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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 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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