac, and he appealed to the count for confirmation of his
opinion.
The count assented, but Procope looked doubtful.
“Your enterprise is generous,” he said, “and I should be most unwilling to
throw any unnecessary obstacle in the way of its execution; but, pardon me,

if I submit to you a few considerations which to my mind are very
important. First of all, the thermometer is already down to 22 degrees below
zero, and the keen wind from the south is making the temperature
absolutely unendurable; in the second place, supposing you travel at the rate
of twenty leagues a day, you would be exposed for at least six consecutive
days; and thirdly, your expedition will be of small avail unless you convey
provisions not only for yourselves, but for those whom you hope to
relieve.”
“We can carry our own provisions on our backs in knapsacks,” interposed
Servadac, quickly, unwilling to recognize any difficulty in the way.
“Granted that you can,” answered the lieutenant, quietly; “but where, on
this level ice-field, will you find shelter in your periods of rest? You must
perish with cold; you will not have the chance of digging out ice-huts like
the Esquimaux.”
“As to rest,” said Servadac, “we shall take none; we shall keep on our
way continuously; by traveling day and night without intermission, we shall
not be more than three days in reaching Formentera.”
“Believe me,” persisted the lieutenant, calmly, “your enthusiasm is
carrying you too far; the feat you propose is impossible; but even conceding
the possibility of your success in reaching your destination, what service do
you imagine that you, half-starved and half-frozen yourself, could render to
those who are already perishing by want and exposure? you would only
bring them away to die.”
The obvious and dispassionate reasoning of the lieutenant could not fail
to impress the minds of those who listened to him; the impracticability of
the journey became more and more apparent; unprotected on that drear
expanse, any traveler must assuredly succumb to the snow-drifts that were
continually being whirled across it. But Hector Servadac, animated by the
generous desire of rescuing a suffering fellow-creature, could scarcely be
brought within the bounds of common sense. Against his better judgment he
was still bent upon the expedition, and Ben Zoof declared himself ready to
accompany his master in the event of Count Timascheff hesitating to
encounter the peril which the undertaking involved. But the count entirely
repudiated all idea of shrinking from what, quite as much as the captain, he
regarded as a sacred duty, and turning to Lieutenant Procope, told him that
unless some better plan could be devised, he was prepared to start off at

once and make the attempt to skate across to Formentera. The lieutenant,
who was lost in thought, made no immediate reply.
“I wish we had a sledge,” said Ben Zoof.
“I dare say that a sledge of some sort could be contrived,” said the count;
“but then we should have no dogs or reindeers to draw it.”
“Why not rough-shoe the two horses?”
“They would never be able to endure the cold,” objected the count.
“Never mind,” said Servadac, “let us get our sledge and put them to the
test. Something must be done!”
“I think,” said Lieutenant Procope, breaking his thoughtful silence, “that
I can tell you of a sledge already provided for your hand, and I can suggest
a motive power surer and swifter than horses.”
“What do you mean?” was the eager inquiry.
“I mean the Dobryna’s yawl,” answered the lieutenant; “and I have no
doubt that the wind would carry her rapidly along the ice.”
The idea seemed admirable. Lieutenant Procope was well aware to what
marvelous perfection the Americans had brought their sail-sledges, and had
heard how in the vast prairies of the United States they had been known to
outvie the speed of an express train, occasionally attaining a rate of more
than a hundred miles an hour. The wind was still blowing hard from the
south, and assuming that the yawl could be propelled with a velocity of
about fifteen or at least twelve leagues an hour, he reckoned that it was
quite possible to reach Formentera within twelve hours, that is to say, in a
single day between the intervals of sunrise and sunrise.
The yawl was about twelve feet long, and capable of holding five or six
people. The addition of a couple of iron runners would be all that was
requisite to convert it into an excellent sledge, which, if a sail were hoisted,
might be deemed certain to make a rapid progress over the smooth surface
of the ice. For the protection of the passengers it was proposed to erect a
kind of wooden roof lined with strong cloth; beneath this could be packed a
supply of provisions, some warm furs, some cordials, and a portable stove
to be heated by spirits of wine.
For the outward journey the wind was as favorable as could be desired;
but it was to be apprehended that, unless the direction of the wind should
change, the return would be a matter of some difficulty; a system of tacking

might be carried out to a certain degree, but it was not likely that the yawl
would answer her helm in any way corresponding to what would occur in
the open sea. Captain Servadac, however, would not listen to any
representation of probable difficulties; the future, he said, must provide for
itself.
The engineer and several of the sailors set vigorously to work, and before
the close of the day the yawl was furnished with a pair of stout iron runners,
curved upwards in front, and fitted with a metal scull designed to assist in
maintaining the directness of her course; the roof was put on, and beneath it
were stored the provisions, the wraps, and the cooking utensils.
A strong desire was expressed by Lieutenant Procope that he should be
allowed to accompany Captain Servadac instead of Count Timascheff. It
was unadvisable for all three of them to go, as, in case of there being
several persons to be rescued, the space at their command would be quite
inadequate. The lieutenant urged that he was the most experienced seaman,
and as such was best qualified to take command of the sledge and the
management of the sails; and as it was not to be expected that Servadac
would resign his intention of going in person to relieve his fellow-
countryman, Procope submitted his own wishes to the count. The count was
himself very anxious to have his share in the philanthropic enterprise, and
demurred considerably to the proposal; he yielded, however, after a time, to
Servadac’s representations that in the event of the expedition proving
disastrous, the little colony would need his services alike as governor and
protector, and overcoming his reluctance to be left out of the perilous
adventure, was prevailed upon to remain behind for the general good of the
community at Nina’s Hive.
At sunrise on the following morning, the 16th of April, Captain Servadac
and the lieutenant took their places in the yawl. The thermometer was more
than 20 degrees below zero, and it was with deep emotion that their
companions beheld them thus embarking upon the vast white plain. Ben
Zoof’s heart was too full for words; Count Timascheff could not forbear
pressing his two brave friends to his bosom; the Spaniards and the Russian
sailors crowded round for a farewell shake of the hand, and little Nina, her
great eyes flooded with tears, held up her face for a parting kiss. The sad
scene was not permitted to be long. The sail was quickly hoisted, and the

sledge, just as if it had expanded a huge white wing, was in a little while
carried far away beyond the horizon.
Light and unimpeded, the yawl scudded on with incredible speed. Two
sails, a brigantine and a jib, were arranged to catch the wind to the greatest
advantage, and the travelers estimated that their progress would be little
under the rate of twelve leagues an hour. The motion of their novel vehicle
was singularly gentle, the oscillation being less than that of an ordinary
railway-carriage, while the diminished force of gravity contributed to the
swiftness. Except that the clouds of ice-dust raised by the metal runners
were an evidence that they had not actually left the level surface of the ice,
the captain and lieutenant might again and again have imagined that they
were being conveyed through the air in a balloon.
Lieutenant Procope, with his head all muffled up for fear of frost-bite,
took an occasional peep through an aperture that had been intentionally left
in the roof, and by the help of a compass, maintained a proper and straight
course for Formentera. Nothing could be more dejected than the aspect of
that frozen sea; not a single living creature relieved the solitude; both the
travelers, Procope from a scientific point of view, Servadac from an
aesthetic, were alike impressed by the solemnity of the scene, and where the
lengthened shadow of the sail cast upon the ice by the oblique rays of the
setting sun had disappeared, and day had given place to night, the two men,
drawn together as by an involuntary impulse, mutually held each other’s
hands in silence.
There had been a new moon on the previous evening; but, in the absence
of moonlight, the constellations shone with remarkable brilliancy. The new
pole-star close upon the horizon was resplendent, and even had Lieutenant
Procope been destitute of a compass, he would have had no difficulty in
holding his course by the guidance of that alone. However great was the
distance that separated Gallia from the sun, it was after all manifestly
insignificant in comparison with the remoteness of the nearest of the fixed
stars.
Observing that Servadac was completely absorbed in his own thoughts,
Lieutenant Procope had leisure to contemplate some of the present
perplexing problems, and to ponder over the true astronomical position. The
last of the three mysterious documents had represented that Gallia, in
conformity with Kepler’s second law, had traveled along her orbit during

the month of March twenty millions of leagues less than she had done in the
previous month; yet, in the same time, her distance from the sun had
nevertheless been increased by thirty-two millions of leagues. She was now,
therefore, in the center of the zone of telescopic planets that revolve
between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter, and had captured for herself a
satellite which, according to the document, was Nerina, one of the asteroids
most recently identified. If thus, then, it was within the power of the
unknown writer to estimate with such apparent certainty Gallia’s exact
position, was it not likely that his mathematical calculations would enable
him to arrive at some definite conclusion as to the date at which she would
begin again to approach the sun? Nay, was it not to be expected that he had
already estimated, with sufficient approximation to truth, what was to be the
true length of the Gallian year?
So intently had they each separately been following their own train of
thought, that daylight reappeared almost before the travelers were aware of
it. On consulting their instruments, they found that they must have traveled
close upon a hundred leagues since they started, and they resolved to
slacken their speed. The sails were accordingly taken in a little, and in spite
of the intensity of the cold, the explorers ventured out of their shelter, in
order that they might reconnoiter the plain, which was apparently as
boundless as ever. It was completely desert; not so much as a single point of
rock relieved the bare uniformity of its surface.
“Are we not considerably to the west of Formentera?” asked Servadac,
after examining the chart.
“Most likely,” replied Procope. “I have taken the same course as I should
have done at sea, and I have kept some distance to windward of the island;
we can bear straight down upon it whenever we like.”
“Bear down then, now; and as quickly as you can.”
The yawl was at once put with her head to the northeast and Captain
Servadac, in defiance of the icy blast, remained standing at the bow, his
gaze fixed on the horizon.
All at once his eye brightened.
“Look! look!” he exclaimed, pointing to a faint outline that broke the
monotony of the circle that divided the plain from the sky.
In an instant the lieutenant had seized his telescope.

“I see what you mean,” said he; “it is a pylone that has been used for
some geodesic survey.”
The next moment the sail was filled, and the yawl was bearing down
upon the object with inconceivable swiftness, both Captain Servadac and
the lieutenant too excited to utter a word. Mile after mile the distance
rapidly grew less, and as they drew nearer the pylone they could see that it
was erected on a low mass of rocks that was the sole interruption to the dull
level of the field of ice. No wreath of smoke rose above the little island; it
was manifestly impossible, they conceived, that any human being could
there have survived the cold; the sad presentiment forced itself upon their
minds that it was a mere cairn to which they had been hurrying.
Ten minutes later, and they were so near the rock that the lieutenant took
in his sail, convinced that the impetus already attained would be sufficient
to carry him to the land. Servadac’s heart bounded as he caught sight of a
fragment of blue canvas fluttering in the wind from the top of the pylone: it
was all that now remained of the French national standard. At the foot of the
pylone stood a miserable shed, its shutters tightly closed. No other
habitation was to be seen; the entire island was less than a quarter of a mile
in circumference; and the conclusion was irresistible that it was the sole
surviving remnant of Formentera, once a member of the Balearic
Archipelago.
To leap on shore, to clamber over the slippery stones, and to reach the
cabin was but the work of a few moments. The worm-eaten door was bolted
on the inside. Servadac began to knock with all his might. No answer.
Neither shouting nor knocking could draw forth a reply.
“Let us force it open, Procope!” he said.
The two men put their shoulders to the door, which soon yielded to their
vigorous efforts, and they found themselves inside the shed, and in almost
total darkness. By opening a shutter they admitted what daylight they could.
At first sight the wretched place seemed to be deserted; the little grate
contained the ashes of a fire long since extinguished; all looked black and
desolate. Another instant’s investigation, however, revealed a bed in the
extreme corner, and extended on the bed a human form.
“Dead!” sighed Servadac; “dead of cold and hunger!”
Lieutenant Procope bent down and anxiously contemplated the body.

“No; he is alive!” he said, and drawing a small flask from his pocket he
poured a few drops of brandy between the lips of the senseless man.
There was a faint sigh, followed by a feeble voice, which uttered the one
word, “Gallia?”
“Yes, yes! Gallia!” echoed Servadac, eagerly.
“My comet, my comet!” said the voice, so low as to be almost inaudible,
and the unfortunate man relapsed again into unconsciousness.
“Where have I seen this man?” thought Servadac to himself; “his face is
strangely familiar to me.”
But it was no time for deliberation. Not a moment was to be lost in
getting the unconscious astronomer away from his desolate quarters. He
was soon conveyed to the yawl; his books, his scanty wardrobe, his papers,
his instruments, and the blackboard which had served for his calculations,
were quickly collected; the wind, by a fortuitous Providence, had shifted
into a favorable quarter; they set their sail with all speed, and ere long were
on their journey back from Formentera.
Thirty-six hours later, the brave travelers were greeted by the
acclamations of their fellow-colonists, who had been most anxiously
awaiting their reappearance, and the still senseless savant, who had neither
opened his eyes nor spoken a word throughout the journey, was safely
deposited in the warmth and security of the great hall of Nina’s Hive.
END OF FIRST BOOK

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I. THE ASTRONOMER
By the return of the expedition, conveying its contribution from
Formentera, the known population of Gallia was raised to a total of thirty-
six.
On learning the details of his friends’ discoveries, Count Timascheff did
not hesitate in believing that the exhausted individual who was lying before
him was the author alike of the two unsigned documents picked up at sea,
and of the third statement so recently brought to hand by the carrier-pigeon.
Manifestly, he had arrived at some knowledge of Gallia’s movements: he
had estimated her distance from the sun; he had calculated the diminution
of her tangential speed; but there was nothing to show that he had arrived at
the conclusions which were of the most paramount interest to them all. Had
he ascertained the true character of her orbit? had he established any data
from which it would be possible to reckon what time must elapse before she
would again approach the earth?
The only intelligible words which the astronomer had uttered had been,
“My comet!”
To what could the exclamation refer? Was it to be conjectured that a
fragment of the earth had been chipped off by the collision of a comet? and
if so, was it implied that the name of the comet itself was Gallia, and were
they mistaken in supposing that such was the name given by the savant to
the little world that had been so suddenly launched into space? Again and
again they discussed these questions; but no satisfactory answer could be
found. The only man who was able to throw any light upon the subject was
lying amongst them in an unconscious and half-dying condition.
Apart from motives of humanity, motives of self-interest made it a matter
of the deepest concern to restore animation to that senseless form. Ben
Zoof, after making the encouraging remark that savants have as many lives
as a cat, proceeded, with Negrete’s assistance, to give the body such a
vigorous rubbing as would have threatened serious injury to any ordinary
mortal, whilst they administered cordials and restoratives from the

Dobryna’s medical stores powerful enough, one might think, to rouse the
very dead.
Meanwhile the captain was racking his brain in his exertions to recall
what were the circumstances of his previous acquaintance with the
Frenchman upon whose features he was gazing; he only grew more and
more convinced that he had once been familiar with them. Perhaps it was
not altogether surprising that he had almost forgotten him; he had never
seen him since the days of his youth, that time of life which, with a certain
show of justice, has been termed the age of ingratitude; for, in point of fact,
the astronomer was none other than Professor Palmyrin Rosette, Servadac’s
old science-master at the Lycee Charlemagne.
After completing his year of elementary studies, Hector Servadac had
entered the school at Saint Cyr, and from that time he and his former tutor
had never met, so that naturally they would well-nigh pass from each
other’s recollection. One thing, however, on the other hand, might conduce
to a mutual and permanent impression on their memories; during the year at
the Lycee, young Servadac, never of a very studious turn of mind, had
contrived, as the ringleader of a set of like caliber as himself, to lead the
poor professor a life of perpetual torment. On the discovery of each
delinquency he would fume and rage in a manner that was a source of
unbounded delight to his audience.
Two years after Servadac left the Lycee, Professor Rosette had thrown up
all educational employment in order that he might devote himself entirely to
the study of astronomy. He endeavored to obtain a post at the Observatory,
but his ungenial character was so well known in scientific circles that he
failed in his application; however, having some small private means, he
determined on his own account to carry on his researches without any
official salary. He had really considerable genius for the science that he had
adopted; besides discovering three of the latest of the telescopic planets, he
had worked out the elements of the three hundred and twenty-fifth comet in
the catalogue; but his chief delight was to criticize the publications of other
astronomers, and he was never better pleased than when he detected a flaw
in their reckonings.
When Ben Zoof and Negrete had extricated their patient from the
envelope of furs in which he had been wrapped by Servadac and the
lieutenant, they found themselves face to face with a shrivelled little man,

about five feet two inches high, with a round bald head, smooth and shiny
as an ostrich’s egg, no beard unless the unshorn growth of a week could be
so described, and a long hooked nose that supported a huge pair of
spectacles such as with many near-sighted people seems to have become a
part of their individuality. His nervous system was remarkably developed,
and his body might not inaptly be compared to one of the Rhumkorff’s
bobbins of which the thread, several hundred yards in length, is permeated
throughout by electric fluid. But whatever he was, his life, if possible, must
be preserved. When he had been partially divested of his clothing, his heart
was found to be still beating, though very feebly. Asserting that while there
was life there was hope, Ben Zoof recommenced his friction with more
vigor than ever.
When the rubbing had been continued without a moment’s intermission
for the best part of half an hour, the astronomer heaved a faint sigh, which
ere long was followed by another and another. He half opened his eyes,
closed them again, then opened them completely, but without exhibiting
any consciousness whatever of his situation. A few words seemed to escape
his lips, but they were quite unintelligible. Presently he raised his right hand
to his forehead as though instinctively feeling for something that was
missing; then, all of a sudden, his features became contracted, his face
flushed with apparent irritation, and he exclaimed fretfully, “My spectacles!
—where are my spectacles?”
In order to facilitate his operations, Ben Zoof had removed the spectacles
in spite of the tenacity with which they seemed to adhere to the temples of
his patient; but he now rapidly brought them back and readjusted them as
best he could to what seemed to be their natural position on the aquiline
nose. The professor heaved a long sigh of relief, and once more closed his
eyes.
Before long the astronomer roused himself a little more, and glanced
inquiringly about him, but soon relapsed into his comatose condition. When
next he opened his eyes, Captain Servadac happened to be bending down
closely over him, examining his features with curious scrutiny. The old man
darted an angry look at him through the spectacles, and said sharply,
“Servadac, five hundred lines to-morrow!”
It was an echo of days of old. The words were few, but they were enough
to recall the identity which Servadac was trying to make out.

“Is it possible?” he exclaimed. “Here is my old tutor, Mr. Rosette, in very
flesh and blood.”
“Can’t say much for the flesh,” muttered Ben Zoof.
The old man had again fallen back into a torpid slumber. Ben Zoof
continued, “His sleep is getting more composed. Let him alone; he will
come round yet. Haven’t I heard of men more dried up than he is, being
brought all the way from Egypt in cases covered with pictures?”
“You idiot!—those were mummies; they had been dead for ages.”
Ben Zoof did not answer a word. He went on preparing a warm bed, into
which he managed to remove his patient, who soon fell into a calm and
natural sleep.
Too impatient to await the awakening of the astronomer and to hear what
representations he had to make, Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant,
constituting themselves what might be designated “the Academy of
Sciences” of the colony, spent the whole of the remainder of the day in
starting and discussing the wildest conjectures about their situation. The
hypothesis, to which they had now accustomed themselves for so long, that
a new asteroid had been formed by a fracture of the earth’s surface, seemed
to fall to the ground when they found that Professor Palmyrin Rosette had
associated the name of Gallia, not with their present home, but with what he
called “my comet”; and that theory being abandoned, they were driven to
make the most improbable speculations to replace it.
Alluding to Rosette, Servadac took care to inform his companions that,
although the professor was always eccentric, and at times very irascible, yet
he was really exceedingly good-hearted; his bark was worse than his bite;
and if suffered to take their course without observation, his outbreaks of ill-
temper seldom lasted long.
“We will certainly do our best to get on with him,” said the count. “He is
no doubt the author of the papers, and we must hope that he will be able to
give us some valuable information.”
“Beyond a question the documents have originated with him,” assented
the lieutenant. “Gallia was the word written at the top of every one of them,
and Gallia was the first word uttered by him in our hearing.”
The astronomer slept on. Meanwhile, the three together had no hesitation
in examining his papers, and scrutinizing the figures on his extemporized

blackboard. The handwriting corresponded with that of the papers already
received; the blackboard was covered with algebraical symbols traced in
chalk, which they were careful not to obliterate; and the papers, which
consisted for the most part of detached scraps, presented a perfect
wilderness of geometrical figures, conic sections of every variety being
repeated in countless profusion.
Lieutenant Procope pointed out that these curves evidently had reference
to the orbits of comets, which are variously parabolic, hyperbolic, or
elliptic. If either of the first two, the comet, after once appearing within the
range of terrestrial vision, would vanish forever in the outlying regions of
space; if the last, it would be sure, sooner or later, after some periodic
interval, to return.
From the prima facie appearance of his papers, then, it seemed probable
that the astronomer, during his sojourn at Formentera, had been devoting
himself to the study of cometary orbits; and as calculations of this kind are
ordinarily based upon the assumption that the orbit is a parabola, it was not
unlikely that he had been endeavoring to trace the path of some particular
comet.
“I wonder whether these calculations were made before or after the 1st of
January; it makes all the difference,” said Lieutenant Procope.
“We must bide our time and hear,” replied the count.
Servadac paced restlessly up and down. “I would give a month of my
life,” he cried, impetuously, “for every hour that the old fellow goes
sleeping on.”
“You might be making a bad bargain,” said Procope, smiling. “Perhaps
after all the comet has had nothing to do with the convulsion that we have
experienced.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the captain; “I know better than that, and so do
you. Is it not as clear as daylight that the earth and this comet have been in
collision, and the result has been that our little world has been split off and
sent flying far into space?”
Count Timascheff and the lieutenant looked at each other in silence. “I do
not deny your theory,” said Procope after a while. “If it be correct, I
suppose we must conclude that the enormous disc we observed on the night
of the catastrophe was the comet itself; and the velocity with which it was

traveling must have been so great that it was hardly arrested at all by the
attraction of the earth.”
“Plausible enough,” answered Count Timascheff; “and it is to this comet
that our scientific friend here has given the name of Gallia.”
It still remained a puzzle to them all why the astronomer should
apparently be interested in the comet so much more than in the new little
world in which their strange lot was cast.
“Can you explain this?” asked the count.
“There is no accounting for the freaks of philosophers, you know,” said
Servadac; “and have I not told you that this philosopher in particular is one
of the most eccentric beings in creation?”
“Besides,” added the lieutenant, “it is exceedingly likely that his
observations had been going on for some considerable period before the
convulsion happened.”
Thus, the general conclusion arrived at by the Gallian Academy of
Science was this: That on the night of the 31st of December, a comet,
crossing the ecliptic, had come into collision with the earth, and that the
violence of the shock had separated a huge fragment from the globe, which
fragment from that date had been traversing the remote inter-planetary
regions. Palmyrin Rosette would doubtless confirm their solution of the
phenomenon.

CHAPTER II. A REVELATION
To the general population of the colony the arrival of the stranger was a
matter of small interest. The Spaniards were naturally too indolent to be
affected in any way by an incident that concerned themselves so remotely;
while the Russians felt themselves simply reliant on their master, and as
long as they were with him were careless as to where or how they spent
their days. Everything went on with them in an accustomed routine; and
they lay down night after night, and awoke to their avocations morning after
morning, just as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.
All night long Ben Zoof would not leave the professor’s bedside. He had
constituted himself sick nurse, and considered his reputation at stake if he
failed to set his patient on his feet again. He watched every movement,
listened to every breath, and never failed to administer the strongest
cordials upon the slightest pretext. Even in his sleep Rosette’s irritable
nature revealed itself. Ever and again, sometimes in a tone of uneasiness,
and sometimes with the expression of positive anger, the name of Gallia
escaped his lips, as though he were dreaming that his claim to the discovery
of the comet was being contested or denied; but although his attendant was
on the alert to gather all he could, he was able to catch nothing in the
incoherent sentences that served to throw any real light upon the problem
that they were all eager to solve.
When the sun reappeared on the western horizon the professor was still
sound asleep; and Ben Zoof, who was especially anxious that the repose
which promised to be so beneficial should not be disturbed, felt
considerable annoyance at hearing a loud knocking, evidently of some blunt
heavy instrument against a door that had been placed at the entrance of the
gallery, more for the purpose of retaining internal warmth than for guarding
against intrusion from without.
“Confound it!” said Ben Zoof. “I must put a stop to this;” and he made
his way towards the door.
“Who’s there?” he cried, in no very amiable tone.
“I.” replied the quavering voice.

“Who are you?”
“Isaac Hakkabut. Let me in; do, please, let me in.”
“Oh, it is you, old Ashtaroth, is it? What do you want? Can’t you get
anybody to buy your stuffs?”
“Nobody will pay me a proper price.”
“Well, old Shimei, you won’t find a customer here. You had better be
off.”
“No; but do, please—do, please, let me in,” supplicated the Jew. “I want
to speak to his Excellency, the governor.”
“The governor is in bed, and asleep.”
“I can wait until he awakes.”
“Then wait where you are.”
And with this inhospitable rejoinder the orderly was about to return to his
place at the side of his patient, when Servadac, who had been roused by the
sound of voices, called out, “What’s the matter, Ben Zoof?”
“Oh, nothing, sir; only that hound of a Hakkabut says he wants to speak
to you.”
“Let him in, then.”
Ben Zoof hesitated.
“Let him in, I say,” repeated the captain, peremptorily.
However reluctantly, Ben Zoof obeyed. The door was unfastened, and
Isaac Hakkabut, enveloped in an old overcoat, shuffled into the gallery. In a
few moments Servadac approached, and the Jew began to overwhelm him
with the most obsequious epithets. Without vouchsafing any reply, the
captain beckoned to the old man to follow him, and leading the way to the
central hall, stopped, and turning so as to look him steadily in the face, said,
“Now is your opportunity. Tell me what you want.”
“Oh, my lord, my lord,” whined Isaac, “you must have some news to tell
me.”
“News? What do you mean?”
“From my little tartan yonder, I saw the yawl go out from the rock here
on a journey, and I saw it come back, and it brought a stranger; and I
thought—I thought—I thought—”

“Well, you thought—what did you think?”
“Why, that perhaps the stranger had come from the northern shores of the
Mediterranean, and that I might ask him—”
He paused again, and gave a glance at the captain.
“Ask him what? Speak out, man?”
“Ask him if he brings any tidings of Europe,” Hakkabut blurted out at
last.
Servadac shrugged his shoulders in contempt and turned away. Here was
a man who had been resident three months in Gallia, a living witness of all
the abnormal phenomena that had occurred, and yet refusing to believe that
his hope of making good bargains with European traders was at an end.
Surely nothing, thought the captain, will convince the old rascal now; and
he moved off in disgust. The orderly, however, who had listened with much
amusement, was by no means disinclined for the conversation to be
continued. “Are you satisfied, old Ezekiel?” he asked.
“Isn’t it so? Am I not right? Didn’t a stranger arrive here last night?”
inquired the Jew.
“Yes, quite true.”
“Where from?”
“From the Balearic Isles.”
“The Balearic Isles?” echoed Isaac.
“Yes.”
“Fine quarters for trade! Hardly twenty leagues from Spain! He must
have brought news from Europe!”
“Well, old Manasseh, what if he has?”
“I should like to see him.”
“Can’t be.”
The Jew sidled close up to Ben Zoof, and laying his hand on his arm, said
in a low and insinuating tone, “I am poor, you know; but I would give you a
few reals if you would let me talk to this stranger.”
But as if he thought he was making too liberal an offer, he added, “Only
it must be at once.”
“He is too tired; he is worn out; he is fast asleep,” answered Ben Zoof.

“But I would pay you to wake him.”
The captain had overheard the tenor of the conversation, and interposed
sternly, “Hakkabut! if you make the least attempt to disturb our visitor, I
shall have you turned outside that door immediately.”
“No offense, my lord, I hope,” stammered out the Jew. “I only meant—”
“Silence!” shouted Servadac. The old man hung his head, abashed.
“I will tell you what,” said Servadac after a brief interval; “I will give
you leave to hear what this stranger has to tell as soon as he is able to tell us
anything; at present we have not heard a word from his lips.”
The Jew looked perplexed.
“Yes,” said Servadac; “when we hear his story, you shall hear it too.”
“And I hope it will be to your liking, old Ezekiel!” added Ben Zoof in a
voice of irony.
They had none of them long to wait, for within a few minutes Rosette’s
peevish voice was heard calling, “Joseph! Joseph!”
The professor did not open his eyes, and appeared to be slumbering on,
but very shortly afterwards called out again, “Joseph! Confound the fellow!
where is he?” It was evident that he was half dreaming about a former
servant now far away on the ancient globe. “Where’s my blackboard,
Joseph?”
“Quite safe, sir,” answered Ben Zoof, quickly.
Rosette unclosed his eyes and fixed them full upon the orderly’s face.
“Are you Joseph?” he asked.
“At your service, sir,” replied Ben Zoof with imperturbable gravity.
“Then get me my coffee, and be quick about it.”
Ben Zoof left to go into the kitchen, and Servadac approached the
professor in order to assist him in rising to a sitting posture.
“Do you recognize your quondam pupil, professor?” he asked.
“Ah, yes, yes; you are Servadac,” replied Rosette. “It is twelve years or
more since I saw you; I hope you have improved.”
“Quite a reformed character, sir, I assure you,” said Servadac, smiling.
“Well, that’s as it should be; that’s right,” said the astronomer with fussy
importance. “But let me have my coffee,” he added impatiently; “I cannot

collect my thoughts without my coffee.”
Fortunately, Ben Zoof appeared with a great cup, hot and strong. After
draining it with much apparent relish, the professor got out of bed, walked
into the common hall, round which he glanced with a pre-occupied air, and
proceeded to seat himself in an armchair, the most comfortable which the
cabin of the Dobryna had supplied. Then, in a voice full of satisfaction, and
that involuntarily recalled the exclamations of delight that had wound up
the two first of the mysterious documents that had been received, he burst
out, “Well, gentlemen, what do you think of Gallia?”
There was no time for anyone to make a reply before Isaac Hakkabut had
darted forward.
“By the God—”
“Who is that?” asked the startled professor; and he frowned, and made a
gesture of repugnance.
Regardless of the efforts that were made to silence him, the Jew
continued, “By the God of Abraham, I beseech you, give me some tidings
of Europe!”
“Europe?” shouted the professor, springing from his seat as if he were
electrified; “what does the man want with Europe?”
“I want to get there!” screeched the Jew; and in spite of every exertion to
get him away, he clung most tenaciously to the professor’s chair, and again
and again implored for news of Europe.
Rosette made no immediate reply. After a moment or two’s reflection, he
turned to Servadac and asked him whether it was not the middle of April.
“It is the twentieth,” answered the captain.
“Then to-day,” said the astronomer, speaking with the greatest
deliberation—“to-day we are just three millions of leagues away from
Europe.”
The Jew was utterly crestfallen.
“You seem here,” continued the professor, “to be very ignorant of the
state of things.”
“How far we are ignorant,” rejoined Servadac, “I cannot tell. But I will
tell you all that we do know, and all that we have surmised.” And as briefly
as he could, he related all that had happened since the memorable night of

the thirty-first of December; how they had experienced the shock; how the
Dobryna had made her voyage; how they had discovered nothing except the
fragments of the old continent at Tunis, Sardinia, Gibraltar, and now at
Formentera; how at intervals the three anonymous documents had been
received; and, finally, how the settlement at Gourbi Island had been
abandoned for their present quarters at Nina’s Hive.
The astronomer had hardly patience to hear him to the end. “And what do
you say is your surmise as to your present position?” he asked.
“Our supposition,” the captain replied, “is this. We imagine that we are
on a considerable fragment of the terrestrial globe that has been detached by
collision with a planet to which you appear to have given the name of
Gallia.”
“Better than that!” cried Rosette, starting to his feet with excitement.
“How? Why? What do you mean?” cried the voices of the listeners.
“You are correct to a certain degree,” continued the professor. “It is quite
true that at 47’ 35.6” after two o’clock on the morning of the first of January
there was a collision; my comet grazed the earth; and the bits of the earth
which you have named were carried clean away.”
They were all fairly bewildered.
“Where, then,” cried Servadac eagerly, “where are we?”
“You are on my comet, on Gallia itself!”
And the professor gazed around him with a perfect air of triumph.

CHAPTER III. THE PROFESSOR’S
EXPERIENCES
“Yes, my comet!” repeated the professor, and from time to time he
knitted his brows, and looked around him with a defiant air, as though he
could not get rid of the impression that someone was laying an unwarranted
claim to its proprietorship, or that the individuals before him were intruders
upon his own proper domain.
But for a considerable while, Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant
remained silent and sunk in thought. Here then, at last, was the unriddling
of the enigma they had been so long endeavoring to solve; both the
hypotheses they had formed in succession had now to give way before the
announcement of the real truth. The first supposition, that the rotatory axis
of the earth had been subject to some accidental modification, and the
conjecture that replaced it, namely, that a certain portion of the terrestrial
sphere had been splintered off and carried into space, had both now to yield
to the representation that the earth had been grazed by an unknown comet,
which had caught up some scattered fragments from its surface, and was
bearing them far away into sidereal regions. Unfolded lay the past and the
present before them; but this only served to awaken a keener interest about
the future. Could the professor throw any light upon that? they longed to
inquire, but did not yet venture to ask him.
Meanwhile Rosette assumed a pompous professional air, and appeared to
be waiting for the entire party to be ceremoniously introduced to him.
Nothing unwilling to humor the vanity of the eccentric little man, Servadac
proceeded to go through the expected formalities.
“Allow me to present to you my excellent friend, the Count Timascheff,”
he said.
“You are very welcome,” said Rosette, bowing to the count with a smile
of condescension.
“Although I am not precisely a voluntary resident on your comet, Mr.
Professor, I beg to acknowledge your courteous reception,” gravely
responded Timascheff.

Servadac could not quite conceal his amusement at the count’s irony, but
continued, “This is Lieutenant Procope, the officer in command of the
Dobryna.”
The professor bowed again in frigid dignity.
“His yacht has conveyed us right round Gallia,” added the captain.
“Round Gallia?” eagerly exclaimed the professor.
“Yes, entirely round it,” answered Servadac, and without allowing time
for reply, proceeded, “And this is my orderly, Ben Zoof.”
“Aide-de-camp to his Excellency the Governor of Gallia,” interposed
Ben Zoof himself, anxious to maintain his master’s honor as well as his
own.
Rosette scarcely bent his head.
The rest of the population of the Hive were all presented in succession:
the Russian sailors, the Spaniards, young Pablo, and little Nina, on whom
the professor, evidently no lover of children, glared fiercely through his
formidable spectacles. Isaac Hakkabut, after his introduction, begged to be
allowed to ask one question.
“How soon may we hope to get back?” he inquired.
“Get back!” rejoined Rosette, sharply; “who talks of getting back? We
have hardly started yet.”
Seeing that the professor was inclined to get angry, Captain Servadac
adroitly gave a new turn to the conversation by asking him whether he
would gratify them by relating his own recent experiences. The astronomer
seemed pleased with the proposal, and at once commenced a verbose and
somewhat circumlocutory address, of which the following summary
presents the main features.
The French Government, being desirous of verifying the measurement
already made of the arc of the meridian of Paris, appointed a scientific
commission for that purpose. From that commission the name of Palmyrin
Rosette was omitted, apparently for no other reason than his personal
unpopularity. Furious at the slight, the professor resolved to set to work
independently on his own account, and declaring that there were
inaccuracies in the previous geodesic operations, he determined to re-
examine the results of the last triangulation which had united Formentera to
the Spanish coast by a triangle, one of the sides of which measured over a

hundred miles, the very operation which had already been so successfully
accomplished by Arago and Biot.
Accordingly, leaving Paris for the Balearic Isles, he placed his
observatory on the highest point of Formentera, and accompanied as he was
only by his servant, Joseph, led the life of a recluse. He secured the services
of a former assistant, and dispatched him to a high peak on the coast of
Spain, where he had to superintend a reverberator, which, with the aid of a
glass, could be seen from Formentera. A few books and instruments, and
two months’ victuals, was all the baggage he took with him, except an
excellent astronomical telescope, which was, indeed, almost part and parcel
of himself, and with which he assiduously scanned the heavens, in the
sanguine anticipation of making some discovery which would immortalize
his name.
The task he had undertaken demanded the utmost patience. Night after
night, in order to fix the apex of his triangle, he had to linger on the watch
for the assistant’s signal-light, but he did not forget that his predecessors,
Arago and Biot, had had to wait sixty-one days for a similar purpose. What
retarded the work was the dense fog which, it has been already mentioned,
at that time enveloped not only that part of Europe, but almost the entire
world.
Never failing to turn to the best advantage the few intervals when the
mist lifted a little, the astronomer would at the same time cast an inquiring
glance at the firmament, as he was greatly interested in the revision of the
chart of the heavens, in the region contiguous to the constellation Gemini.
To the naked eye this constellation consists of only six stars, but through
a telescope ten inches in diameter, as many as six thousand are visible.
Rosette, however, did not possess a reflector of this magnitude, and was
obliged to content himself with the good but comparatively small
instrument he had.
On one of these occasions, whilst carefully gauging the recesses of
Gemini, he espied a bright speck which was unregistered in the chart, and
which at first he took for a small star that had escaped being entered in the
catalogue. But the observation of a few separate nights soon made it
manifest that the star was rapidly changing its position with regard to the
adjacent stars, and the astronomer’s heart began to leap at the thought that

the renown of the discovery of a new planet would be associated with his
name.
Redoubling his attention, he soon satisfied himself that what he saw was
not a planet; the rapidity of its displacement rather forced him to the
conjecture that it must be a comet, and this opinion was soon strengthened
by the appearance of a coma, and subsequently confirmed, as the body
approached the sun, by the development of a tail.
A comet! The discovery was fatal to all further progress in the
triangulation. However conscientiously the assistant on the Spanish coast
might look to the kindling of the beacon, Rosette had no glances to spare
for that direction; he had no eyes except for the one object of his notice, no
thoughts apart from that one quarter of the firmament.
A comet! No time must be lost in calculating its elements.
Now, in order to calculate the elements of a comet, it is always deemed
the safest mode of procedure to assume the orbit to be a parabola.
Ordinarily, comets are conspicuous at their perihelia, as being their shortest
distances from the sun, which is the focus of their orbit, and inasmuch as a
parabola is but an ellipse with its axis indefinitely produced, for some short
portion of its pathway the orbit may be indifferently considered either one
or the other; but in this particular case the professor was right in adopting
the supposition of its being parabolic.
Just as in a circle, it is necessary to know three points to determine the
circumference; so in ascertaining the elements of a comet, three different
positions must be observed before what astronomers call its “ephemeris”
can be established.
But Professor Rosette did not content himself with three positions; taking
advantage of every rift in the fog he made ten, twenty, thirty observations
both in right ascension and in declination, and succeeded in working out
with the most minute accuracy the five elements of the comet which was
evidently advancing with astounding rapidity towards the earth.
These elements were:
1. The inclination of the plane of the cometary orbit to the plane of the
ecliptic, an angle which is generally considerable, but in this case the planes
were proved to coincide.

2. The position of the ascending node, or the point where the comet
crossed the terrestrial orbit.
These two elements being obtained, the position in space of the comet’s
orbit was determined.
3. The direction of the axis major of the orbit, which was found by
calculating the longitude of the comet’s perihelion.
4. The perihelion distance from the sun, which settled the precise form of
the parabola.
5. The motion of the comet, as being retrograde, or, unlike the planets,
from east to west.
Rosette thus found himself able to calculate the date at which the comet
would reach its perihelion, and, overjoyed at his discovery, without thinking
of calling it Palmyra or Rosette, after his own name, he resolved that it
should be known as Gallia.
His next business was to draw up a formal report. Not only did he at once
recognize that a collision with the earth was possible, but he soon foresaw
that it was inevitable, and that it must happen on the night of the 31st of
December; moreover, as the bodies were moving in opposite directions, the
shock could hardly fail to be violent.
To say that he was elated at the prospect was far below the truth; his
delight amounted almost to delirium. Anyone else would have hurried from
the solitude of Formentera in sheer fright; but, without communicating a
word of his startling discovery, he remained resolutely at his post. From
occasional newspapers which he had received, he had learnt that fogs, dense
as ever, continued to envelop both hemispheres, so that he was assured that
the existence of the comet was utterly unknown elsewhere; and the
ignorance of the world as to the peril that threatened it averted the panic
that would have followed the publication of the facts, and left the
philosopher of Formentera in sole possession of the great secret. He clung
to his post with the greater persistency, because his calculations had led him
to the conclusion that the comet would strike the earth somewhere to the
south of Algeria, and as it had a solid nucleus, he felt sure that, as he
expressed it, the effect would be “unique,” and he was anxious to be in the
vicinity.

The shock came, and with it the results already recorded. Palmyrin
Rosette was suddenly separated from his servant Joseph, and when, after a
long period of unconsciousness, he came to himself, he found that he was
the solitary occupant of the only fragment that survived of the Balearic
Archipelago.
Such was the substance of the narrative which the professor gave with
sundry repetitions and digressions; while he was giving it, he frequently
paused and frowned as if irritated in a way that seemed by no means
justified by the patient and good-humored demeanor of his audience.
“But now, gentlemen,” added the professor, “I must tell you something
more. Important changes have resulted from the collision; the cardinal
points have been displaced; gravity has been diminished: not that I ever
supposed for a minute, as you did, that I was still upon the earth. No! the
earth, attended by her moon, continued to rotate along her proper orbit. But
we, gentlemen, have nothing to complain of; our destiny might have been
far worse; we might all have been crushed to death, or the comet might
have remained in adhesion to the earth; and in neither of these cases should
we have had the satisfaction of making this marvelous excursion through
untraversed solar regions. No, gentlemen, I repeat it, we have nothing to
regret.”
And as the professor spoke, he seemed to kindle with the emotion of such
supreme contentment that no one had the heart to gainsay his assertion. Ben
Zoof alone ventured an unlucky remark to the effect that if the comet had
happened to strike against Montmartre, instead of a bit of Africa, it would
have met with some resistance.
“Pshaw!” said Rosette, disdainfully. “A mole-hill like Montmartre would
have been ground to powder in a moment.”
“Mole-hill!” exclaimed Ben Zoof, stung to the quick. “I can tell you it
would have caught up your bit of a comet and worn it like a feather in a
cap.”
The professor looked angry, and Servadac having imposed silence upon
his orderly, explained the worthy soldier’s sensitiveness on all that
concerned Montmartre. Always obedient to his master, Ben Zoof held his
tongue; but he felt that he could never forgive the slight that had been cast
upon his beloved home.

It was now all-important to learn whether the astronomer had been able
to continue his observations, and whether he had learned sufficient of
Gallia’s path through space to make him competent to determine, at least
approximately, the period of its revolution round the sun. With as much tact
and caution as he could, Lieutenant Procope endeavored to intimate the
general desire for some information on this point.
“Before the shock, sir,” answered the professor, “I had conclusively
demonstrated the path of the comet; but, in consequence of the
modifications which that shock has entailed upon my comet’s orbit, I have
been compelled entirely to recommence my calculations.”
The lieutenant looked disappointed.
“Although the orbit of the earth was unaltered,” continued the professor,
“the result of the collision was the projection of the comet into a new orbit
altogether.”
“And may I ask,” said Procope, deferentially, “whether you have got the
elements of the fresh orbit?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you know—”
“I know this, sir, that at 47 minutes 35.6 seconds after two o’clock on the
morning of the 1st of January last, Gallia, in passing its ascending node,
came in contact with the earth; that on the 10th of January it crossed the
orbit of Venus; that it reached its perihelion on the 15th; that it re-crossed
the orbit of Venus; that on the 1st of February it passed its descending node;
on the 13th crossed the orbit of Mars; entered the zone of the telescopic
planets on the 10th of March, and, attracting Nerina, carried it off as a
satellite.”
Servadac interposed:
“We are already acquainted with well-nigh all these extraordinary facts;
many of them, moreover, we have learned from documents which we have
picked up, and which, although unsigned, we cannot entertain a doubt have
originated with you.”
Professor Rosette drew himself up proudly and said: “Of course, they
originated with me. I sent them off by hundreds. From whom else could
they come?”

“From no one but yourself, certainly,” rejoined the count, with grave
politeness.
Hitherto the conversation had thrown no light upon the future movements
of Gallia, and Rosette was disposed apparently to evade, or at least to
postpone, the subject. When, therefore, Lieutenant Procope was about to
press his inquiries in a more categorical form, Servadac, thinking it
advisable not prematurely to press the little savant too far, interrupted him
by asking the professor how he accounted for the earth having suffered so
little from such a formidable concussion.
“I account for it in this way,” answered Rosette: “the earth was traveling
at the rate of 28,000 leagues an hour, and Gallia at the rate of 57,000
leagues an hour, therefore the result was the same as though a train rushing
along at a speed of about 86,000 leagues an hour had suddenly encountered
some obstacle. The nucleus of the comet, being excessively hard, has done
exactly what a ball would do fired with that velocity close to a pane of
glass. It has crossed the earth without cracking it.”
“It is possible you may be right,” said Servadac, thoughtfully.
“Right! of course I am right!” replied the snappish professor. Soon,
however, recovering his equanimity, he continued: “It is fortunate that the
earth was only touched obliquely; if the comet had impinged
perpendicularly, it must have plowed its way deep below the surface, and
the disasters it might have caused are beyond reckoning. Perhaps,” he
added, with a smile, “even Montmartre might not have survived the
calamity.”
“Sir!” shouted Ben Zoof, quite unable to bear the unprovoked attack.
“Quiet, Ben Zoof!” said Servadac sternly.
Fortunately for the sake of peace, Isaac Hakkabut, who at length was
beginning to realize something of the true condition of things, came
forward at this moment, and in a voice trembling with eagerness, implored
the professor to tell him when they would all be back again upon the earth.
“Are you in a great hurry?” asked the professor coolly.
The Jew was about to speak again, when Captain Servadac interposed:
“Allow me to say that, in somewhat more scientific terms, I was about to
ask you the same question. Did I not understand you to say that, as the

consequence of the collision, the character of the comet’s orbit has been
changed?”
“You did, sir.”
“Did you imply that the orbit has ceased to be a parabola?”
“Just so.”
“Is it then an hyperbola? and are we to be carried on far and away into
remote distance, and never, never to return?”
“I did not say an hyperbola.”
“And is it not?”
“It is not.”
“Then it must be an ellipse?”
“Yes.”
“And does its plane coincide with the plane of the earth?”
“Yes.”
“Then it must be a periodic comet?”
“It is.”
Servadac involuntarily raised a ringing shout of joy that echoed again
along the gallery.
“Yes,” continued the professor, “Gallia is a periodic comet, and allowing
for the perturbations to which it is liable from the attraction of Mars and
Jupiter and Saturn, it will return to the earth again in two years precisely.”
“You mean that in two years after the first shock, Gallia will meet the
earth at the same point as they met before?” said Lieutenant Procope.
“I am afraid so,” said Rosette.
“Why afraid?”
“Because we are doing exceedingly well as we are.” The professor
stamped his foot upon the ground, by way of emphasis, and added, “If I had
my will, Gallia should never return to the earth again!”

CHAPTER IV. A REVISED CALENDAR
All previous hypotheses, then, were now forgotten in the presence of the
one great fact that Gallia was a comet and gravitating through remote solar
regions. Captain Servadac became aware that the huge disc that had been
looming through the clouds after the shock was the form of the retreating
earth, to the proximity of which the one high tide they had experienced was
also to be attributed.
As to the fulfillment of the professor’s prediction of an ultimate return to
the terrestrial sphere, that was a point on which it must be owned that the
captain, after the first flush of his excitement was over, was not without
many misgivings.
The next day or two were spent in providing for the accommodation of
the new comer. Fortunately his desires were very moderate; he seemed to
live among the stars, and as long as he was well provided with coffee, he
cared little for luxuries, and paid little or no regard to the ingenuity with
which all the internal arrangements of Nina’s Hive had been devised.
Anxious to show all proper respect to his former tutor, Servadac proposed
to leave the most comfortable apartment of the place at his disposal; but the
professor resolutely declined to occupy it, saying that what he required was
a small chamber, no matter how small, provided that it was elevated and
secluded, which he could use as an observatory and where he might
prosecute his studies without disturbance. A general search was instituted,
and before long they were lucky enough to find, about a hundred feet above
the central grotto, a small recess or reduct hollowed, as it were, in the
mountain side, which would exactly answer their purpose. It contained
room enough for a bed, a table, an arm-chair, a chest of drawers, and, what
was of still more consequence, for the indispensable telescope. One small
stream of lava, an off-shoot of the great torrent, sufficed to warm the
apartment enough.
In these retired quarters the astronomer took up his abode. It was on all
hands acknowledged to be advisable to let him go on entirely in his own
way. His meals were taken to him at stated intervals; he slept but little;

carried on his calculations by day, his observations by night, and very rarely
made his appearance amongst the rest of the little community.
The cold now became very intense, the thermometer registering 30
degrees F. below zero. The mercury, however, never exhibited any of those
fluctuations that are ever and again to be observed in variable climates, but
continued slowly and steadily to fall, and in all probability would continue
to do so until it reached the normal temperature of the regions of outlying
space.
This steady sinking of the mercury was accompanied by a complete
stillness of the atmosphere; the very air seemed to be congealed; no particle
of it stirred; from zenith to horizon there was never a cloud; neither were
there any of the damp mists or dry fogs which so often extend over the
polar regions of the earth; the sky was always clear; the sun shone by day
and the stars by night without causing any perceptible difference in the
temperature.
These peculiar conditions rendered the cold endurable even in the open
air. The cause of so many of the diseases that prove fatal to Arctic explorers
resides in the cutting winds, unwholesome fogs, or terrible snow drifts,
which, by drying up, relaxing, or otherwise affecting the lungs, make them
incapable of fulfilling their proper functions. But during periods of calm
weather, when the air has been absolutely still, many polar navigators, well-
clothed and properly fed, have been known to withstand a temperature
when the thermometer has fallen to 60 degrees below zero. It was the
experience of Parry upon Melville Island, of Kane beyond latitude 81
degrees north, and of Hall and the crew of the Polaris, that, however
intense the cold, in the absence of the wind they could always brave its
rigor.
Notwithstanding, then, the extreme lowness of the temperature, the little
population found that they were able to move about in the open air with
perfect immunity. The governor general made it his special care to see that
his people were all well fed and warmly clad. Food was both wholesome
and abundant, and besides the furs brought from the Dobryna’s stores, fresh
skins could very easily be procured and made up into wearing apparel. A
daily course of out-door exercise was enforced upon everyone; not even
Pablo and Nina were exempted from the general rule; the two children,
muffled up in furs, looking like little Esquimeaux, skated along together,

Pablo ever at his companion’s side, ready to give her a helping hand
whenever she was weary with her exertions.
After his interview with the newly arrived astronomer, Isaac Hakkabut
slunk back again to his tartan. A change had come over his ideas; he could
no longer resist the conviction that he was indeed millions and millions of
miles away from the earth, where he had carried on so varied and
remunerative a traffic. It might be imagined that this realization of his true
position would have led him to a better mind, and that, in some degree at
least, he would have been induced to regard the few fellow-creatures with
whom his lot had been so strangely cast, otherwise than as mere instruments
to be turned to his own personal and pecuniary advantage; but no—the
desire of gain was too thoroughly ingrained into his hard nature ever to be
eradicated, and secure in his knowledge that he was under the protection of
a French officer, who, except under the most urgent necessity, would not
permit him to be molested in retaining his property, he determined to wait
for some emergency to arise which should enable him to use his present
situation for his own profit.
On the one hand, the Jew took it into account that although the chances
of returning to the earth might be remote, yet from what he had heard from
the professor he could not believe that they were improbable; on the other,
he knew that a considerable sum of money, in English and Russian coinage,
was in the possession of various members of the little colony, and this,
although valueless now, would be worth as much as ever if the proper
condition of things should be restored; accordingly, he set his heart on
getting all the monetary wealth of Gallia into his possession, and to do this
he must sell his goods. But he would not sell them yet; there might come a
time when for many articles the supply would not be equal to the demand;
that would be the time for him; by waiting he reckoned he should be able to
transact some lucrative business.
Such in his solitude were old Isaac’s cogitations, whilst the universal
population of Nina’s Hive were congratulating themselves upon being rid of
his odious presence.
As already stated in the message brought by the carrier pigeon, the
distance traveled by Gallia in April was 39,000,000 leagues, and at the end
of the month she was 110,000,000 leagues from the sun. A diagram
representing the elliptical orbit of the planet, accompanied by an ephemeris

made out in minute detail, had been drawn out by the professor. The curve
was divided into twenty-four sections of unequal length, representing
respectively the distance described in the twenty-four months of the Gallian
year, the twelve former divisions, according to Kepler’s law, gradually
diminishing in length as they approached the point denoting the aphelion
and increasing as they neared the perihelion.
It was on the 12th of May that Rosette exhibited this result of his labors
to Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant, who visited his apartment and
naturally examined the drawing with the keenest interest. Gallia’s path,
extending beyond the orbit of Jupiter, lay clearly defined before their eyes,
the progress along the orbit and the solar distances being inserted for each
month separately. Nothing could look plainer, and if the professor’s
calculations were correct (a point upon which they dared not, if they would,
express the semblance of a doubt), Gallia would accomplish her revolution
in precisely two years, and would meet the earth, which would in the same
period of time have completed two annual revolutions, in the very same
spot as before. What would be the consequences of a second collision they
scarcely ventured to think.
Without lifting his eye from the diagram, which he was still carefully
scrutinizing, Servadac said, “I see that during the month of May, Gallia will
only travel 30,400,000 leagues, and that this will leave her about
140,000,000 leagues distant from the sun.”
“Just so,” replied the professor.
“Then we have already passed the zone of the telescopic planets, have we
not?” asked the count.
“Can you not use your eyes?” said the professor, testily. “If you will look
you will see the zone marked clearly enough upon the map.”
Without noticing the interruption, Servadac continued his own remarks,
“The comet then, I see, is to reach its aphelion on the 15th of January,
exactly a twelvemonth after passing its perihelion.”
“A twelvemonth! Not a Gallian twelvemonth?” exclaimed Rosette.
Servadac looked bewildered. Lieutenant Procope could not suppress a
smile.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded the professor, turning round upon
him angrily.

“Nothing, sir; only it amuses me to see how you want to revise the
terrestrial calendar.”
“I want to be logical, that’s all.”
“By all manner of means, my dear professor, let us be logical.”
“Well, then, listen to me,” resumed the professor, stiffly. “I presume you
are taking it for granted that the Gallian year—by which I mean the time in
which Gallia makes one revolution round the sun—is equal in length to two
terrestrial years.”
They signified their assent.
“And that year, like every other year, ought to be divided into twelve
months.”
“Yes, certainly, if you wish it,” said the captain, acquiescing.
“If I wish it!” exclaimed Rosette. “Nothing of the sort! Of course a year
must have twelve months!”
“Of course,” said the captain.
“And how many days will make a month?” asked the professor.
“I suppose sixty or sixty-two, as the case may be. The days now are only
half as long as they used to be,” answered the captain.
“Servadac, don’t be thoughtless!” cried Rosette, with all the petulant
impatience of the old pedagogue. “If the days are only half as long as they
were, sixty of them cannot make up a twelfth part of Gallia’s year—cannot
be a month.”
“I suppose not,” replied the confused captain.
“Do you not see, then,” continued the astronomer, “that if a Gallian
month is twice as long as a terrestrial month, and a Gallian day is only half
as long as a terrestrial day, there must be a hundred and twenty days in
every month?”
“No doubt you are right, professor,” said Count Timascheff; “but do you
not think that the use of a new calendar such as this would practically be
very troublesome?”
“Not at all! not at all! I do not intend to use any other,” was the
professor’s bluff reply.
After pondering for a few moments, the captain spoke again. “According,
then, to this new calendar, it isn’t the middle of May at all; it must now be

some time in March.”
“Yes,” said the professor, “to-day is the 26th of March. It is the 266th day
of the Gallian year. It corresponds with the 133d day of the terrestrial year.
You are quite correct, it is the 26th of March.”
“Strange!” muttered Servadac.
“And a month, a terrestrial month, thirty old days, sixty new days hence,
it will be the 86th of March.”
“Ha, ha!” roared the captain; “this is logic with a vengeance!”
The old professor had an undefined consciousness that his former pupil
was laughing at him; and as it was growing late, he made an excuse that he
had no more leisure. The visitors accordingly quitted the observatory.
It must be owned that the revised calendar was left to the professor’s sole
use, and the colony was fairly puzzled whenever he referred to such
unheard-of dates as the 47th of April or the 118th of May.
According to the old calendar, June had now arrived; [illustration
omitted] [page intentionally blank] and by the professor’s tables Gallia
during the month would have advanced 27,500,000 leagues farther along its
orbit, and would have attained a distance of 155,000,000 leagues from the
sun. The thermometer continued to fall; the atmosphere remained clear as
heretofore. The population performed their daily avocations with systematic
routine; and almost the only thing that broke the monotony of existence was
an occasional visit from the blustering, nervous, little professor, when some
sudden fancy induced him to throw aside his astronomical studies for a
time, and pay a visit to the common hall. His arrival there was generally
hailed as the precursor of a little season of excitement. Somehow or other
the conversation would eventually work its way round to the topic of a
future collision between the comet and the earth; and in the same degree as
this was a matter of sanguine anticipation to Captain Servadac and his
friends, it was a matter of aversion to the astronomical enthusiast, who had
no desire to quit his present quarters in a sphere which, being of his own
discovery, he could hardly have cared for more if it had been of his own
creation. The interview would often terminate in a scene of considerable
animation.
On the 27th of June (old calendar) the professor burst like a cannon-ball
into the central hall, where they were all assembled, and without a word of

salutation or of preface, accosted the lieutenant in the way in which in
earlier days he had been accustomed to speak to an idle school-boy, “Now,
lieutenant! no evasions! no shufflings! Tell me, have you or have you not
circumnavigated Gallia?”
The lieutenant drew himself up stiffly. “Evasions! shufflings! I am not
accustomed, sir—” he began in a tone evidencing no little resentment; but
catching a hint from the count he subdued his voice, and simply said, “We
have.”
“And may I ask,” continued the professor, quite unaware of his previous
discourtesy, “whether, when you made your voyage, you took any account
of distances?”
“As approximately as I could,” replied the lieutenant; “I did what I could
by log and compass. I was unable to take the altitude of sun or star.”
“At what result did you arrive? What is the measurement of our
equator?”
“I estimate the total circumference of the equator to be about 1,400
miles.”
“Ah!” said the professor, more than half speaking to himself, “a
circumference of 1,400 miles would give a diameter of about 450 miles.
That would be approximately about one-sixteenth of the diameter of the
earth.”
Raising his voice, he continued, “Gentlemen, in order to complete my
account of my comet Gallia, I require to know its area, its mass, its volume,
its density, its specific gravity.”
“Since we know the diameter,” remarked the lieutenant, “there can be no
difficulty in finding its surface and its volume.”
“And did I say there was any difficulty?” asked the professor, fiercely. “I
have been able to reckon that ever since I was born.”
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” cried Ben Zoof, delighted at any opportunity of
paying off his old grudge.
The professor looked at him, but did not vouchsafe a word. Addressing
the captain, he said, “Now, Servadac, take your paper and a pen, and find
me the surface of Gallia.”

With more submission than when he was a school-boy, the captain sat
down and endeavored to recall the proper formula.
“The surface of a sphere? Multiply circumference by diameter.”
“Right!” cried Rosette; “but it ought to be done by this time.”
“Circumference, 1,400; diameter, 450; area of surface, 630,000,” read the
captain.
“True,” replied Rosette, “630,000 square miles; just 292 times less than
that of the earth.”
“Pretty little comet! nice little comet!” muttered Ben Zoof.
The astronomer bit his lip, snorted, and cast at him a withering look, but
did not take any further notice.
“Now, Captain Servadac,” said the professor, “take your pen again, and
find me the volume of Gallia.”
The captain hesitated.
“Quick, quick!” cried the professor, impatiently; “surely you have not
forgotten how to find the volume of a sphere!”
“A moment’s breathing time, please.”
“Breathing time, indeed! A mathematician should not want breathing
time! Come, multiply the surface by the third of the radius. Don’t you
recollect?”
Captain Servadac applied himself to his task while the by-standers
waited, with some difficulty suppressing their inclination to laugh. There
was a short silence, at the end of which Servadac announced that the
volume of the comet was 47,880,000 cubic miles.
“Just about 5,000 times less than the earth,” observed the lieutenant.
“Nice little comet! pretty little comet!” said Ben Zoof.
The professor scowled at him, and was manifestly annoyed at having the
insignificant dimensions of his comet pointed out in so disparaging a
manner. Lieutenant Procope further remarked that from the earth he
supposed it to be about as conspicuous as a star of the seventh magnitude,
and would require a good telescope to see it.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the orderly, aloud; “charming little comet! so pretty;
and so modest!”

“You rascal!” roared the professor, and clenched his hand in passion, as if
about to strike him. Ben Zoof laughed the more, and was on the point of
repeating his satirical comments, when a stern order from the captain made
him hold his tongue. The truth was that the professor was just as sensitive
about his comet as the orderly was about Montmartre, and if the contention
between the two had been allowed to go on unchecked, it is impossible to
say what serious quarrel might not have arisen.
When Professor Rosette’s equanimity had been restored, he said, “Thus,
then, gentlemen, the diameter, the surface, the volume of my comet are
settled; but there is more to be done. I shall not be satisfied until, by actual
measurement, I have determined its mass, its density, and the force of
gravity at its surface.”
“A laborious problem,” remarked Count Timascheff.
“Laborious or not, it has to be accomplished. I am resolved to find out
what my comet weighs.”
“Would it not be of some assistance, if we knew of what substance it is
composed?” asked the lieutenant.
“That is of no moment at all,” replied the professor; “the problem is
independent of it.”
“Then we await your orders,” was the captain’s reply.
“You must understand, however,” said Rosette, “that there are various
preliminary calculations to be made; you will have to wait till they are
finished.”
“As long as you please,” said the count.
“No hurry at all,” observed the captain, who was not in the least
impatient to continue his mathematical exercises.
“Then, gentlemen,” said the astronomer, “with your leave we will for this
purpose make an appointment a few weeks hence. What do you say to the
62d of April?”
Without noticing the general smile which the novel date provoked, the
astronomer left the hall, and retired to his observatory.

CHAPTER V. WANTED: A STEELYARD
Under the still diminishing influence of the sun’s attraction, but without
let or hindrance, Gallia continued its interplanetary course, accompanied by
Nerina, its captured satellite, which performed its fortnightly revolutions
with unvarying regularity.
Meanwhile, the question beyond all others important was ever recurring
to the minds of Servadac and his two companions: were the astronomer’s
calculations correct, and was there a sound foundation for his prediction
that the comet would again touch the earth? But whatever might be their
doubts or anxieties, they were fain to keep all their misgivings to
themselves; the professor was of a temper far too cross-grained for them to
venture to ask him to revise or re-examine the results of his observations.
The rest of the community by no means shared in their uneasiness.
Negrete and his fellow-countrymen yielded to their destiny with
philosophical indifference. Happier and better provided for than they had
ever been in their lives, it did not give them a passing thought, far less cause
any serious concern, whether they were still circling round the sun, or
whether they were being carried right away within the limits of another
system. Utterly careless of the future, the majos, light-hearted as ever,
carolled out their favorite songs, just as if they had never quitted the shores
of their native land.
Happiest of all were Pablo and Nina. Racing through the galleries of the
Hive, clambering over the rocks upon the shore, one day skating far away
across the frozen ocean, the next fishing in the lake that was kept liquid by
the heat of the lava-torrent, the two children led a life of perpetual
enjoyment. Nor was their recreation allowed to interfere with their studies.
Captain Servadac, who in common with the count really liked them both,
conceived that the responsibilities of a parent in some degree had devolved
upon him, and took great care in superintending their daily lessons, which
he succeeded in making hardly less pleasant than their sports.
Indulged and loved by all, it was little wonder that young Pablo had no
longing for the scorching plains of Andalusia, or that little Nina had lost all

wish to return with her pet goat to the barren rocks of Sardinia. They had
now a home in which they had nothing to desire.
“Have you no father nor mother?” asked Pablo, one day.
“No,” she answered.
“No more have I,” said the boy, “I used to run along by the side of the
diligences when I was in Spain.”
“I used to look after goats at Madalena,” said Nina; “but it is much nicer
here—I am so happy here. I have you for a brother, and everybody is so
kind. I am afraid they will spoil us, Pablo,” she added, smiling.
“Oh, no, Nina; you are too good to be spoiled, and when I am with you,
you make me good too,” said Pablo, gravely.
July had now arrived. During the month Gallia’s advance along its orbit
would be reduced to 22,000,000 leagues, the distance from the sun at the
end being 172,000,000 leagues, about four and a half times as great as the
average distance of the earth from the sun. It was traveling now at about the
same speed as the earth, which traverses the ecliptic at a rate of 21,000,000
leagues a month, or 28,800 leagues an hour.
In due time the 62d April, according to the revised Gallian calendar,
dawned; and in punctual fulfillment of the professor’s appointment, a note
was delivered to Servadac to say that he was ready, and hoped that day to
commence operations for calculating the mass and density of his comet, as
well as the force of gravity at its surface.
A point of far greater interest to Captain Servadac and his friends would
have been to ascertain the nature of the substance of which the comet was
composed, but they felt pledged to render the professor any aid they could
in the researches upon which he had set his heart. Without delay, therefore,
they assembled in the central hall, where they were soon joined by Rosette,
who seemed to be in fairly good temper.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “I propose to-day to endeavor to complete our
observations of the elements of my comet. Three matters of investigation
are before us. First, the measure of gravity at its surface; this attractive force
we know, by the increase of our own muscular force, must of course be
considerably less than that at the surface of the earth. Secondly, its mass,
that is, the quality of its matter. And thirdly, its density or quantity of matter

in a unit of its volume. We will proceed, gentlemen, if you please, to weigh
Gallia.”
Ben Zoof, who had just entered the hall, caught the professor’s last
sentence, and without saying a word, went out again and was absent for
some minutes. When he returned, he said, “If you want to weigh this comet
of yours, I suppose you want a pair of scales; but I have been to look, and I
cannot find a pair anywhere. And what’s more,” he added mischievously,
“you won’t get them anywhere.”
A frown came over the professor’s countenance. Servadac saw it, and
gave his orderly a sign that he should desist entirely from his bantering.
“I require, gentlemen,” resumed Rosette, “first of all to know by how
much the weight of a kilogramme here differs from its weight upon the
earth; the attraction, as we have said, being less, the weight will
proportionately be less also.”
“Then an ordinary pair of scales, being under the influence of attraction, I
suppose, would not answer your purpose,” submitted the lieutenant.
“And the very kilogramme weight you used would have become lighter,”
put in the count, deferentially.
“Pray, gentlemen, do not interrupt me,” said the professor,
authoritatively, as if ex cathedra. “I need no instruction on these points.”
Procope and Timascheff demurely bowed their heads.
The professor resumed. “Upon a steelyard, or spring-balance, dependent
upon mere tension or flexibility, the attraction will have no influence. If I
suspend a weight equivalent to the weight of a kilogramme, the index will
register the proper weight on the surface of Gallia. Thus I shall arrive at the
difference I want: the difference between the earth’s attraction and the
comet’s. Will you, therefore, have the goodness to provide me at once with
a steelyard and a tested kilogramme?”
The audience looked at one another, and then at Ben Zoof, who was
thoroughly acquainted with all their resources. “We have neither one nor the
other,” said the orderly.
The professor stamped with vexation.
“I believe old Hakkabut has a steelyard on board his tartan,” said Ben
Zoof, presently.

“Then why didn’t you say so before, you idiot?” roared the excitable
little man.
Anxious to pacify him, Servadac assured him that every exertion should
be made to procure the instrument, and directed Ben Zoof to go to the Jew
and borrow it.
“No, stop a moment,” he said, as Ben Zoof was moving away on his,
errand; “perhaps I had better go with you myself; the old Jew may make a
difficulty about lending us any of his property.”
“Why should we not all go?” asked the count; “we should see what kind
of a life the misanthrope leads on board the Hansa.”
The proposal met with general approbation. Before they started,
Professor Rosette requested that one of the men might be ordered to cut him
a cubic decimeter out of the solid substance of Gallia. “My engineer is the
man for that,” said the count; “he will do it well for you if you will give him
the precise measurement.”
“What! you don’t mean,” exclaimed the professor, again going off into a
passion, “that you haven’t a proper measure of length?”
Ben Zoof was sent off to ransack the stores for the article in question, but
no measure was forthcoming. “Most likely we shall find one on the tartan,”
said the orderly.
“Then let us lose no time in trying,” answered the professor, as he hustled
with hasty strides into the gallery.
The rest of the party followed, and were soon in the open air upon the
rocks that overhung the shore. They descended to the level of the frozen
water and made their way towards the little creek where the Dobryna and
the Hansa lay firmly imprisoned in their icy bonds.
The temperature was low beyond previous experience; but well muffled
up in fur, they all endured it without much actual suffering. Their breath
issued in vapor, which was at once congealed into little crystals upon their
whiskers, beards, eyebrows, and eyelashes, until their faces, covered with
countless snow-white prickles, were truly ludicrous. The little professor,
most comical of all, resembled nothing so much as the cub of an Arctic
bear.
It was eight o’clock in the morning. The sun was rapidly approaching the
zenith; but its disc, from the extreme remoteness, was proportionately

dwarfed; its beams being all but destitute of their proper warmth and
radiance. The volcano to its very summit and the surrounding rocks were
still covered with the unsullied mantle of snow that had fallen while the
atmosphere was still to some extent charged with vapor; but on the north
side the snow had given place to the cascade of fiery lava, which, making
its way down the sloping rocks as far as the vaulted opening of the central
cavern, fell thence perpendicularly into the sea. Above the cavern, 130 feet
up the mountain, was a dark hole, above which the stream of lava made a
bifurcation in its course. From this hole projected the case of an
astronomer’s telescope; it was the opening of Palmyrin Rosette’s
observatory.
Sea and land seemed blended into one dreary whiteness, to which the
pale blue sky offered scarcely any contrast. The shore was indented with the
marks of many footsteps left by the colonists either on their way to collect
ice for drinking purposes, or as the result of their skating expeditions; the
edges of the skates had cut out a labyrinth of curves complicated as the
figures traced by aquatic insects upon the surface of a pool.
Across the quarter of a mile of level ground that lay between the
mountain and the creek, a series of footprints, frozen hard into the snow,
marked the course taken by Isaac Hakkabut on his last return from Nina’s
Hive.
On approaching the creek, Lieutenant Procope drew his companions’
attention to the elevation of the Dobryna’s and Hansa’s waterline, both
vessels being now some fifteen feet above the level of the sea.
“What a strange phenomenon!” exclaimed the captain.
“It makes me very uneasy,” rejoined the lieutenant; “in shallow places
like this, as the crust of ice thickens, it forces everything upwards with
irresistible force.”
“But surely this process of congelation must have a limit!” said the count.
“But who can say what that limit will be? Remember that we have not
yet reached our maximum of cold,” replied Procope.
“Indeed, I hope not!” exclaimed the professor; “where would be the use
of our traveling 200,000,000 leagues from the sun, if we are only to
experience the same temperature as we should find at the poles of the
earth?”

“Fortunately for us, however, professor,” said the lieutenant, with a
smile, “the temperature of the remotest space never descends beyond 70
degrees below zero.”
“And as long as there is no wind,” added Servadac, “we may pass
comfortably through the winter, without a single attack of catarrh.”
Lieutenant Procope proceeded to impart to the count his anxiety about
the situation of his yacht. He pointed out that by the constant superposition
of new deposits of ice, the vessel would be elevated to a great height, and
consequently in the event of a thaw, it must be exposed to a calamity similar
to those which in polar seas cause destruction to so many whalers.
There was no time now for concerting measures offhand to prevent the
disaster, for the other members of the party had already reached the spot
where the Hansa lay bound in her icy trammels. A flight of steps, recently
hewn by Hakkabut himself, gave access for the present to the gangway, but
it was evident that some different contrivance would have to be resorted to
when the tartan should be elevated perhaps to a hundred feet.
A thin curl of blue smoke issued from the copper funnel that projected
above the mass of snow which had accumulated upon the deck of the
Hansa. The owner was sparing of his fuel, and it was only the non-
conducting layer of ice enveloping the tartan that rendered the internal
temperature endurable.
“Hi! old Nebuchadnezzar, where are you?” shouted Ben Zoof, at the full
strength of his lungs.
At the sound of his voice, the cabin door opened, and the Jew’s head and
shoulders protruded onto the deck.

CHAPTER VI. MONEY AT A PREMIUM
“Who’s there? I have nothing here for anyone. Go away!” Such was the
inhospitable greeting with which Isaac Hakkabut received his visitors.
“Hakkabut! do you take us for thieves?” asked Servadac, in tones of stern
displeasure.
“Oh, your Excellency, my lord, I did not know that it was you,” whined
the Jew, but without emerging any farther from his cabin.
“Now, old Hakkabut, come out of your shell! Come and show the
governor proper respect, when he gives you the honor of his company,”
cried Ben Zoof, who by this time had clambered onto the deck.
After considerable hesitation, but still keeping his hold upon the cabin-
door, the Jew made up his mind to step outside. “What do you want?” he
inquired, timorously.
“I want a word with you,” said Servadac, “but I do not want to stand
talking out here in the cold.”
Followed by the rest of the party, he proceeded to mount the steps. The
Jew trembled from head to foot. “But I cannot let you into my cabin. I am a
poor man; I have nothing to give you,” he moaned piteously.
“Here he is!” laughed Ben Zoof, contemptuously; “he is beginning his
chapter of lamentations over again. But standing out here will never do. Out
of the way, old Hakkabut, I say! out of the way!” and, without more ado, he
thrust the astonished Jew on one side and opened the door of the cabin.
Servadac, however, declined to enter until he had taken the pains to
explain to the owner of the tartan that he had no intention of laying violent
hands upon his property, and that if the time should ever come that his
cargo was in requisition for the common use, he should receive a proper
price for his goods, the same as he would in Europe.
“Europe, indeed!” muttered the Jew maliciously between his teeth.
“European prices will not do for me. I must have Gallian prices—and of my
own fixing, too!”

So large a portion of the vessel had been appropriated to the cargo that
the space reserved for the cabin was of most meager dimensions. In one
corner of the compartment stood a small iron stove, in which smoldered a
bare handful of coals; in another was a trestle-board which served as a bed;
two or three stools and a rickety deal table, together with a few cooking
utensils, completed a stock of furniture which was worthy of its proprietor.
On entering the cabin, Ben Zoof’s first proceeding was to throw on the
fire a liberal supply of coals, utterly regardless of the groans of poor Isaac,
who would almost as soon have parted with his own bones as submit to
such reckless expenditure of his fuel. The perishing temperature of the
cabin, however, was sufficient justification for the orderly’s conduct, and by
a little skillful manipulation he soon succeeded in getting up a tolerable fire.
The visitors having taken what seats they could, Hakkabut closed the
door, and, like a prisoner awaiting his sentence, stood with folded hands,
expecting the captain to speak.
“Listen,” said Servadac; “we have come to ask a favor.”
Imagining that at least half his property was to be confiscated, the Jew
began to break out into his usual formula about being a poor man and
having nothing to spare; but Servadac, without heeding his complainings,
went on: “We are not going to ruin you, you know.”
Hakkabut looked keenly into the captain’s face.
“We have only come to know whether you can lend us a steelyard.”
So far from showing any symptom of relief, the old miser exclaimed,
with a stare of astonishment, as if he had been asked for some thousand
francs: “A steelyard?”
“Yes!” echoed the professor, impatiently; “a steelyard.”
“Have you not one?” asked Servadac.
“To be sure he has!” said Ben Zoof.
Old Isaac stammered and stuttered, but at last confessed that perhaps
there might be one amongst the stores.
“Then, surely, you will not object to lend it to us?” said the captain.
“Only for one day,” added the professor.
The Jew stammered again, and began to object. “It is a very delicate
instrument, your Excellency. The cold, you know, the cold may do injury to

the spring; and perhaps you are going to use it to weigh something very
heavy.”
“Why, old Ephraim, do you suppose we are going to weigh a mountain
with it?” said Ben Zoof.
“Better than that!” cried out the professor, triumphantly; “we are going to
weigh Gallia with it; my comet.”
“Merciful Heaven!” shrieked Isaac, feigning consternation at the bare
suggestion.
Servadac knew well enough that the Jew was holding out only for a good
bargain, and assured him that the steelyard was required for no other
purpose than to weigh a kilogramme, which (considering how much lighter
everything had become) could not possibly put the slightest strain upon the
instrument.
The Jew still spluttered, and moaned, and hesitated.
“Well, then,” said Servadac, “if you do not like to lend us your steelyard,
do you object to sell it to us?”
Isaac fairly shrieked aloud. “God of Israel!” he ejaculated, “sell my
steelyard? Would you deprive me of one of the most indispensable of my
means of livelihood? How should I weigh my merchandise without my
steelyard—my solitary steelyard, so delicate and so correct?”
The orderly wondered how his master could refrain from strangling the
old miser upon the spot; but Servadac, rather amused than otherwise,
determined to try another form of persuasion. “Come, Hakkabut, I see that
you are not disposed either to lend or to sell your steelyard. What do you
say to letting us hire it?”
The Jew’s eyes twinkled with a satisfaction that he was unable to
conceal. “But what security would you give? The instrument is very
valuable;” and he looked more cunning than ever.
“What is it worth? If it is worth twenty francs, I will leave a deposit of a
hundred. Will that satisfy you?”
He shook his head doubtfully. “It is very little; indeed, it is too little, your
Excellency. Consider, it is the only steelyard in all this new world of ours; it
is worth more, much more. If I take your deposit it must be in gold—all
gold. But how much do you agree to give me for the hire—the hire, one
day?”

“You shall have twenty francs,” said Servadac.
“Oh, it is dirt cheap; but never mind, for one day, you shall have it.
Deposit in gold money a hundred francs, and twenty francs for the hire.”
The old man folded his hands in meek resignation.
“The fellow knows how to make a good bargain,” said Servadac, as
Isaac, after casting a distrustful look around, went out of the cabin.
“Detestable old wretch!” replied the count, full of disgust.
Hardly a minute elapsed before the Jew was back again, carrying his
precious steelyard with ostentatious care. It was of an ordinary kind. A
spring balance, fitted with a hook, held the article to be weighed; a pointer,
revolving on a disc, indicated the weight of the article. Professor Rosette
was manifestly right in asserting that such a machine would register results
quite independently of any change in the force of attraction. On the earth it
would have registered a kilogramme as a kilogramme; here it recorded a
different value altogether, as the result of the altered force of gravity.
Gold coinage to the worth of one hundred and twenty francs was handed
over to the Jew, who clutched at the money with unmistakable eagerness.
The steelyard was committed to the keeping of Ben Zoof, and the visitors
prepared to quit the Hansa.
All at once it occurred to the professor that the steelyard would be
absolutely useless to him, unless he had the means for ascertaining the
precise measurement of the unit of the soil of Gallia which he proposed to
weigh. “Something more you must lend me,” he said, addressing the Jew. “I
must have a measure, and I must have a kilogramme.”
“I have neither of them,” answered Isaac. “I have neither. I am sorry; I
am very sorry.” And this time the old Jew spoke the truth. He would have
been really glad to do another stroke or two of business upon terms as
advantageous as the transaction he had just concluded.
Palmyrin Rosette scratched his head in perplexity, glaring round upon his
companions as if they were personally responsible for his annoyance. He
muttered something about finding a way out of his difficulty, and hastily
mounted the cabin-ladder. The rest followed, but they had hardly reached
the deck when the chink of money was heard in the room below. Hakkabut
was locking away the gold in one of the drawers.

Back again, down the ladder, scrambled the little professor, and before
the Jew was aware of his presence he had seized him by the tail of his
slouchy overcoat. “Some of your money! I must have money!” he said.
“Money!” gasped Hakkabut; “I have no money.” He was pale with fright,
and hardly knew what he was saying.
“Falsehood!” roared Rosette. “Do you think I cannot see?” And peering
down into the drawer which the Jew was vainly trying to close, he cried,
“Heaps of money! French money! Five-franc pieces! the very thing I want!
I must have them!”
The captain and his friends, who had returned to the cabin looked on with
mingled amusement and bewilderment.
“They are mine!” shrieked Hakkabut.
“I will have them!” shouted the professor.
“You shall kill me first!” bellowed the Jew.
“No, but I must!” persisted the professor again.
It was manifestly time for Servadac to interfere. “My dear professor,” he
said, smiling, “allow me to settle this little matter for you.”
“Ah! your Excellency,” moaned the agitated Jew, “protect me! I am but a
poor man—”
“None of that, Hakkabut. Hold your tongue.” And, turning to Rosette, the
captain said, “If, sir, I understand right, you require some silver five-franc
pieces for your operation?”
“Forty,” said Rosette, surlily.
“Two hundred francs!” whined Hakkabut.
“Silence!” cried the captain.
“I must have more than that,” the professor continued. “I want ten two-
franc pieces, and twenty half-francs.”
“Let me see,” said Servadac, “how much is that in all? Two hundred and
thirty francs, is it not?”
“I dare say it is,” answered the professor.
“Count, may I ask you,” continued Servadac, “to be security to the Jew
for this loan to the professor?”
“Loan!” cried the Jew, “do you mean only a loan?”

“Silence!” again shouted the captain.
Count Timascheff, expressing his regret that his purse contained only
paper money, begged to place it at Captain Servadac’s disposal.
“No paper, no paper!” exclaimed Isaac. “Paper has no currency in
Gallia.”
“About as much as silver,” coolly retorted the count.
“I am a poor man,” began the Jew.
“Now, Hakkabut, stop these miserable lamentations of yours, once for
all. Hand us over two hundred and thirty francs in silver money, or we will
proceed to help ourselves.”
Isaac began to yell with all his might: “Thieves! thieves!”
In a moment Ben Zoof’s hand was clasped tightly over his mouth. “Stop
that howling, Belshazzar!”
“Let him alone, Ben Zoof. He will soon come to his senses,” said
Servadac, quietly.
When the old Jew had again recovered himself, the captain addressed
him. “Now, tell us, what interest do you expect?”
Nothing could overcome the Jew’s anxiety to make another good bargain.
He began: “Money is scarce, very scarce, you know—”
“No more of this!” shouted Servadac. “What interest, I say, what interest
do you ask?”
Faltering and undecided still, the Jew went on. “Very scarce, you know.
Ten francs a day, I think, would not be unreasonable, considering—”
The count had no patience to allow him to finish what he was about to
say. He flung down notes to the value of several rubles. With a greediness
that could not be concealed, Hakkabut grasped them all. Paper, indeed, they
were; but the cunning Israelite knew that they would in any case be security
far beyond the value of his cash. He was making some eighteen hundred per
cent. interest, and accordingly chuckled within himself at his unexpected
stroke of business.
The professor pocketed his French coins with a satisfaction far more
demonstrative. “Gentlemen,” he said, “with these franc pieces I obtain the
means of determining accurately both a meter and a kilogramme.”

CHAPTER VII. GALLIA WEIGHED
A quarter of an hour later, the visitors to the Hansa had reassembled in
the common hall of Nina’s Hive.
“Now, gentlemen, we can proceed,” said the professor. “May I request
that this table may be cleared?”
Ben Zoof removed the various articles that were lying on the table, and
the coins which had just been borrowed from the Jew were placed upon it in
three piles, according to their value.
The professor commenced. “Since none of you gentlemen, at the time of
the shock, took the precaution to save either a meter measure or a
kilogramme weight from the earth, and since both these articles are
necessary for the calculation on which we are engaged, I have been obliged
to devise means of my own to replace them.”
This exordium delivered, he paused and seemed to watch its effect upon
his audience, who, however, were too well acquainted with the professor’s
temper to make any attempt to exonerate themselves from the rebuke of
carelessness, and submitted silently to the implied reproach.
“I have taken pains,” he continued, “to satisfy myself that these coins are
in proper condition for my purpose. I find them unworn and unchipped;
indeed, they are almost new. They have been hoarded instead of circulated;
accordingly, they are fit to be utilized for my purpose of obtaining the
precise length of a terrestrial meter.”
Ben Zoof looked on in perplexity, regarding the lecturer with much the
same curiosity as he would have watched the performances of a traveling
mountebank at a fair in Montmartre; but Servadac and his two friends had
already divined the professor’s meaning. They knew that French coinage is
all decimal, the franc being the standard of which the other coins, whether
gold, silver, or copper, are multiples or measures; they knew, too, that the
caliber or diameter of each piece of money is rigorously determined by law,
and that the diameters of the silver coins representing five francs, two
francs, and fifty centimes measure thirty-seven, twenty-seven, and eighteen
millimeters respectively; and they accordingly guessed that Professor

Rosette had conceived the plan of placing such a number of these coins in
juxtaposition that the length of their united diameters should measure
exactly the thousand millimeters that make up the terrestrial meter.
The measurement thus obtained was by means of a pair of compasses
divided accurately into ten equal portions, or decimeters, each of course
3.93 inches long. A lath was then cut of this exact length and given to the
engineer of the Dobryna, who was directed to cut out of the solid rock the
cubic decimeter required by the professor.
The next business was to obtain the precise weight of a kilogramme. This
was by no means a difficult matter. Not only the diameters, but also the
weights, of the French coins are rigidly determined by law, and as the silver
five-franc pieces always weigh exactly twenty-five grammes, the united
weight of forty of these coins is known to amount to one kilogramme.
“Oh!” cried Ben Zoof; “to be able to do all this I see you must be rich as
well as learned.”
With a good-natured laugh at the orderly’s remark, the meeting adjourned
for a few hours. By the appointed time the engineer had finished his task,
and with all due care had prepared a cubic decimeter of the material of the
comet.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Professor Rosette, “we are in a position to
complete our calculation; we can now arrive at Gallia’s attraction, density,
and mass.”
Everyone gave him his complete attention.
“Before I proceed,” he resumed, “I must recall to your minds Newton’s
general law, ‘that the attraction of two bodies is directly proportional to the
product of their masses, and inversely proportional to the square of their
distances.’”
“Yes,” said Servadac; “we remember that.”
“Well, then,” continued the professor, “keep it in mind for a few minutes
now. Look here! In this bag are forty five-franc pieces—altogether they
weigh exactly a kilogramme; by which I mean that if we were on the earth,
and I were to hang the bag on the hook of the steelyard, the indicator on the
dial would register one kilogramme. This is clear enough, I suppose?”
As he spoke the professor designedly kept his eyes fixed upon Ben Zoof.
He was avowedly following the example of Arago, who was accustomed

always in lecturing to watch the countenance of the least intelligent of his
audience, and when he felt that he had made his meaning clear to him, he
concluded that he must have succeeded with all the rest. In this case,
however, it was technical ignorance, rather than any lack of intelligence,
that justified the selection of the orderly for this special attention.
Satisfied with his scrutiny of Ben Zoof’s face, the professor went on.
“And now, gentlemen, we have to see what these coins weigh here upon
Gallia.”
He suspended the money bag to the hook; the needle oscillated, and
stopped. “Read it off!” he said.
The weight registered was one hundred and thirty-three grammes.
“There, gentlemen, one hundred and thirty-three grammes! Less than
one-seventh of a kilogramme! You see, consequently, that the force of
gravity here on Gallia is not one-seventh of what it is upon the earth!”
“Interesting!” cried Servadac, “most interesting! But let us go on and
compute the mass.”
“No, captain, the density first,” said Rosette.
“Certainly,” said the lieutenant; “for, as we already know the volume, we
can determine the mass as soon as we have ascertained the density.”
The professor took up the cube of rock. “You know what this is,” he went
on to say. “You know, gentlemen, that this block is a cube hewn from the
substance of which everywhere, all throughout your voyage of
circumnavigation, you found Gallia to be composed—a substance to which
your geological attainments did not suffice to assign a name.”
“Our curiosity will be gratified,” said Servadac, “if you will enlighten our
ignorance.”
But Rosette did not take the slightest notice of the interruption.
“A substance it is which no doubt constitutes the sole material of the
comet, extending from its surface to its innermost depths. The probability is
that it would be so; your experience confirms that probability: you have
found no trace of any other substance. Of this rock here is a solid decimeter;
let us get at its weight, and we shall have the key which will unlock the
problem of the whole weight of Gallia. We have demonstrated that the force
of attraction here is only one-seventh of what it is upon the earth, and shall

consequently have to multiply the apparent weight of our cube by seven, in
order to ascertain its proper weight. Do you understand me, goggle-eyes?”
This was addressed to Ben Zoof, who was staring hard at him. “No!” said
Ben Zoof.
“I thought not; it is of no use waiting for your puzzle-brains to make it
out. I must talk to those who can understand.”
The professor took the cube, and, on attaching it to the hook of the
steelyard, found that its apparent weight was one kilogramme and four
hundred and thirty grammes.
“Here it is, gentlemen; one kilogramme, four hundred and thirty
grammes. Multiply that by seven; the product is, as nearly as possible, ten
kilogrammes. What, therefore, is our conclusion? Why, that the density of
Gallia is just about double the density of the earth, which we know is only
five kilogrammes to a cubic decimeter. Had it not been for this greater
density, the attraction of Gallia would only have been one-fifteenth instead
of one-seventh of the terrestrial attraction.”
The professor could not refrain from exhibiting his gratification that,
however inferior in volume, in density, at least, his comet had the advantage
over the earth.
Nothing further now remained than to apply the investigations thus
finished to the determining of the mass or weight. This was a matter of little
labor.
“Let me see,” said the captain; “what is the force of gravity upon the
various planets?”
“You can’t mean, Servadac, that you have forgotten that? But you always
were a disappointing pupil.”
The captain could not help himself: he was forced to confess that his
memory had failed him.
“Well, then,” said the professor, “I must remind you. Taking the attraction
on the earth as 1, that on Mercury is 1.15, on Venus it is 0.92, on Mars 0.5,
and on Jupiter 2.45; on the moon the attraction is 0.16, whilst on the surface
of the sun a terrestrial kilogramme would weigh 28 kilogrammes.”
“Therefore, if a man upon the surface of the sun were to fall down, he
would have considerable difficulty in getting up again. A cannon ball, too,
would only fly a few yards,” said Lieutenant Procope.

“A jolly battle-field for cowards!” exclaimed Ben Zoof.
“Not so jolly, Ben Zoof, as you fancy,” said his master; “the cowards
would be too heavy to run away.”
Ben Zoof ventured the remark that, as the smallness of Gallia secured to
its inhabitants such an increase of strength and agility, he was almost sorry
that it had not been a little smaller still.
“Though it could not anyhow have been very much smaller,” he added,
looking slyly at the professor.
“Idiot!” exclaimed Rosette. “Your head is too light already; a puff of
wind would blow it away.”
“I must take care of my head, then, and hold it on,” replied the
irrepressible orderly.
Unable to get the last word, the professor was about to retire, when
Servadac detained him.
“Permit me to ask you one more question,” he said. “Can you tell me
what is the nature of the soil of Gallia?”
“Yes, I can answer that. And in this matter I do not think your impertinent
orderly will venture to put Montmartre into the comparison. This soil is of a
substance not unknown upon the earth.” And speaking very slowly, the
professor said: “It contains 70 per cent. of tellurium, and 30 per cent. of
gold.”
Servadac uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“And the sum of the specific gravities of these two substances is 10,
precisely the number that represents Gallia’s density.”
“A comet of gold!” ejaculated the captain.
“Yes; a realization of what the illustrious Maupertuis has already deemed
probable,” replied the astronomer.
“If Gallia, then, should ever become attached to the earth, might it not
bring about an important revolution in all monetary affairs?” inquired the
count.
“No doubt about it!” said Rosette, with manifest satisfaction. “It would
supply the world with about 246,000 trillions of francs.”
“It would make gold about as cheap as dirt, I suppose,” said Servadac.

The last observation, however, was entirely lost upon the professor, who
had left the hall with an air almost majestic, and was already on his way to
the observatory.
“And what, I wonder, is the use of all these big figures?” said Ben Zoof
to his master, when next day they were alone together.
“That’s just the charm of them, my good fellow,” was the captain’s cool
reply, “that they are of no use whatever.”

CHAPTER VIII. JUPITER SOMEWHAT
CLOSE
Except as to the time the comet would take to revolve round the sun, it
must be confessed that all the professor’s calculations had comparatively
little interest for anyone but himself, and he was consequently left very
much to pursue his studies in solitude.
The following day was the 1st of August, or, according to Rosette, the
63rd of April. In the course of this month Gallia would travel 16,500,000
leagues, attaining at the end a distance of 197,000,000 leagues from the sun.
This would leave 81,000,000 leagues more to be traversed before reaching
the aphelion of the 15th of January, after which it would begin once more to
approach the sun.
But meanwhile, a marvelous world, never before so close within the
range of human vision, was revealing itself. No wonder that Palmyrin
Rosette cared so little to quit his observatory; for throughout those calm,
clear Gallian nights, when the book of the firmament lay open before him,
he could revel in a spectacle which no previous astronomer had ever been
permitted to enjoy.
The glorious orb that was becoming so conspicuous an object was none
other than the planet Jupiter, the largest of all the bodies existing within the
influence of solar attraction. During the seven months that had elapsed
since its collision with the earth, the comet had been continuously
approaching the planet, until the distance between them was scarcely more
than 61,000,000 leagues, and this would go on diminishing until the 15th of
October.
Under these circumstances, was it perfectly certain that no danger could
accrue? Was not Gallia, when its pathway led it into such close proximity to
this enormous planet, running a risk of being attracted within its influence?
Might not that influence be altogether disastrous? The professor, it is true,
in his estimate of the duration of his comet’s revolution, had represented
that he had made all proper allowances for any perturbations that would be
caused either by Jupiter, by Saturn, or by Mars; but what if there were any

errors in his calculations? what if there should be any elements of
disturbance on which he had not reckoned?
Speculations of this kind became more and more frequent, and
Lieutenant Procope pointed out that the danger incurred might be of a
fourfold character: first, that the comet, being irresistibly attracted, might be
drawn on to the very surface of the planet, and there annihilated; secondly,
that as the result of being brought under that attraction, it might be
transformed into a satellite, or even a sub-satellite, of that mighty world;
thirdly, that it might be diverted into a new orbit, which would never be
coincident with the ecliptic; or, lastly, its course might be so retarded that it
would only reach the ecliptic too late to permit any junction with the earth.
The occurrence of any one of these contingencies would be fatal to their
hopes of reunion with the globe, from which they had been so strangely
severed.
To Rosette, who, without family ties which he had never found leisure or
inclination to contract, had no shadow of desire to return to the earth, it
would be only the first of these probabilities that could give him any
concern. Total annihilation might not accord with his views, but he would
be quite content for Gallia to miss its mark with regard to the earth,
indifferent whether it revolved as a new satellite around Jupiter, or whether
it wended its course through the untraversed regions of the milky way. The
rest of the community, however, by no means sympathized with the
professor’s sentiments, and the following month was a period of
considerable doubt and anxiety.
On the 1st of September the distance between Gallia and Jupiter was
precisely the same as the mean distance between the earth and the sun; on
the 16th, the distance was further reduced to 26,000,000 leagues. The planet
began to assume enormous dimensions, and it almost seemed as if the
comet had already been deflected from its elliptical orbit, and was rushing
on in a straight line towards the overwhelming luminary.
The more they contemplated the character of this gigantic planet, the
more they became impressed with the likelihood of a serious perturbation in
their own course. The diameter of Jupiter is 85,390 miles, nearly eleven
times as great as that of the earth; his volume is 1,387 times, and his mass
300 times greater; and although the mean density is only about a quarter of
that of the earth, and only a third of that of water (whence it has been

supposed that the superficies of Jupiter is liquid), yet his other proportions
were large enough to warrant the apprehension that important disturbances
might result from his proximity.
“I forget my astronomy, lieutenant,” said Servadac. “Tell me all you can
about this formidable neighbor.”
The lieutenant having refreshed his memory by reference to
Flammarion’s Recits de l’Infini, of which he had a Russian translation, and
some other books, proceeded to recapitulate that Jupiter accomplishes his
revolution round the sun in 4,332 days 14 hours and 2 minutes; that he
travels at the rate of 467 miles a minute along an orbit measuring 2,976
millions of miles; and that his rotation on his axis occupies only 9 hours and
55 minutes.
“His days, then, are shorter than ours?” interrupted the captain.
“Considerably,” answered the lieutenant, who went on to describe how
the displacement of a point at the equator of Jupiter was twenty-seven times
as rapid as on the earth, causing the polar compression to be about 2,378
miles; how the axis, being nearly perpendicular, caused the days and nights
to be nearly of the same length, and the seasons to be invariable; and how
the amount of light and heat received by the planet is only a twenty-fifth
part of that received by the earth, the average distance from the sun being
475,693,000 miles.
“And how about these satellites? Sometimes, I suppose, Jupiter has the
benefit of four moons all shining at once?” asked Servadac.
Of the satellites, Lieutenant Procope went on to say that one is rather
smaller than our own moon; that another moves round its primary at an
interval about equal to the moon’s distance from ourselves; but that they all
revolve in considerably less time: the first takes only l day 18 hours 27
minutes; the second takes 3 days 13 hours 14 minutes; the third, 7 days 3
hours 42 minutes; whilst the largest of all takes but 16 days 16 hours 32
minutes. The most remote revolves round the planet at a distance of
1,192,820 miles.
“They have been enlisted into the service of science,” said Procope. “It is
by their movements that the velocity of light has been calculated; and they
have been made available for the determination of terrestrial longitudes.”
“It must be a wonderful sight,” said the captain.

“Yes,” answered Procope. “I often think Jupiter is like a prodigious clock
with four hands.”
“I only hope that we are not destined to make a fifth hand,” answered
Servadac.
Such was the style of the conversation that was day by day reiterated
during the whole month of suspense. Whatever topic might be started, it
seemed soon to settle down upon the huge orb that was looming upon them
with such threatening aspect.
“The more remote that these planets are from the sun,” said Procope, “the
more venerable and advanced in formation are they found to be. Neptune,
situated 2,746,271,000 miles from the sun, issued from the solar nebulosity,
thousands of millions of centuries back. Uranus, revolving 1,753,851,000
miles from the center of the planetary system, is of an age amounting to
many hundred millions of centuries. Jupiter, the colossal planet, gravitating
at a distance of 475,693,000 miles, may be reckoned as 70,000,000
centuries old. Mars has existed for 1,000,000,000 years at a distance of
139,212,000 miles. The earth, 91,430,000 miles from the sun, quitted his
burning bosom 100,000,000 years ago. Venus, revolving now 66,131,000
miles away, may be assigned the age of 50,000,000 years at least; and
Mercury, nearest of all, and youngest of all, has been revolving at a distance
of 35,393,000 miles for the space of 10,000,000 years—the same time as
the moon has been evolved from the earth.”
Servadac listened attentively. He was at a loss what to say; and the only
reply he made to the recital of this novel theory was to the effect that, if it
were true, he would prefer being captured by Mercury than by Jupiter, for
Mercury, being so much the younger, would probably prove the less
imperative and self-willed master.
It was on the 1st of September that the comet had crossed the orbit of
Jupiter, and on the 1st of October the two bodies were calculated to be at
their minimum separation. No direct shock, however, could be
apprehended; the demonstration was sufficiently complete that the orbit of
Gallia did not coincide with that of the planet, the orbit of Jupiter being
inclined at an angle of 1 degrees 19 mins to the orbit of the earth, with
which that of Gallia was, no doubt, coincident.
As the month of September verged towards its close, Jupiter began to
wear an aspect that must have excited the admiration of the most ignorant

or the most indifferent observer. Its salient points were illumined with novel
and radiant tints, and the solar rays, reflected from its disc, glowed with a
mingled softness and intensity upon Gallia, so that Nerina had to pale her
beauty.
Who could wonder that Rosette, enthusiast as he was, should be
irremovable from his observatory? Who could expect otherwise than that,
with the prospect before him of viewing the giant among planets, ten times
nearer than any mortal eye had ever done, he should have begrudged every
moment that distracted his attention?
Meanwhile, as Jupiter grew large, the sun grew small.
From its increased remoteness the diameter of the sun’s disc was
diminished to 5 degrees 46 mins.
And what an increased interest began to be associated with the satellites!
They were visible to the naked eye! Was it not a new record in the annals of
science?
Although it is acknowledged that they are not ordinarily visible on earth
without the aid of a somewhat powerful telescope, it has been asserted that
a favored few, endued with extraordinary powers of vision, have been able
to identify them with an unassisted eye; but here, at least, in Nina’s Hive
were many rivals, for everyone could so far distinguish them one from the
other as to describe them by their colors. The first was of a dull white
shade; the second was blue; the third was white and brilliant; the fourth was
orange, at times approaching to a red. It was further observed that Jupiter
itself was almost void of scintillation.
Rosette, in his absorbing interest for the glowing glories of the planet,
seemed to be beguiled into comparative forgetfulness of the charms of his
comet; but no astronomical enthusiasm of the professor could quite allay
the general apprehension that some serious collision might be impending.
Time passed on. There was nothing to justify apprehension. The question
was continually being asked, “What does the professor really think?”
“Our friend the professor,” said Servadac, “is not likely to tell us very
much; but we may feel pretty certain of one thing: he wouldn’t keep us long
in the dark, if he thought we were not going back to the earth again. The
greatest satisfaction he could have would be to inform us that we had parted
from the earth for ever.”

“I trust from my very soul,” said the count, “that his prognostications are
correct.”
“The more I see of him, and the more I listen to him,” replied Servadac,
“the more I become convinced that his calculations are based on a solid
foundation, and will prove correct to the minutest particular.”
Ben Zoof here interrupted the conversation. “I have something on my
mind,” he said.
“Something on your mind? Out with it!” said the captain.
“That telescope!” said the orderly; “it strikes me that that telescope which
the old professor keeps pointed up at yonder big sun is bringing it down
straight upon us.”
The captain laughed heartily.
“Laugh, captain, if you like; but I feel disposed to break the old telescope
into atoms.”
“Ben Zoof,” said Servadac, his laughter exchanged for a look of stern
displeasure, “touch that telescope, and you shall swing for it!”
The orderly looked astonished.
“I am governor here,” said Servadac.
Ben Zoof knew what his master meant, and to him his master’s wish was
law.
The interval between the comet and Jupiter was, by the 1st of October,
reduced to 43,000,000 miles. The belts all parallel to Jupiter’s equator were
very distinct in their markings. Those immediately north and south of the
equator were of a dusky hue; those toward the poles were alternately dark
and light; the intervening spaces of the planet’s superficies, between edge
and edge, being intensely bright. The belts themselves were occasionally
broken by spots, which the records of astronomy describe as varying both in
form and in extent.
The physiology of belts and spots alike was beyond the astronomer’s
power to ascertain; and even if he should be destined once again to take his
place in an astronomical congress on the earth, he would be just as
incapable as ever of determining whether or no they owed their existence to
the external accumulation of vapor, or to some internal agency. It would not
be Professor Rosette’s lot to enlighten his brother savants to any great

degree as to the mysteries that are associated with this, which must ever
rank as one of the most magnificent amongst the heavenly orbs.
As the comet approached the critical point of its career it cannot be
denied that there was an unacknowledged consciousness of alarm. Mutually
reserved, though ever courteous, the count and the captain were secretly
drawn together by the prospect of a common danger; and as their return to
the earth appeared to them to become more and more dubious, they
abandoned their views of narrow isolation, and tried to embrace the wider
philosophy that acknowledges the credibility of a habitable universe.
But no philosophy could be proof against the common instincts of their
humanity; their hearts, their hopes, were set upon their natural home; no
speculation, no science, no experience, could induce them to give up their
fond and sanguine anticipation that once again they were to come in contact
with the earth.
“Only let us escape Jupiter,” said Lieutenant Procope, repeatedly, “and
we are free from anxiety.”
“But would not Saturn lie ahead?” asked Servadac and the count in one
breath.
“No!” said Procope; “the orbit of Saturn is remote, and does not come
athwart our path. Jupiter is our sole hindrance. Of Jupiter we must say, as
William Tell said, ‘Once through the ominous pass and all is well.’”
The 15th of October came, the date of the nearest approximation of the
comet to the planet. They were only 31,000,000 miles apart. What would
now transpire? Would Gallia be diverted from its proper way? or would it
hold the course that the astronomer had predicted?
Early next morning the captain ventured to take the count and the
lieutenant up to the observatory. The professor was in the worst of tempers.
That was enough. It was enough, without a word, to indicate the course
which events had taken. The comet was pursuing an unaltered way.
The astronomer, correct in his prognostications, ought to have been the
most proud and contented of philosophers; his pride and contentment were
both overshadowed by the certainty that the career of his comet was
destined to be so transient, and that it must inevitably once again come into
collision with the earth.

CHAPTER IX MARKET PRICES IN GALLIA
“All right!” said Servadac, convinced by the professor’s ill humor that
the danger was past; “no doubt we are in for a two years’ excursion, but
fifteen months more will take us back to the earth!”
“And we shall see Montmartre again!” exclaimed Ben Zoof, in excited
tones that betrayed his delight in the anticipation.
To use a nautical expression, they had safely “rounded the point,” and
they had to be congratulated on their successful navigation; for if, under the
influence of Jupiter’s attraction, the comet had been retarded for a single
hour, in that hour the earth would have already traveled 2,300,000 miles
from the point where contact would ensue, and many centuries would
elapse before such a coincidence would possibly again occur.
On the 1st of November Gallia and Jupiter were 40,000,000 miles apart.
It was little more than ten weeks to the 15th of January, when the comet
would begin to re-approach the sun. Though light and heat were now
reduced to a twenty-fifth part of their terrestrial intensity, so that a perpetual
twilight seemed to have settled over Gallia, yet the population felt cheered
even by the little that was left, and buoyed up by the hope that they should
ultimately regain their proper position with regard to the great luminary, of
which the temperature has been estimated as not less than 5,000,000
degrees.
Of the anxiety endured during the last two months Isaac Hakkabut had
known nothing. Since the day he had done his lucky stroke of business he
had never left the tartan; and after Ben Zoof, on the following day, had
returned the steelyard and the borrowed cash, receiving back the paper
roubles deposited, all communication between the Jew and Nina’s Hive had
ceased. In the course of the few minutes’ conversation which Ben Zoof had
held with him, he had mentioned that he knew that the whole soil of Gallia
was made of gold; but the old man, guessing that the orderly was only
laughing at him as usual, paid no attention to the remark, and only
meditated upon the means he could devise to get every bit of the money in
the new world into his own possession. No one grieved over the life of

solitude which Hakkabut persisted in leading. Ben Zoof giggled heartily, as
he repeatedly observed “it was astonishing how they reconciled themselves
to his absence.”
The time came, however, when various circumstances prompted him to
think he must renew his intercourse with the inhabitants of the Hive. Some
of his goods were beginning to spoil, and he felt the necessity of turning
them into money, if he would not be a loser; he hoped, moreover, that the
scarcity of his commodities would secure very high prices.
It happened, just about this same time, that Ben Zoof had been calling his
master’s attention to the fact that some of their most necessary provisions
would soon be running short, and that their stock of coffee, sugar, and
tobacco would want replenishing. Servadac’s mind, of course, turned to the
cargo on board the Hansa, and he resolved, according to his promise, to
apply to the Jew and become a purchaser. Mutual interest and necessity thus
conspired to draw Hakkabut and the captain together.
Often and often had Isaac gloated in his solitude over the prospect of first
selling a portion of his merchandise for all the gold and silver in the colony.
His recent usurious transaction had whetted his appetite. He would next part
with some more of his cargo for all the paper money they could give him;
but still he should have goods left, and they would want these. Yes, they
should have these, too, for promissory notes. Notes would hold good when
they got back again to the earth; bills from his Excellency the governor
would be good bills; anyhow there would be the sheriff. By the God of
Israel! he would get good prices, and he would get fine interest!
Although he did not know it, he was proposing to follow the practice of
the Gauls of old, who advanced money on bills for payment in a future life.
Hakkabut’s “future life,” however, was not many months in advance of the
present.
Still Hakkabut hesitated to make the first advance, and it was accordingly
with much satisfaction that he hailed Captain Servadac’s appearance on
board the Hansa.
“Hakkabut,” said the captain, plunging without further preface into
business, “we want some coffee, some tobacco, and other things. I have
come to-day to order them, to settle the price, and to-morrow Ben Zoof
shall fetch the goods away.”

“Merciful, heavens!” the Jew began to whine; but Servadac cut him
short.
“None of that miserable howling! Business! I am come to buy your
goods. I shall pay for them.”
“Ah yes, your Excellency,” whispered the Jew, his voice trembling like a
street beggar. “Don’t impose on me. I am poor; I am nearly ruined already.”
“Cease your wretched whining!” cried Servadac. “I have told you once, I
shall pay for all I buy.”
“Ready money?” asked Hakkabut.
“Yes, ready money. What makes you ask?” said the captain, curious to
hear what the Jew would say.
“Well, you see—you see, your Excellency,” stammered out the Jew, “to
give credit to one wouldn’t do, unless I gave credit to another. You are
solvent—I mean honorable, and his lordship the count is honorable; but
maybe—maybe—”
“Well?” said Servadac, waiting, but inclined to kick the old rascal out of
his sight.
“I shouldn’t like to give credit,” he repeated.
“I have not asked you for credit. I have told you, you shall have ready
money.”
“Very good, your Excellency. But how will you pay me?”
“Pay you? Why, we shall pay you in gold and silver and copper, while
our money lasts, and when that is gone we shall pay you in bank notes.”
“Oh, no paper, no paper!” groaned out the Jew, relapsing into his
accustomed whine.
“Nonsense, man!” cried Servadac.
“No paper!” reiterated Hakkabut.
“Why not? Surely you can trust the banks of England, France, and
Russia.”
“Ah no! I must have gold. Nothing so safe as gold.”
“Well then,” said the captain, not wanting to lose his temper, “you shall
have it your own way; we have plenty of gold for the present. We will leave
the bank notes for by and by.” The Jew’s countenance brightened, and

Servadac, repeating that he should come again the next day, was about to
quit the vessel.
“One moment, your Excellency,” said Hakkabut, sidling up with a
hypocritical smile; “I suppose I am to fix my own prices.”
“You will, of course, charge ordinary prices—proper market prices;
European prices, I mean.”
“Merciful heavens!” shrieked the old man, “you rob me of my rights; you
defraud me of my privilege. The monopoly of the market belongs to me. It
is the custom; it is my right; it is my privilege to fix my own prices.”
Servadac made him understand that he had no intention of swerving from
his decision.
“Merciful heavens!” again howled the Jew, “it is sheer ruin. The time of
monopoly is the time for profit; it is the time for speculation.”
“The very thing, Hakkabut, that I am anxious to prevent. Just stop now,
and think a minute. You seem to forget my rights; you are forgetting that, if
I please, I can confiscate all your cargo for the common use. You ought to
think yourself lucky in getting any price at all. Be contented with European
prices; you will get no more. I am not going to waste my breath on you. I
will come again to-morrow;” and, without allowing Hakkabut time to renew
his lamentations, Servadac went away.
All the rest of the day the Jew was muttering bitter curses against the
thieves of Gentiles in general, and the governor of Gallia in particular, who
were robbing him of his just profits, by binding him down to a maximum
price for his goods, just as if it were a time of revolution in the state. But he
would be even with them yet; he would have it all out of them: he would
make European prices pay, after all. He had a plan—he knew how; and he
chuckled to himself, and grinned maliciously.
True to his word, the captain next morning arrived at the tartan. He was
accompanied by Ben Zoof and two Russian sailors. “Good-morning, old
Eleazar; we have come to do our little bit of friendly business with you, you
know,” was Ben Zoof’s greeting.
“What do you want to-day?” asked the Jew.
“To-day we want coffee, and we want sugar, and we want tobacco. We
must have ten kilogrammes of each. Take care they are all good; all first
rate. I am commissariat officer, and I am responsible.”

“I thought you were the governor’s aide-de-camp,” said Hakkabut.
“So I am, on state occasions; but to-day, I tell you. I am superintendent of
the commissariat department. Now, look sharp!”
Hakkabut hereupon descended into the hold of the tartan, and soon
returned, carrying ten packets of tobacco, each weighing one kilogramme,
and securely fastened by strips of paper, labeled with the French
government stamp.
“Ten kilogrammes of tobacco at twelve francs a kilogramme: a hundred
and twenty francs,” said the Jew.
Ben Zoof was on the point of laying down the money, when Servadac
stopped him.
“Let us just see whether the weight is correct.”
Hakkabut pointed out that the weight was duly registered on every
packet, and that the packets had never been unfastened. The captain,
however, had his own special object in view, and would not be diverted.
The Jew fetched his steelyard, and a packet of the tobacco was suspended to
it.
“Merciful heavens!” screamed Isaac.
The index registered only 133 grammes!
“You see, Hakkabut, I was right. I was perfectly justified in having your
goods put to the test,” said Servadac, quite seriously.
“But—but, your Excellency—” stammered out the bewildered man.
“You will, of course, make up the deficiency,” the captain continued, not
noticing the interruption.
“Oh, my lord, let me say—” began Isaac again.
“Come, come, old Caiaphas, do you hear? You are to make up the
deficiency,” exclaimed Ben Zoof.
“Ah, yes, yes; but—”
The unfortunate Israelite tried hard to speak, but his agitation prevented
him. He understood well enough the cause of the phenomenon, but he was
overpowered by the conviction that the “cursed Gentiles” wanted to cheat
him. He deeply regretted that he had not a pair of common scales on board.
“Come, I say, old Jedediah, you are a long while making up what’s
short,” said Ben Zoof, while the Jew was still stammering on.

As soon as he recovered his power of articulation, Isaac began to pour
out a medley of lamentations and petitions for mercy. The captain was
inexorable. “Very sorry, you know, Hakkabut. It is not my fault that the
packet is short weight; but I cannot pay for a kilogramme except I have a
kilogramme.”
Hakkabut pleaded for some consideration.
“A bargain is a bargain,” said Servadac. “You must complete your
contract.”
And, moaning and groaning, the miserable man was driven to make up
the full weight as registered by his own steelyard. He had to repeat the
process with the sugar and coffee: for every kilogramme he had to weigh
seven. Ben Zoof and the Russians jeered him most unmercifully.
“I say, old Mordecai, wouldn’t you rather give your goods away, than sell
them at this rate? I would.”
“I say, old Pilate, a monopoly isn’t always a good thing, is it?”
“I say, old Sepharvaim, what a flourishing trade you’re driving!”
Meanwhile seventy kilogrammes of each of the articles required were
weighed, and the Jew for each seventy had to take the price of ten.
All along Captain Servadac had been acting only in jest. Aware that old
Isaac was an utter hypocrite, he had no compunction in turning a business
transaction with him into an occasion for a bit of fun. But the joke at an
end, he took care that the Jew was properly paid all his legitimate due.

CHAPTER X. FAR INTO SPACE
A month passed away. Gallia continued its course, bearing its little
population onwards, so far removed from the ordinary influence of human
passions that it might almost be said that its sole ostensible vice was
represented by the greed and avarice of the miserable Jew.
After all, they were but making a voyage—a strange, yet a transient,
excursion through solar regions hitherto untraversed; but if the professor’s
calculations were correct—and why should they be doubted?—their little
vessel was destined, after a two years’ absence, once more to return “to
port.” The landing, indeed, might be a matter of difficulty; but with the
good prospect before them of once again standing on terrestrial shores, they
had nothing to do at present except to make themselves as comfortable as
they could in their present quarters.
Thus confident in their anticipations, neither the captain, the count, nor
the lieutenant felt under any serious obligation to make any extensive
provisions for the future; they saw no necessity for expending the strength
of the people, during the short summer that would intervene upon the long
severity of winter, in the cultivation or the preservation of their agricultural
resources. Nevertheless, they often found themselves talking over the
measures they would have been driven to adopt, if they had found
themselves permanently attached to their present home.
Even after the turning-point in their career, they knew that at least nine
months would have to elapse before the sea would be open to navigation;
but at the very first arrival of summer they would be bound to arrange for
the Dobryna and the Hansa to retransport themselves and all their animals
to the shores of Gourbi Island, where they would have to commence their
agricultural labors to secure the crops that must form their winter store.
During four months or thereabouts, they would lead the lives of farmers and
of sportsmen; but no sooner would their haymaking and their corn harvest
have been accomplished, than they would be compelled again, like a swarm
of bees, to retire to their semi-troglodyte existence in the cells of Nina’s
Hive.

Now and then the captain and his friends found themselves speculating
whether, in the event of their having to spend another winter upon Gallia,
some means could not be devised by which the dreariness of a second
residence in the recesses of the volcano might be escaped. Would not
another exploring expedition possibly result in the discovery of a vein of
coal or other combustible matter, which could be turned to account in
warming some erection which they might hope to put up? A prolonged
existence in their underground quarters was felt to be monotonous and
depressing, and although it might be all very well for a man like Professor
Rosette, absorbed in astronomical studies, it was ill suited to the
temperaments of any of themselves for any longer period than was
absolutely indispensable.
One contingency there was, almost too terrible to be taken into account.
Was it not to be expected that the time might come when the internal fires
of Gallia would lose their activity, and the stream of lava would
consequently cease to flow? Why should Gallia be exempt from the destiny
that seemed to await every other heavenly body? Why should it not roll
onwards, like the moon, a dark cold mass in space?
In the event of such a cessation of the volcanic eruption, whilst the comet
was still at so great a distance from the sun, they would indeed be at a loss
to find a substitute for what alone had served to render life endurable at a
temperature of 60 degrees below zero. Happily, however, there was at
present no symptom of the subsidence of the lava’s stream; the volcano
continued its regular and unchanging discharge, and Servadac, ever
sanguine, declared that it was useless to give themselves any anxiety upon
the matter.
On the 15th of December, Gallia was 276,000,000 leagues from the sun,
and, as it was approximately to the extremity of its axis major, would travel
only some 11,000,000 or 12,000,000 leagues during the month. Another
world was now becoming a conspicuous object in the heavens, and
Palmyrin Rosette, after rejoicing in an approach nearer to Jupiter than any
other mortal man had ever attained, was now to be privileged to enjoy a
similar opportunity of contemplating the planet Saturn. Not that the
circumstances were altogether so favorable. Scarcely 31,000,000 miles had
separated Gallia from Jupiter; the minimum distance of Saturn would not be
less than 415,000,000 miles; but even this distance, although too great to

affect the comet’s progress more than had been duly reckoned on, was
considerably shorter than what had ever separated Saturn from the earth.
To get any information about the planet from Rosette appeared quite
impossible. Although equally by night and by day he never seemed to quit
his telescope, he did not evince the slightest inclination to impart the result
of his observations. It was only from the few astronomical works that
happened to be included in the Dobryna’s library that any details could be
gathered, but these were sufficient to give a large amount of interesting
information.
Ben Zoof, when he was made aware that the earth would be invisible to
the naked eye from the surface of Saturn, declared that he then, for his part,
did not care to learn any more about such a planet; to him it was
indispensable that the earth should remain in sight, and it was his great
consolation that hitherto his native sphere had never vanished from his
gaze.
At this date Saturn was revolving at a distance of 420,000,000 miles from
Gallia, and consequently 874,440,000 miles from the sun, receiving only a
hundredth part of the light and heat which that luminary bestows upon the
earth. On consulting their books of reference, the colonists found that
Saturn completes his revolution round the sun in a period of 29 years and
167 days, traveling at the rate of more than 21,000 miles an hour along an
orbit measuring 5,490 millions of miles in length. His circumference is
about 220,000 miles; his superficies, 144,000 millions of square miles; his
volume, 143,846 millions of cubic miles. Saturn is 735 times larger than the
earth, consequently he is smaller than Jupiter; in mass he is only 90 times
greater than the earth, which gives him a density less than that of water. He
revolves on his axis in 10 hours 29 minutes, causing his own year to consist
of 86,630 days; and his seasons, on account of the great inclination of his
axis to the plane of his orbit, are each of the length of seven terrestrial
years.
Although the light received from the sun is comparatively feeble, the
nights upon Saturn must be splendid. Eight satellites—Mimas, Enceladus,
Tethys, Dione, Rhea, Titan, Hyperion, and Japetus—accompany the planet;
Mimas, the nearest to its primary, rotating on its axis in 22 1/2 hours, and
revolving at a distance of only 120,800 miles, whilst Japetus, the most

remote, occupies 79 days in its rotation, and revolves at a distance of
2,314,000 miles.
Another most important contribution to the magnificence of the nights
upon Saturn is the triple ring with which, as a brilliant setting, the planet is
encompassed. To an observer at the equator, this ring, which has been
estimated by Sir William Herschel as scarcely 100 miles in thickness, must
have the appearance of a narrow band of light passing through the zenith
12,000 miles above his head. As the observer, however, increases his
latitude either north or south, the band will gradually widen out into three
detached and concentric rings, of which the innermost, dark though
transparent, is 9,625 miles in breadth; the intermediate one, which is
brighter than the planet itself, being 17,605 miles broad; and the outer, of a
dusky hue, being 8,660 miles broad.
Such, they read, is the general outline of this strange appendage, which
revolves in its own plane in 10 hours 32 minutes. Of what matter it is
composed, and how it resists disintegration, is still an unsettled question;
but it might almost seem that the Designer of the universe, in permitting its
existence, had been willing to impart to His intelligent creatures the manner
in which celestial bodies are evolved, and that this remarkable ring-system
is a remnant of the nebula from which Saturn was himself developed, and
which, from some unknown cause, has become solidified. If at any time it
should disperse, it would either fall into fragments upon the surface of
Saturn, or the fragments, mutually coalescing, would form additional
satellites to circle round the planet in its path.
To any observer stationed on the planet, between the extremes of lat. 45
degrees on either side of the equator, these wonderful rings would present
various strange phenomena. Sometimes they would appear as an
illuminated arch, with the shadow of Saturn passing over it like the hour-
hand over a dial; at other times they would be like a semi-aureole of light.
Very often, too, for periods of several years, daily eclipses of the sun must
occur through the interposition of this triple ring.
Truly, with the constant rising and setting of the satellites, some with
bright discs at their full, others like silver crescents, in quadrature, as well
as by the encircling rings, the aspect of the heavens from the surface of
Saturn must be as impressive as it is gorgeous.

Unable, indeed, the Gallians were to realize all the marvels of this
strange world. After all, they were practically a thousand times further off
than the great astronomers have been able to approach by means of their
giant telescopes. But they did not complain; their little comet, they knew,
was far safer where it was; far better out of the reach of an attraction which,
by affecting their path, might have annihilated their best hopes.
The distances of several of the brightest of the fixed stars have been
estimated. Amongst others, Vega in the constellation Lyra is 100 millions of
millions of miles away; Sirius in Canis Major, 123 millions of millions; the
Pole-star, 282 millions of millions; and Capella, 340 millions of millions of
miles, a figure represented by no less than fifteen digits.
The hard numerical statement of these enormous figures, however, fails
altogether in any adequate way to convey a due impression of the
magnitude of these distances. Astronomers, in their ingenuity, have
endeavored to use some other basis, and have found “the velocity of light”
to be convenient for their purpose. They have made their representations
something in this way:
“Suppose,” they say, “an observer endowed with an infinite length of
vision: suppose him stationed on the surface of Capella; looking thence
towards the earth, he would be a spectator of events that had happened
seventy years previously; transport him to a star ten times distant, and he
will be reviewing the terrestrial sphere of 720 years back; carry him away
further still, to a star so remote that it requires something less than nineteen
centuries for light to reach it, and he would be a witness of the birth and
death of Christ; convey him further again, and he shall be looking upon the
dread desolation of the Deluge; take him away further yet (for space is
infinite), and he shall be a spectator of the Creation of the spheres. History
is thus stereotyped in space; nothing once accomplished can ever be
effaced.”
Who can altogether be astonished that Palmyrin Rosette, with his burning
thirst for astronomical research, should have been conscious of a longing
for yet wider travel through the sidereal universe? With his comet now
under the influence of one star, now of another, what various systems might
he not have explored! what undreamed-of marvels might not have revealed
themselves before his gaze! The stars, fixed and immovable in name, are all

of them in motion, and Gallia might have followed them in their un-tracked
way.
But Gallia had a narrow destiny. She was not to be allowed to wander
away into the range of attraction of another center; nor to mingle with the
star clusters, some of which have been entirely, others partially resolved;
nor was she to lose herself amongst the 5,000 nebulae which have resisted
hitherto the grasp of the most powerful reflectors. No; Gallia was neither to
pass beyond the limits of the solar system, nor to travel out of sight of the
terrestrial sphere. Her orbit was circumscribed to little over 1,500 millions
of miles; and, in comparison with the infinite space beyond, this was a mere
nothing.

CHAPTER XI. A FETE DAY
The temperature continued to decrease; the mercurial thermometer,
which freezes at 42 degrees below zero, was no longer of service, and the
spirit thermometer of the Dobryna had been brought into use. This now
registered 53 degrees below freezing-point.
In the creek, where the two vessels had been moored for the winter, the
elevation of the ice, in anticipation of which Lieutenant Procope had taken
the precautionary measure of beveling, was going on slowly but irresistibly,
and the tartan was upheaved fifty feet above the level of the Gallian Sea,
while the schooner, as being lighter, had been raised to a still greater
altitude.
So irresistible was this gradual process of elevation, so utterly defying all
human power to arrest, that the lieutenant began to feel very anxious as to
the safety of his yacht. With the exception of the engine and the masts,
everything had been cleared out and conveyed to shore, but in the event of a
thaw it appeared that nothing short of a miracle could prevent the hull from
being dashed to pieces, and then all means of leaving the promontory would
be gone. The Hansa, of course, would share a similar fate; in fact, it had
already heeled over to such an extent as to render it quite dangerous for its
obstinate owner, who, at the peril of his life, resolved that he would stay
where he could watch over his all-precious cargo, though continually
invoking curses on the ill-fate of which he deemed himself the victim.
There was, however, a stronger will than Isaac Hakkabut’s. Although no
one of all the community cared at all for the safety of the Jew, they cared
very much for the security of his cargo, and when Servadac found that
nothing would induce the old man to abandon his present quarters
voluntarily, he very soon adopted measures of coercion that were far more
effectual than any representations of personal danger.
“Stop where you like, Hakkabut,” said the captain to him; “but
understand that I consider it my duty to make sure that your cargo is taken
care of. I am going to have it carried across to land, at once.”

Neither groans, nor tears, nor protestations on the part of the Jew, were of
the slightest avail. Forthwith, on the 20th of December, the removal of the
goods commenced.
Both Spaniards and Russians were all occupied for several days in the
work of unloading the tartan. Well muffled up as they were in furs, they
were able to endure the cold with impunity, making it their special care to
avoid actual contact with any article made of metal, which, in the low state
of the temperature, would inevitably have taken all the skin off their hands,
as much as if it had been red-hot. The task, however, was brought to an end
without accident of any kind; and when the stores of the Hansa were safely
deposited in the galleries of the Hive, Lieutenant Procope avowed that he
really felt that his mind had been unburdened from a great anxiety.
Captain Servadac gave old Isaac full permission to take up his residence
amongst the rest of the community, promised him the entire control over his
own property, and altogether showed him so much consideration that, but
for his unbounded respect for his master, Ben Zoof would have liked to
reprimand him for his courtesy to a man whom he so cordially despised.
Although Hakkabut clamored most vehemently about his goods being
carried off “against his will,” in his heart he was more than satisfied to see
his property transferred to a place of safety, and delighted, moreover, to
know that the transport had been effected without a farthing of expense to
himself. As soon, then, as he found the tartan empty, he was only too glad to
accept the offer that had been made him, and very soon made his way over
to the quarters in the gallery where his merchandise had been stored. Here
he lived day and night. He supplied himself with what little food he
required from his own stock of provisions, a small spirit-lamp sufficing to
perform all the operations of his meager cookery. Consequently all
intercourse between himself and the rest of the inhabitants was entirely
confined to business transactions, when occasion required that some
purchase should be made from his stock of commodities. Meanwhile, all the
silver and gold of the colony was gradually finding its way to a double-
locked drawer, of which the Jew most carefully guarded the key.
The 1st of January was drawing near, the anniversary of the shock which
had resulted in the severance of thirty-six human beings from the society of
their fellow-men. Hitherto, not one of them was missing. The unvarying
calmness of the climate, notwithstanding the cold, had tended to maintain

them in good health, and there seemed no reason to doubt that, when Gallia
returned to the earth, the total of its little population would still be
complete.
The 1st of January, it is true, was not properly “New Year’s Day” in
Gallia, but Captain Servadac, nevertheless, was very anxious to have it
observed as a holiday.
“I do not think,” he said to Count Timascheff and Lieutenant Procope,
“that we ought to allow our people to lose their interest in the world to
which we are all hoping to return; and how can we cement the bond that
ought to unite us, better than by celebrating, in common with our fellow-
creatures upon earth, a day that awakens afresh the kindliest sentiments of
all? Besides,” he added, smiling, “I expect that Gallia, although invisible
just at present to the naked eye, is being closely watched by the telescopes
of our terrestrial friends, and I have no doubt that the newspapers and
scientific journals of both hemispheres are full of accounts detailing the
movements of the new comet.”
“True,” asserted the count. “I can quite imagine that we are occasioning
no small excitement in all the chief observatories.”
“Ay, more than that,” said the lieutenant; “our Gallia is certain to be far
more than a mere object of scientific interest or curiosity. Why should we
doubt that the elements of a comet which has once come into collision with
the earth have by this time been accurately calculated? What our friend the
professor has done here, has been done likewise on the earth, where,
beyond a question, all manner of expedients are being discussed as to the
best way of mitigating the violence of a concussion that must occur.”
The lieutenant’s conjectures were so reasonable that they commanded
assent. Gallia could scarcely be otherwise than an object of terror to the
inhabitants of the earth, who could by no means be certain that a second
collision would be comparatively so harmless as the first. Even to the
Gallians themselves, much as they looked forward to the event, the prospect
was not unmixed with alarm, and they would rejoice in the invention of any
device by which it was likely the impetus of the shock might be deadened.
Christmas arrived, and was marked by appropriate religious observance
by everyone in the community, with the exception of the Jew, who made a
point of secluding himself more obstinately than ever in the gloomy
recesses of his retreat.

To Ben Zoof the last week of the year was full of bustle. The
arrangements for the New Year fete were entrusted to him, and he was
anxious, in spite of the resources of Gallia being so limited, to make the
program for the great day as attractive as possible.
It was a matter of debate that night whether the professor should be
invited to join the party; it was scarcely likely that he would care to come,
but, on the whole, it was felt to be advisable to ask him. At first Captain
Servadac thought of going in person with the invitation; but, remembering
Rosette’s dislike to visitors, he altered his mind, and sent young Pablo up to
the observatory with a formal note, requesting the pleasure of Professor
Rosette’s company at the New Year’s fete.
Pablo was soon back, bringing no answer except that the professor had
told him that “to-day was the 125th of June, and that to-morrow would be
the 1st of July.”
Consequently, Servadac and the count took it for granted that Palmyrin
Rosette declined their invitation.
An hour after sunrise on New Year’s Day, Frenchmen, Russians,
Spaniards, and little Nina, as the representative of Italy, sat down to a feast
such as never before had been seen in Gallia. Ben Zoof and the Russian
cook had quite surpassed themselves. The wines, part of the Dobryna’s
stores, were of excellent quality. Those of the vintages of France and Spain
were drunk in toasting their respective countries, and even Russia was
honored in a similar way by means of a few bottles of kummel. The
company was more than contented—it was as jovial as Ben Zoof could
desire; and the ringing cheers that followed the great toast of the day—“A
happy return to our Mother Earth,” must fairly have startled the professor in
the silence of his observatory.
The dejeuner over, there still remained three hours of daylight. The sun
was approaching the zenith, but so dim and enfeebled were his rays that
they were very unlike what had produced the wines of Bordeaux and
Burgundy which they had just been enjoying, and it was necessary for all,
before starting upon an excursion that would last over nightfall, to envelop
themselves in the thickest of clothing.
Full of spirits, the party left the Hive, and chattering and singing as they
went, made their way down to the frozen shore, where they fastened on
their skates. Once upon the ice, everyone followed his own fancy, and some

singly, some in groups, scattered themselves in all directions. Captain
Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant were generally seen together.
Negrete and the Spaniards, now masters of their novel exercise, wandered
fleetly and gracefully hither and thither, occasionally being out of sight
completely. The Russian sailors, following a northern custom, skated in file,
maintaining their rank by means of a long pole passed under their right
arms, and in this way they described a trackway of singular regularity. The
two children, blithe as birds, flitted about, now singly, now arm-in-arm,
now joining the captain’s party, now making a short peregrination by
themselves, but always full of life and spirit. As for Ben Zoof, he was here,
there, and everywhere, his imperturbable good temper ensuring him a smile
of welcome whenever he appeared.
Thus coursing rapidly over the icy plain, the whole party had soon
exceeded the line that made the horizon from the shore. First, the rocks of
the coast were lost to view; then the white crests of the cliffs were no longer
to be seen; and at last, the summit of the volcano, with its corona of vapor,
was entirely out of sight. Occasionally the skaters were obliged to stop to
recover their breath, but, fearful of frost-bite, they almost instantly resumed
their exercise, and proceeded nearly as far as Gourbi Island before they
thought about retracing their course.
But night was coming on, and the sun was already sinking in the east
with the rapidity to which the residents on Gallia were by this time well
accustomed. The sunset upon this contracted horizon was very remarkable.
There was not a cloud nor a vapor to catch the tints of the declining beams;
the surface of the ice did not, as a liquid sea would, reflect the last green ray
of light; but the radiant orb, enlarged by the effect of refraction, its
circumference sharply defined against the sky, sank abruptly, as though a
trap had been opened in the ice for its reception.
Before the daylight ended. Captain Servadac had cautioned the party to
collect themselves betimes into one group. “Unless you are sure of your
whereabouts before dark,” he said, “you will not find it after. We have come
out like a party of skirmishers; let us go back in full force.”
The night would be dark; their moon was in conjunction, and would not
be seen; the stars would only give something of that “pale radiance” which
the poet Corneille has described.

Immediately after sunset the torches were lighted, and the long series of
flames, fanned by the rapid motion of their bearers, had much the
appearance of an enormous fiery banner. An hour later, and the volcano
appeared like a dim shadow on the horizon, the light from the crater
shedding a lurid glare upon the surrounding gloom. In time the glow of the
burning lava, reflected in the icy mirror, fell upon the troop of skaters, and
cast their lengthened shadows grotesquely on the surface of the frozen sea.
Later still, half an hour or more afterwards, the torches were all but dying
out. The shore was close at hand. All at once, Ben Zoof uttered a startled
cry, and pointed with bewildered excitement towards the mountain.
Involuntarily, one and all, they plowed their heels into the ice and came to a
halt. Exclamations of surprise and horror burst from every lip. The volcano
was extinguished! The stream of burning lava had suddenly ceased to flow!
Speechless with amazement, they stood still for some moments. There
was not one of them that did not realize, more or less, how critical was their
position. The sole source of the heat that had enabled them to brave the
rigor of the cold had failed them! death, in the cruellest of all shapes,
seemed staring them in the face—death from cold! Meanwhile, the last
torch had flickered out.
It was quite dark.
“Forward!” cried Servadac, firmly.
At the word of command they advanced to the shore; clambered with no
little difficulty up the slippery rocks; gained the mouth of the gallery;
groped their way into the common hall.
How dreary! how chill it seemed!
The fiery cataract no longer spread its glowing covering over the mouth
of the grotto. Lieutenant Procope leaned through the aperture. The pool,
hitherto kept fluid by its proximity to the lava, was already encrusted with a
layer of ice.
Such was the end of the New Year’s Day so happily begun.

CHAPTER XII. THE BOWELS OF THE
COMET
The whole night was spent in speculating, with gloomy forebodings,
upon the chances of the future. The temperature of the hall, now entirely
exposed to the outer air, was rapidly falling, and would quickly become
unendurable. Far too intense was the cold to allow anyone to remain at the
opening, and the moisture on the walls soon resolved itself into icicles. But
the mountain was like the body of a dying man, that retains awhile a certain
amount of heat at the heart after the extremities have become cold and dead.
In the more interior galleries there was still a certain degree of warmth, and
hither Servadac and his companions were glad enough to retreat.
Here they found the professor, who, startled by the sudden cold, had been
fain to make a precipitate retreat from his observatory. Now would have
been the opportunity to demand of the enthusiast whether he would like to
prolong his residence indefinitely upon his little comet. It is very likely that
he would have declared himself ready to put up with any amount of
discomfort to be able to gratify his love of investigation; but all were far too
disheartened and distressed to care to banter him upon the subject on which
he was so sensitive.
Next morning, Servadac thus addressed his people. “My friends, except
from cold, we have nothing to fear. Our provisions are ample—more than
enough for the remaining period of our sojourn in this lone world of ours;
our preserved meat is already cooked; we shall be able to dispense with all
fuel for cooking purposes. All that we require is warmth—warmth for
ourselves; let us secure that, and all may be well. Now, I do not entertain a
doubt but that the warmth we require is resident in the bowels of this
mountain on which we are living; to the depth of those bowels we must
penetrate; there we shall obtain the warmth which is indispensable to our
very existence.”
His tone, quite as much as his words, restored confidence to many of his
people, who were already yielding to a feeling of despair. The count and the
lieutenant fervently, but silently, grasped his hand.

“Nina,” said the captain, “you will not be afraid to go down to the lower
depths of the mountain, will you?”
“Not if Pablo goes,” replied the child.
“Oh yes, of course, Pablo will go. You are not afraid to go, are you,
Pablo?” he said, addressing the boy.
“Anywhere with you, your Excellency,” was the boy’s prompt reply.
And certain it was that no time must be lost in penetrating below the
heart of the volcano; already the most protected of the many ramifications
of Nina’s Hive were being pervaded by a cold that was insufferable. It was
an acknowledged impossibility to get access to the crater by the exterior
declivities of the mountain-side; they were far too steep and too slippery to
afford a foothold. It must of necessity be entered from the interior.
Lieutenant Procope accordingly undertook the task of exploring all the
galleries, and was soon able to report that he had discovered one which he
had every reason to believe abutted upon the central funnel. His reason for
coming to this conclusion was that the caloric emitted by the rising vapors
of the hot lava seemed to be oozing, as it were, out of the tellurium, which
had been demonstrated already to be a conductor of heat. Only succeed in
piercing through this rock for seven or eight yards, and the lieutenant did
not doubt that his way would be opened into the old lava-course, by
following which he hoped descent would be easy.
Under the lieutenant’s direction the Russian sailors were immediately set
to work. Their former experience had convinced them that spades and pick-
axes were of no avail, and their sole resource was to proceed by blasting
with gunpowder. However skillfully the operation might be carried on, it
must necessarily occupy several days, and during that time the sufferings
from cold must be very severe.
“If we fail in our object, and cannot get to the depths of the mountain, our
little colony is doomed,” said Count Timascheff.
“That speech is not like yourself,” answered Servadac, smiling. “What
has become of the faith which has hitherto carried you so bravely through
all our difficulties?”
The count shook his head, as if in despair, and said, sadly, “The Hand
that has hitherto been outstretched to help seems now to be withdrawn.”