by Anthology
A movement took place amongst the audience, who appeared struck by the arguments of this singular personage.
"We will pass on again," answered Michel Ardan, with the greatest calmness, "and arrive now at an important fact. A skilful French astronomer, M. Laussedat, whilst observing the eclipse of July 18th, 1860, proved that the horns of the solar crescent were rounded and truncated. Now this appearance could only have been produced by a deviation of the solar rays in traversing the atmosphere of the moon. There is no other possible explanation of the fact."
"But is this fact authenticated?"
"It is absolutely certain."
An inverse movement brought back the audience to the side of their favourite hero, whose adversary remained silent.
Ardan went on speaking without showing any vanity about his last advantage; he said simply--
"You see, therefore, my dear sir, that it cannot be positively affirmed that there is no atmosphere on the surface of the moon. This atmosphere is probably not dense, but science now generally admits that it exists."
"Not upon the mountains," replied the unknown, who would not give in.
"No, but in the depths of the valleys, and it is not more than some hundreds of feet deep."
"Any way you will do well to take your precautions, for the air will be terribly rarefied."
"Oh, there will always be enough for one man. Besides, once delivered up there, I shall do my best to economise it and only to breathe it on great occasions."
A formidable burst of laughter saluted the mysterious interlocutor, who looked round the assembly daring it proudly.
"Then," resumed Michel Ardan, carelessly, "as we are agreed upon the presence of some atmosphere, we are forced to admit the presence of some water--a consequence I am delighted with, for my part. Besides, I have another observation to make. We only know one side of the moon's disc, and if there is little air on that side there may be much on the other."
"How so?"
"Because the moon under the action of terrestrial attraction has assumed the form of an egg, of which we see the small end. Hence the consequence due to the calculations of Hausen, that its centre of gravity is situated in the other hemisphere. Hence this conclusion that all the masses of air and water have been drawn to the other side of our satellite in the first days of the creation."
"Pure fancies," exclaimed the unknown.
"No, pure theories based upon mechanical laws, and it appears difficult to me to refute them. I make appeal to this assembly and put it to the vote to know if life such as it exists upon earth is possible on the surface of the moon?"
Three hundred thousand hearers applauded this proposition. Michel Ardan's adversary wished to speak again, but he could not make himself heard. Cries and threats were hailed upon him.
"Enough, enough!" said some.
"Turn him out!" repeated others.
But he, holding on to the platform, did not move, and let the storm pass by. It might have assumed formidable proportions if Michel Ardan had not appeased it by a gesture. He was too chivalrous to abandon his contradicter in such an extremity.
"You wish to add a few words?" he asked, in the most gracious tone.
"Yes, a hundred! a thousand!" answered the unknown, carried away, "or rather no, one only! To persevere in your enterprise you must be--"
"Imprudent! How can you call me that when I have asked for a cylindro-conical bullet from my friend Barbicane so as not to turn round on the road like a squirrel?"
"But, unfortunate man! the fearful shock will smash you to pieces when you start."
"You have there put your finger upon the real and only difficulty; but I have too good an opinion of the industrial genius of the Americans to believe that they will not overcome that difficulty."
"But the heat developed by the speed of the projectile whilst crossing the beds of air?"
"Oh, its sides are thick, and I shall so soon pass the atmosphere."
"But provisions? water?"
"I have calculated that I could carry enough for one year, and I shall only be four days going."
"But air to breathe on the road?"
"I shall make some by chemical processes."
"But your fall upon the moon, supposing you ever get there?"
"It will be six times less rapid than a fall upon the earth, as attraction is six times less on the surface of the moon."
"But it still will be sufficient to smash you like glass."
"What will prevent me delaying my fall by means of rockets conveniently placed and lighted at the proper time?"
"But lastly, supposing that all difficulties be solved, all obstacles cleared away by uniting every chance in your favour, admitting that you reach the moon safe and well, how shall you come back?"
"I shall not come back."
Upon this answer, which was almost sublime by reason of its simplicity, the assembly remained silent. But its silence was more eloquent than its cries of enthusiasm would have been. The unknown profited by it to protest one last time.
"You will infallibly kill yourself," he cried, "and your death, which will be only a madman's death, will not even be useful to science."
"Go on, most generous of men, for you prophesy in the most agreeable manner."
"Ah, it is too much!" exclaimed Michel Ardan's adversary, "and I do not know why I go on with so childish a discussion. Go on with your mad enterprise as you like. It is not your fault."
"Fire away."
"No, another must bear the responsibility of your acts."
"Who is that, pray?" asked Michel Ardan in an imperious voice.
"The fool who has organised this attempt, as impossible as it is ridiculous."
The attack was direct. Barbicane since the intervention of the unknown had made violent efforts to contain himself and "consume his own smoke," but upon seeing himself so outrageously designated he rose directly and was going to walk towards his adversary, who dared him to his face, when he felt himself suddenly separated from him.
The platform was lifted up all at once by a hundred vigorous arms, and the president of the Gun Club was forced to share the honours of triumph with Michel Ardan. The platform was heavy, but the bearers came in continuous relays, disputing, struggling, even fighting for the privilege of lending the support of their shoulders to this manifestation.
However, the unknown did not take advantage of the tumult to leave the place. He kept in the front row, his arms folded, still staring at President Barbicane.
The president did not lose sight of him either, and the eyes of these two men met like flaming swords.
The cries of the immense crowds kept at their maximum of intensity during this triumphant march. Michel Ardan allowed himself to be carried with evident pleasure.
Sometimes the platform pitched and tossed like a ship beaten by the waves. But the two heroes of the meeting were good sailors, and their vessel safely arrived in the port of Tampa Town.
Michel Ardan happily succeeded in escaping from his vigorous admirers. He fled to the Franklin Hotel, quickly reached his room, and glided rapidly into bed whilst an army of 100,000 men watched under his windows.
In the meanwhile a short, grave, and decisive scene had taken place between the mysterious personage and the president of the Gun Club.
Barbicane, liberated at last, went straight to his adversary.
"Come!" said he in a curt voice.
The stranger followed him on to the quay, and they were soon both alone at the entrance to a wharf opening on to Jones' Fall.
There these enemies, still unknown to one another, looked at each other.
"Who are you?" asked Barbicane.
"Captain Nicholl."
"I thought so. Until now fate has never made you cross my path."
"I crossed it of my own accord."
"You have insulted me."
"Publicly."
"And you shall give me satisfaction for that insult."
"Now, this minute."
"No. I wish everything between us to be kept secret. There is a wood situated three miles from Tampa--Skersnaw Wood. Do you know it?"
"Yes."
"Will you enter it to-morrow morning at five o'clock by one side?"
"Yes, if you will enter it by the other at the same time."
"And you will not forget your rifle?" said Barbicane.
"Not more than you will forget yours," answered Captain Nicholl.
After these words had been coldly pronounced the president of the Gun Club and the captain separated. Barbicane returned to his dwelling; but, instead of taking some hours' rest, he passed the night in seeking means to avoid the shock of the projectile, and to solve the difficult problem given by Michel Ardan at the meeting.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW A FRENCHMAN SETTLES AN AFFAIR.
Whilst the duel was being discussed between the president and the captain--a terrible and savage duel in which each adversary became a man-hunter--Michel Ardan was resting after the fatigues of his triumph. Resting is evidently not the right expression, for American beds rival in hardness tables of marble or granite.
Ardan slept badly, turning over and over between the serviettes that served him for sheets, and he was thinking of installing a more comfortable bed in his projectile when a violent noise startled him from his slumbers. Thundering blows shook his door. They seemed to be administered with an iron instrument. Shouts were heard in this racket, rather too early to be agreeable.
"Open!" some one cried. "Open, for Heaven's sake!"
There was no reason why Ardan should acquiesce in so peremptory a demand. Still he rose and opened his door at the moment it was giving way under the efforts of the obstinate visitor.
The secretary of the Gun Club bounded into the room. A bomb would not have entered with less ceremony.
"Yesterday evening," exclaimed J.T. Maston ex abrupto, "our president was publicly insulted during the meeting! He has challenged his adversary, who is no other than Captain Nicholl! They are going to fight this morning in Skersnaw Wood! I learnt it all from Barbicane himself! If he is killed our project will be at an end! This duel must be prevented! Now one man only can have enough empire over Barbicane to stop it, and that man is Michel Ardan."
Whilst J.T. Maston was speaking thus, Michel Ardan, giving up interrupting him, jumped into his vast trousers, and in less than two minutes after the two friends were rushing as fast as they could go towards the suburbs of Tampa Town.
It was during this rapid course that Maston told Ardan the state of the case. He told him the real causes of the enmity between Barbicane and Nicholl, how that enmity was of old date, why until then, thanks to mutual friends, the president and the captain had never met; he added that it was solely a rivalry between iron-plate and bullet; and, lastly, that the scene of the meeting had only been an occasion long sought by Nicholl to satisfy an old grudge.
There is nothing more terrible than these private duels in America, during which the two adversaries seek each other across thickets, and hunt each other like wild animals. It is then that each must envy those marvellous qualities so natural to the Indians of the prairies, their rapid intelligence, their ingenious ruse, their scent of the enemy. An error, a hesitation, a wrong step, may cause death. In these meetings the Yankees are often accompanied by their dogs, and both sportsmen and game go on for hours.
"What demons you are!" exclaimed Michel Ardan, when his companion had depicted the scene with much energy.
"We are what we are," answered J.T. Maston modestly; "but let us make haste."
In vain did Michel Ardan and he rush across the plain still wet with dew, jump the creeks, take the shortest cuts; they could not reach Skersnaw Wood before half-past five. Barbicane must have entered it half-an-hour before.
There an old bushman was tying up faggots his axe had cut.
Maston ran to him crying--
"Have you seen a man enter the wood armed with a rifle? Barbicane, the president--my best friend?"
The worthy secretary of the Gun Club thought naïvely that all the world must know his president. But the bushman did not seem to understand.
"A sportsman," then said Ardan.
"A sportsman? Yes," answered the bushman.
"Is it long since?"
"About an hour ago."
"Too late!" exclaimed Maston.
"Have you heard any firing?" asked Michel Ardan.
"No."
"Not one shot?"
"Not one. That sportsman does not seem to bag much game!"
"What shall we do?" said Maston.
"Enter the wood at the risk of catching a bullet not meant for us."
"Ah!" exclaimed Maston, with an unmistakable accent, "I would rather have ten bullets in my head than one in Barbicane's head."
"Go ahead, then!" said Ardan, pressing his companion's hand.
A few seconds after the two companions disappeared in a copse. It was a dense thicket made of huge cypresses, sycamores, tulip-trees, olives, tamarinds, oaks, and magnolias. The different trees intermingled their branches in inextricable confusion, and quite hid the view. Michel Ardan and Maston walked on side by side phasing silently through the tall grass, making a road for themselves through the vigorous creepers, looking in all the bushes or branches lost in the sombre shade of the foliage, and expecting to hear a shot at every step. As to the traces that Barbicane must have left of his passage through the wood, it was impossible for them to see them, and they marched blindly on in the hardly-formed paths in which an Indian would have followed his adversary step by step.
After a vain search of about an hour's length the two companions stopped. Their anxiety was redoubled.
"It must be all over," said Maston in despair. "A man like Barbicane would not lay traps or condescend to any manoeuvre! He is too frank, too courageous. He has gone straight into danger, and doubtless far enough from the bushman for the wind to carry off the noise of the shot!"
"But we should have heard it!" answered Michel Ardan.
"But what if we came too late?" exclaimed J.T. Maston in an accent of despair.
Michel Ardan did not find any answer to make. Maston and he resumed their interrupted walk. From time to time they shouted; they called either Barbicane or Nicholl; but neither of the two adversaries answered. Joyful flocks of birds, roused by the noise, disappeared amongst the branches, and some frightened deer fled through the copses.
They continued their search another hour. The greater part of the wood had been explored. Nothing revealed the presence of the combatants. They began to doubt the affirmation of the bushman, and Ardan was going to renounce the pursuit as useless, when all at once Maston stopped.
"Hush!" said he. "There is some one yonder!"
"Some one?" answered Michel Ardan.
"Yes! a man! He does not seem to move. His rifle is not in his hand. What can he be doing?"
"But do you recognise him?" asked Michel Ardan.
"Yes, yes! he is turning round," answered Maston.
"Who is it?"
"Captain Nicholl!"
"Nicholl!" cried Michel Ardan, whose heart almost stopped beating.
"Nicholl disarmed! Then he had nothing more to fear from his adversary?"
"Let us go to him," said Michel Ardan; "we shall know how it is."
But his companion and he had not gone fifty steps when they stopped to examine the captain more attentively. They imagined they should find a bloodthirsty and revengeful man. Upon seeing him they remained stupefied.
A net with fine meshes was hung between two gigantic tulip-trees, and in it a small bird, with its wings entangled, was struggling with plaintive cries. The bird-catcher who had hung the net was not a human being but a venomous spider, peculiar to the country, as large as a pigeon's egg, and furnished with enormous legs. The hideous insect, as he was rushing on his prey, was forced to turn back and take refuge in the high branches of a tulip-tree, for a formidable enemy threatened him in his turn.
In fa
ct, Captain Nicholl, with his gun on the ground, forgetting the dangers of his situation, was occupied in delivering as delicately as possible the victim taken in the meshes of the monstrous spider. When he had finished he let the little bird fly away; it fluttered its wings joyfully and disappeared.
Nicholl, touched, was watching it fly through the copse when he heard these words uttered in a voice full of emotion:--