Off on a Comet! a Journey through Planetary Space
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 Charlemagne.
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 half an hour, the astronomer heaved a faint sigh, which
ere long was followed by another and another. He half opened his eyes,
closed them again, then opened them completely, but without exhibiting
any consciousness whatever of his situation. A few words seemed to
escape his lips, but they were quite unintelligible. Presently he raised
his right hand to his forehead as though instinctively feeling for
something that was missing; then, all of a sudden, his features became
contracted, his face flushed with apparent irritation, and he exclaimed
fretfully, “My spectacles!--where are my spectacles?”
In order to facilitate his operations, Ben Zoof had removed the
spectacles in spite of the tenacity with which they seemed to adhere
to the temples of his patient; but he now rapidly brought them back
and readjusted them as best he could to what seemed to be their natural
position on the aquiline nose. The professor heaved a long sigh of
relief, and once more closed his eyes.
Before long the astronomer roused himself a little more, and glanced
inquiringly about him, but soon relapsed into his comatose condition.
When next he opened his eyes, Captain Servadac happened to be bending
down closely over him, examining his features with curious scrutiny.
The old man darted an angry look at him through the spectacles, and said
sharply, “Servadac, five hundred lines to-morrow!”
It was an echo of days of old. The words were few, but they were enough
to recall the identity which Servadac was trying to make out.
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed. “Here is my old tutor, Mr. Rosette, in
very flesh and blood.”
“Can’t say much for the flesh,” muttered Ben Zoof.
The old man had again fallen back into a torpid slumber. Ben Zoof
continued, “His sleep is getting more composed. Let him alone; he will
come round yet. Haven’t I heard of men more dried up than he is, being
brought all the way from Egypt in cases covered with pictures?”
“You idiot!--those were mummies; they had been dead for ages.”
Ben Zoof did not answer a word. He went on preparing a warm bed, into
which he managed to remove his patient, who soon fell into a calm and
natural sleep.
Too impatient to await the awakening of the astronomer and to hear what
representations he had to make, Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant,
constituting themselves what might be designated “the Academy of
Sciences” of the colony, spent the whole of the remainder of the day in
starting and discussing the wildest conjectures about their situation.
The hypothesis, to which they had now accustomed themselves for so
long, that a new asteroid had been formed by a fracture of the earth’s
surface, seemed to fall to the ground when they found that Professor
Palmyrin Rosette had associated the name of Gallia, not with their
present home, but with what he called “my comet”; and that theory being
abandoned, they were driven to make the most improbable speculations to
replace it.
Alluding to Rosette, Servadac took care to inform his companions
that, although the professor was always eccentric, and at times very
irascible, yet he was really exceedingly good-hearted; his bark was
worse than his bite; and if suffered to take their course without
observation, his outbreaks of ill-temper seldom lasted long.
“We will certainly do our best to get on with him,” said the count. “He
is no doubt the author of the papers, and we must hope that he will be
able to give us some valuable information.”
“Beyond a question the documents have originated with him,” assented
the lieutenant. “Gallia was the word written at the top of every one of
them, and Gallia was the first word uttered by him in our hearing.”
The astronomer slept on. Meanwhile, the three together had no
hesitation in examining his papers, and scrutinizing the figures on his
extemporized blackboard. The handwriting corresponded with that of the
papers already received; the blackboard was covered with algebraical
symbols traced in chalk, which they were careful not to obliterate;
and the papers, which consisted for the most part of detached scraps,
presented a perfect wilderness of geometrical figures, conic sections of
every variety being repeated in countless profusion.
Lieutenant Procope pointed out that these curves evidently had reference
to the orbits of comets, which are variously parabolic, hyperbolic, or
elliptic. If either of the first two, the comet, after once appearing
within the range of terrestrial vision, would vanish forever in the
outlying regions of space; if the last, it would be sure, sooner or
later, after some periodic interval, to return.
From the _prima facie_ appearance of his papers, then, it seemed
probable that the astronomer, during his sojourn at Formentera, had been
devoting himself to the study of cometary orbits; and as calculations of
this kind are ordinarily based upon the assumption that the orbit is a
parabola, it was not unlikely that he had been endeavoring to trace the
path of some particular comet.
“I wonder whether these calculations were made before or after the 1st
of January; it makes all the difference,” said Lieutenant Procope.
“We must bide our time and hear,” replied the count.
Servadac paced restlessly up and down. “I would give a month of my
life,” he cried, impetuously, “for every hour that the old fellow goes
sleeping on.”
“You might be making a bad bargain,” said Procope, smiling. “Perhaps
after all the comet has had nothing to do with the convulsion that we
have experienced.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the captain; “I know better than that, and so do
you. Is it not as clear as daylight that the earth and this comet have
been in collision, and the result has been that our little world has
been split off and sent flying far into space?”
Count Timascheff and the lieutenant looked at each other in silence. “I
do not deny your theory,” said Procope after a while. “If it be correct,
I suppose we must conclude that the enormous disc we observed on the
night of the catastrophe was the comet itself; and the velocity with
which it was traveling must have been so great that it was hardly
arrested at all by the attraction of the earth.”
“Plausible enough,” answered Count Timascheff; “and it is to this comet
that our scientific friend here has given the name of Gallia.”
It still remained a puzzle to them all why the astronomer should
apparently be interested in the comet so much more than in the new
little world in which their strange lot was cast.
“Can you explain this?” asked the count.
“There is no accounting for the freaks of philosophers, you know,” said
Servadac; “and have I not told you that this philosopher in particular
is one of the most eccentric beings in creation?”
“Besides,” added the lieutenant, “it is exceedingly likely that his
observations had been going on for some considerable period before the
convulsion happened.”
Thus, the general conclusion arrived at by the Gallian Academy of
Science was this: That on the night of the 31st of December, a comet,
crossing the ecliptic, had come into collision with the earth, and that
the violence of the shock had separated a huge fragment from the
globe, which fragment from that date had been traversing the remote
inter-planetary regions. Palmyrin Rosette would doubtless confirm their
solution of the phenomenon.
CHAPTER II. A REVELATION
To the general population of the colony the arrival of the stranger was
a matter of small interest. The Spaniards were naturally too indolent
to be affected in any way by an incident that concerned themselves so
remotely; while the Russians felt themselves simply reliant on their
master, and as long as they were with him were careless as to where or
how they spent their days. Everything went on with them in an accustomed
routine; and they lay down night after night, and awoke to their
avocations morning after morning, just as if nothing extraordinary had
occurred.
All night long Ben Zoof would not leave the professor’s bedside. He had
constituted himself sick nurse, and considered his reputation at stake
if he failed to set his patient on his feet again. He watched every
movement, listened to every breath, and never failed to administer
the strongest cordials upon the slightest pretext. Even in his sleep
Rosette’s irritable nature revealed itself. Ever and again, sometimes
in a tone of uneasiness, and sometimes with the expression of positive
anger, the name of Gallia escaped his lips, as though he were dreaming
that his claim to the discovery of the comet was being contested or
denied; but although his attendant was on the alert to gather all he
could, he was able to catch nothing in the incoherent sentences that
served to throw any real light upon the problem that they were all eager
to solve.
When the sun reappeared on the western horizon the professor was still