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    Off on a Comet
    Off on a Comet
    Off on a Comet
    Ebook428 pages6 hours

    Off on a Comet

    By Jules Verne

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    One of the first science fiction novels.According to the introduction, "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 According to Wikipedia: "Jules Gabriel Verne (February 8, 1828 – March 24, 1905) was a French author who pioneered the science-fiction genre. He is best known for his novels Journey to the Center of the Earth (written in 1864), From the Earth to the Moon (1865), Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (1869–1870), and Around the World in Eighty Days (1873). Verne wrote about space, air, and underwater travel before navigable aircraft and practical submarines were invented, and before any means of space travel had been devised. Consequently he is often referred to as the "Father of science fiction", along with H. G. Wells.Verne is the second most translated author of all time, only behind Agatha Christie with 4162 translations, according to Index Translationum. Some of his work has been made into films. "in general, or even our astronomers, becoming conscious of the fact."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSeltzer Books
    Release dateMar 1, 2018
    ISBN9781455372492
    Author

    Jules Verne

    Beinahe wäre Klein-Jules als Schiffsjunge nach Indien gefahren, hätte eine Laufbahn als Seemann eingeschlagen und später unterhaltsames Seemannsgarn gesponnen, das vermutlich nie die Druckerpresse erreicht hätte. Glücklicherweise für uns Leser hindert man ihn daran: Der Elfjährige wird von Bord geholt und verlebt weiterhin eine behütete Kindheit vor bürgerlichem Hintergrund. Geboren am 8. Februar 1828 in Nantes, wächst Jules-Gabriel Verne in gut situierten Verhältnissen auf. Als ältester von fünf Sprösslingen soll er die väterliche Anwaltspraxis übernehmen, weshalb er ab 1846 in Paris Jura studiert. Jules Verne, der Vater der Science-Fiction-Literatur.

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      Off on a Comet - Jules Verne

      OFF ON A COMET OR HECTOR SERVADAC BY JULES VERNE

      Books by Jules Verne in English translation:

      Five Weeks in a Balloon, or Journeys and Discoveries in Africa by Three Englishmen

      Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon

      Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas, an Underwater Tour of the World

      Adventures of a Special Correspondent, among the Various Races and Countries of Central Asia, Being the Exploits and Experiences of Claudius Bombarnac of the Twentieth Century

      All Around the Moon

      Around the World in Eighty Days

      Blockade Runners

      Celebrated Travels and Travellers: The Exploration of the World

      Celebrated Travels and Travellers: The Great Navigators of the Eighteenth Century

      Celebrated Travels and Travellers: The Great Explorers of the Nineteenth Century

      Dick Sand or a Captain at Fifteen

      The English at the North Pole, Part 1 of the Adventures of Captain Hatteras

      The Field of Ice, Part 2 of the Adventures of Captain Hatteras

      Facing the Flag

      From the Earth to the Moon

      The Fur Country or Seventy Degrees North Latitude

      Godfrey Morgan

      In Search of the Castaways (sometimes called The Children of of Captain Grant and A Voyage Around the World)

      A Journey into the Interior of the Earth

      Master of the World

      Michael Strogoff or the Courier of the Czar

      The Mysterious Island

      Off on a Comet or Hector Servadac

      Robur the Conqueror

      Round the Moon (sequel to From the Earth to the Moon)

      The Secret of the Island (sequel to Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea)

      The Survivors of the Chancellor

      Ticket No. 9672

      Topsy-Turvy

      The Underground City or The Black Indies (sometimes called The Chlid of the Cavern)

      A Voyage in a Balloon (short story)

      The Waif of the Cynthia

      feedback welcome: [email protected]

      visit us at samizdat.com

      from WORKS of 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

      INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME NINE

      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. FROZEN OCEAN

      CHAPTER XXIII. A CARRIER PIGEON

      CHAPTER XXIV. A SLEDGE RIDE

      BOOK II

      CHAPTER I. THE ASTRONOMER

      CHAPTER II. A REVELATIION

      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 DISAPOINTMENT

      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

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