The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  The man from the North Pole drew the mariners toward the cave and resumed speaking: “I’ll explain everything!” he said. “First, though, tell me—was it my seals that put you on the track?”

  “Ah!” murmured Farandoul. “You’re the shipwreck-victim!”

  “The seals!” cried the three German scientists, breathlessly. “The Latin seals?”

  “Yes, my seals!” replied the shipwreck-victim.

  “Your own seals, seals that speak Latin, which say pater, mater and polus in Latin! The Scientific Congress of Berlin, after having examined them, concluded that there must exist, in the polar ice, the remnant of some Roman colony…”

  “The Roman colony is me!”

  Hermann Knapp, Otto Rabus and Uric Koplipmann stood up straight, furiously. “You! your seals! Come on! Pater, mater, polus…and Caesar. One of them pronounced that great name a little while ago…”

  “César, that’s me!” the shipwreck-victim went on. “César Picolot, ex-professor of philosophy at the College of Le Havre, involuntary voyager and unwilling inhabitant of the Island of the Pole. For eight years I’ve vegetated among these rocks, the butt of ill-treatment by the Governor’s pirates.”

  “Eight years!”

  “Yes, Messieurs, eight long years I’ve been miserably wandering these shores, waiting for help that didn’t come! What could I hope for, anyway? The civilized world is entirely ignorant as to the existence of the Island of the Pole, and I had no means of making my unfortunate fate known. I’ve always heard talk of castaways who found means to make their positions known by introducing documents into bottles, which they then confided to the waves, but I lacked the necessary bottle. It was only after three years, after much thought, that an idea occurred to me. I had often seen, in my youth, seals in circuses that had been taught to pronounce papa and mama more or less distinctly, so I decided to use the faculty of elocution that seals possess to attempt to send my news to the world. There is no lack of seals; in spring and autumn thousands of the animals cover the shores of the Island of the Pole. I appointed myself their educator. What patience! What precautions! What cares! Incessantly in their midst, sharing their frolics on land, and even in the waves, I carried their infants my arms, attempting to teach them to talk. Hard work! For every pupil who pronounced a few words, hundreds produced nothing but baroque and incomprehensible sounds! Alas, I had not the resource of setting extra homework to force the recalcitrants to work. It took me three years of patience to obtain a few results. After three years of relentless effort, I had two dozen pupils producing Polus quite distinctly…”

  “But why the Devil did you teach them Latin?” asked Mandibul, in surprise.

  “Why? What about the pirates, my persecutors? If my seals had spoken French, those wretches would have understood that I was trying to communicate with the outside world by this bizarre means. Because I employed Latin, they didn’t suspect anything. They laughed at me because I taught seals to say pater and mater, and left me alone. And I have succeeded, since these interesting animals have put you on the track of the unfortunate César Picolot!”

  Hermann Knapp, Otto Rabus and Ulric Koplipmann were flabbergasted. There was no longer any shadow of a doubt; the Roman colony did not exist. The great name of César, pronounced by the seals, was that of the poor castaway.

  “Finally, your troubles are over,” said Farandoul. “Console yourself; we shall take responsibility for your repatriation. But tell me—to wind up here, beyond the ice-field, you must have been part of an expedition to the Pole. Your ship must have gone down—can you tell us where and how?”

  “An expedition to the Pole? Never! I’m no sailor, much less a polar explorer. I’ve always had a horror of sea voyages.”

  “How did you end up here, then?”

  “Alas, I only ever made one sea-crossing, and that was fatal for me—the crossing from Le Havre to Trouville.”

  “From Le Havre to Trouville!”

  “Yes, Messieurs. Alas, it was love that doomed me. Eight years ago, a café concert-party gave performances in Le Havre. One evening, a pupil to whom I was explaining the philosophy of Descartes, Fichte, Kant and Hegel by means of strict individual tuition, dragged me to a theater consecrated to the joyous muse. How beautiful they were, Messieurs, the lovely singers of that company—how beautiful they were! The next day, when the temple opened, I was there, drinking beer with my pupil. We had a mountain of bouquets; at every piece, serious or light, to every singer, a bouquet! That lasted a week, during which I spent three-quarters of my savings on flowers. In our capacity as theater-lovers we were admitted to rehearsals, but I never got any further. My course in philosophy at the Lycée du Havre suffered considerably, of course, from my going astray. During this interval, it seemed to me that my pupil was more greatly favored than me; I glimpsed an exchange of significant gestures between him and a robust chanteuse. What would you have done if you were me?”

  “Hmm!” said Mandibul, scratching his ear.

  “Indignantly, I took him back to his family and informed his father of his debauchery. He never came back; I had got rid of my rival. Alas, the company left Le Havre, bound for Trouville. In spite of my horror of maritime voyages, I embarked with them. What a voyage, and what a terrible adventure en route! Interrogate your memories, Messieurs; did you ever hear, eight years ago, of the inexplicable disappearance of a café concert-party between Le Havre and Trouville? The event must have made the news….”

  “Indeed,” said Mandibul. “I vaguely remember it.”

  “Yes, Messieurs, we departed from Le Havre but never arrived in Trouville. My memories are confused, because, laid low by sea-sickness from the moment we left the jetty, I was lying down in a corner on a bundle of rope. En route, the steamboat was accosted by a yacht whose occupants claimed to have been sent to meet the company by admirers in Trouville. They transferred the pretty travelers, and the yacht was about to draw away with them when, in the midst of my suffering, I realized what was happening. In spite of the sailors’ shouts I jumped overboard, and, thanks to some ropes, I reached the yacht. Once on board, the sea-sickness took hold of me again and prevented me from noticing the singularity of the situation. Strangely enough, they had only taken the feminine component of the party; the men had remained aboard the Le Havre boat! I didn’t notice anything. Without being seen, I slipped into one of the yacht’s cabins and lay down to try to soothe the sea-sickness. I stayed there for two days, rather surprised by the duration of the voyage. We did not arrive at Trouville.

  “Finally, getting impatient, I decided to go up on deck, where my appearance surprised everyone. They did not know I was there. In order to relieve the tedium of the long journey, the ladies were making music in the main cabin with the captain. I interrogated the latter to find out what time we would arrive. He gave me an evasive answer, attributing the delay to currents. I decided to be patient. The ladies were there; I chatted with them about philosophy and music. A week later we still hadn’t arrived. This seemed to me to be a little strong and I made observations to the captain, who explained to me with a desolate expression that he ship’s chart had been lost and that, in consequence, the impossibility of determining the exact position of Trouville required a long search. The wretch!

  “A month passed: no Trouville! The ladies were beginning to be astonished by the length of the voyage. Finally the horror of our situation became clear to us one day, at the sight of the first floes of the ice-field. There were polar bears on the floating ice; there could no longer be any question of Trouville. The captain set aside his mask and told us our true destination: the North Pole! The Governor of the North Pole needed a café concert party to delight his polar evenings and distract his men, so he had requisitioned the company that I idolized! By way of response to my indignant observations, the captain contented himself with laughter and proposed to disembark me on the first convenient ice-floe. The ladies, thinking of the furs that they would harvest in these desolate regions, were soon re
conciled to their part in the situation. The comic singer intoned: I keep polar bears in the ice-field…

  “Finally, after long weeks of navigation through the ice-field, in a pass known only to the captain, we arrived here, at the Island of the Pole. That captain was the Governor of the North Pole himself!”

  “I understand the abduction of the concert party,” Mandibul observed, “but why did they bring you here?”

  “Why? Simply because I had stumbled on part of his secret; he was forced to imprison me to keep me from revealing it. And that’s why I was obliged to have recourse to the seals to call for help…but I haven’t finished. On our arrival at the Pole, the climate was very different from the one we are enjoying at present; instead of 35 degrees above zero, we had 45 or 50 degrees below. In spite of our furs we were three-quarters frozen. It’s the Governor of the Pole, a remarkable man in spite of everything, who has transformed the climate. This island is volcanic; wells of naphtha emerge everywhere in the form of geysers around a great central rock. The governor set light to them; the island went up in flames like a huge punch-bowl. The climate rapidly became milder; under the influence of that warmth, a near-tropical flora has developed.”

  “But what is the purpose of this polar installation?” Farandoul asked.

  “You shall see! When you’ve seen more of the Island of the Pole, you’ll recognize its commercial importance. Oh, the mysteries of the Gulf Stream! The great current of the Gulf Stream ends here and brings us all the shipwrecks in the Atlantic: the hulls of ships, boxes of merchandise, etc. A great part of the riches swallowed up by the waves is washed up on our shores. For example, only recently, following a big storm, the waves threw up a Spanish galleon lost in the 16th century while returning from Mexico loaded with gold! Do you understand now? After an initial voyage, the Governor, instead of giving science the advantage of his discoveries, set up the North Pole Co. Ltd., shares not traded on the London Stock Exchange. In partnership with powerful bankers, he has installed himself here, along with a company of criminal types, to supervise the exploitation under the title of the Governor of the North Pole.”

  “I understand everything now,” said Farandoul. “That’s why the Governor has made several attempts to block our expedition to the Pole, and why we came under rifle-fire!”

  “Of course!” said César Picolot, bitterly. “He intends to keep the fruitful North Pole for himself; he doesn’t want anyone to disturb the delightful life he leads in the midst of this verdant paradise, embellished by the presence of ladies kidnapped from all over. The wretched Governor loves music; all his unfortunate captives have been lyrical stars in Europe or America; thus, we have Rosita, from La Scala in Milan; Fanny Meyer, the principal singer of the Vienna Opera; two artistes from San Francisco; Carlotta Fabri; Princess Kriskapoulioff, etc., etc.—all eminent artistes whose incomprehensible disappearance the world must be mourning.

  “All these wretched pirates’ evenings are consecrated to music, singing and the piano…yes, we even have pianists, prize-winners from the Conservatoire! All genres are represented: religious music, serious music and comic opera. Do you like music? Personally, I once loved café concerts in Le Havre, but having thought long and hard about it since, I’ve reverted to saner ideas, and I abhor it! Consult history, and you’ll see that all great criminals had a passion for music. Papavoine played the harp, Lacenaire the piano, Dumollard felt his eyes fill with tears at the sound of the Barbary organ.111 Was it the music that pushed them into crime, or did they find it convenient for stifling the voice of remorse? I don’t know, but the fact alone ought to suffice to reproach the art on behalf of all honest men.”

  “I agree with you,” said Mandibul, “but let’s get back to the Governor.”

  “I was coming back to that. The pirates’ houses, and those of their victims, are in the center of the island, in a fortified location. All the resources of luxury have been imported here; the artistes are prisoners, but lack for nothing: comfortable apartments, sumptuous cuisine—a little too much fish, perhaps. Every evening, they gather in the great hall and he concert begins. Poor captives, they have no means of avoiding the pirate’s orders; the program is fixed and must be performed. The piano tinkles, the major instruments burst forth, then the light instruments and the chorus…horror! I hear it all in the cabin that I’ve build for myself in a hole in the rock—for my presence on the island is barely tolerated and I have no right to vegetate along with them. But all that is about to end! Three days ago, the Governor came back in his infernal little ship from a voyage to Europe, bring a cargo of new music and two singers that he kidnapped by means of a false engagement in America. I saw the pirates immediately begin various preparations for defense and I understood that liberators were on their way. You know everything now; the Governor and his pirates, who number about 30, are 100 meters away, hidden in the rocks…”

  “But who is this Governor. You haven’t said.”

  “Alas, an eight year sojourn hasn’t told me any more than I’ve told you. Mystery—mystery everywhere! Not one of the captives, perhaps not one of the pirates, has any inkling of that infernal man’s name.”

  “I can tell you!” exclaimed one of the English scientists, who had not said a word until then—and who, moreover, had not said much aboard the gondola-sloop. “This man, the Governor of the North Pole, is Captain Hatteras!”

  Farandoul released a cry of amazement. “Captain Hatteras! The intrepid explorer of the polar regions—the man for whom Jules Verne has made a reputation as a navigator and a gentleman?”

  “The very same.”

  Another of Jules Verne’s heroes! At the North Pole, so remote from the rest of the world, Farandoul is bumping into yet another of these fatal individuals. Farandoul sets off to discover the Pole, after 1000 frightful dangers he succeeds in finding this mysterious rock…fatality! The North Pole is inhabited. And by whom? By one of Jules Verne’s heroes, by Captain Hatteras!

  “Ventre de phoque!” cried Mandibul. “But are you sure that this Governor is Captain Hatteras. How do you know that, Monsieur?”

  The English scientist came forward into the circle of sailors. “Because he is my husband. Because I am his legitimate spouse, cruelly abandoned!”112 And the false scientist took off her spectacles, lifted up her wig, and appeared to all their astonished eyes with the face of a pretty English blonde of 27 or 28.

  “Oh!” said Mandibul.

  The second Englishman advanced into the circle in his turn.

  “I’ll wager that this is Madame Hatteras’ famous chambermaid!” cried Tournesol.

  “You’d lose!” replied the Englishman, and introduced himself: “I’m James Codgett,113 solicitor of 7 Chancery Lane, open every day from one till five, circumstances permitting, acting for Mrs. Hatteras in divorce proceedings brought before the court by the aforementioned lady against the honorable Captain John Hatteras, her husband. It is necessary for us to establish the debauchery of the said Captain Hatteras, in order to obtain the divorce on the grounds of outrageous behavior, and I’m counting on you, gentlemen, to sign witness-statements.”

  V.

  “This is an astonishing turn of events,” murmured Farandoul. “We could scarcely have expected to encounter all this at the North Pole!”

  “Alas,” said Mandibul, sadly, “there are only two married people on this rock of the Pole, and they’re getting divorced! What a lesson for all us bachelors!”

  “So you knew of the existence of the Island of the Pole?” Farandoul went on.

  “I only had my suspicions; that’s why Mr. Codgett and I joined the English expedition to the North Pole. Now, we’re going to unmask the odious swine!”

  “Pardon me,” said Mandibul, “but that’s our business. The pirates are close at hand, rifles in hand, and we have to drive them back to their lair.”

  “No—you’re my witnesses. If they kill you, I shan’t have your signatures. Let me go find them and negotiate.”

  “That’s a good
idea,” said Farandoul. “Before attacking, we might as well try to come to some arrangement. If Hatteras consents to set his captives free, we won’t interfere with the possession of his island.”

  On Farandoul’s orders, a white flag was raised to request a truce. The pirates replied to the signal with a similar flag and the false English scientist, having readjusted her wig and put on her spectacles, set off towards the position occupied by Hatteras, followed by the solicitor James Codgett.

  His Excellency the Governor of the North Pole, John Hatteras himself, came to meet them. The mariners, watching his movements from afar, saw him interrogate the negotiators brutally. James Codgett replied. Suddenly, Hatteras abruptly changed his attitude; the fake Englishman had just removed her wig and rendered herself recognizable.

  “A matrimonial showdown!” murmured Mandibul. “To come all the way to the Pole to see that!”

  Hatteras and the negotiators had disappeared behind the rocks; they did not see the rest of the scene. Sentries with loaded rifles kept watch on both sides.

  The conference lasted a long time; the negotiators did not reappear until three hours later.

  “What result?” Farandoul shouted to them, as soon as they were within range.

  James Codgett made the reply. “Captain Hatteras asks for 12 hours to reflect before making a decision. Tomorrow morning, at daybreak, we’ll have his response. The confrontation was stormy. At first, Mrs. Hatteras heaped scalding reproaches upon him, and I saw that things were about to get out of hand, so I intervened and proposed a short break. It was the right thing to do, I think. The Governor of the North Pole, moved by our arrival, seems to me to be ready to start on the road of repentance; it’s necessary not to treat him roughly.”

  “Did you see the…?” Mandibul asked, curiously.

  “The Governor was opposed to it, but I insisted on fulfilling my duty, and I have established the perfect verity of the assertions made by Monsieur César Picolot, the unfortunate voyager to Trouville. I shall write my deposition, and tomorrow, when you have seen for yourselves, I will ask you to add your signatures to it.”