Off on a Comet, Jules Verne [10 ebook reader .txt] 📗
- Author: Jules Verne
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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
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 Charle-magne.
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
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