CHAPTER IV. A REVISED CALENDAR
All previous hypotheses, then, were now forgotten in the presence of the one great fact that Gallia was a comet and gravitating through remote solar regions. Captain Servadac became aware that the huge disc that had been looming through the clouds after the shock was the form of the retreating earth, to the proximity of which the one high tide they had experienced was also to be attributed.
As to the fulfillment of the professor’s prediction of an ultimate return to the terrestrial sphere, that was a point on which it must be owned that the captain, after the first flush of his excitement was over, was not without many misgivings.
The next day or two were spent in providing for the accommodation of the new comer. Fortunately his desires were very moderate; he seemed to live among the stars, and as long as he was well provided with coffee, he cared little for luxuries, and paid little or no regard to the ingenuity with which all the internal arrangements of Nina’s Hive had been devised. Anxious to show all proper respect to his former tutor, Servadac proposed to leave the most comfortable apartment of the place at his disposal; but the professor resolutely declined to occupy it, saying that what he required was a small chamber, no matter how small, provided that it was elevated and secluded, which he could use as an observatory and where he might prosecute his studies without disturbance. A general search was instituted, and before long they were lucky enough to find, about a hundred feet above the central grotto, a small recess or reduct hollowed, as it were, in the mountain side, which would exactly answer their purpose. It contained room enough for a bed, a table, an arm-chair, a chest of drawers, and, what was of still more consequence, for the indispensable telescope. One small stream of lava, an off-shoot of the great torrent, sufficed to warm the apartment enough.
In these retired quarters the astronomer took up his abode. It was on all hands acknowledged to be advisable to let him go on entirely in his own way. His meals were taken to him at stated intervals; he slept but little; carried on his calculations by day, his observations by night, and very rarely made his appearance amongst the rest of the little community.
The cold now became very intense, the thermometer registering 30 degrees F. below zero. The mercury, however, never exhibited any of those fluctuations that are ever and again to be observed in variable climates, but continued slowly and steadily to fall, and in all probability would continue to do so until it reached the normal temperature of the regions of outlying space.
This steady sinking of the mercury was accompanied by a complete stillness of the atmosphere; the very air seemed to be congealed; no particle of it stirred; from zenith to horizon there was never a cloud; neither were there any of the damp mists or dry fogs which so often extend over the polar regions of the earth; the sky was always clear; the sun shone by day and the stars by night without causing any perceptible difference in the temperature.
These peculiar conditions rendered the cold endurable even in the open air. The cause of so many of the diseases that prove fatal to Arctic explorers resides in the cutting winds, unwholesome fogs, or terrible snow drifts, which, by drying up, relaxing, or otherwise affecting the lungs, make them incapable of fulfilling their proper functions. But during periods of calm weather, when the air has been absolutely still, many polar navigators, well-clothed and properly fed, have been known to withstand a temperature when the thermometer has fallen to 60 degrees below zero. It was the experience of Parry upon Melville Island, of Kane beyond latitude 81 degrees north, and of Hall and the crew of the Polaris, that, however intense the cold, in the absence of the wind they could always brave its rigor.
Notwithstanding, then, the extreme lowness of the temperature, the little population found that they were able to move about in the open air with perfect immunity. The governor general made it his special care to see that his people were all well fed and warmly clad. Food was both wholesome and abundant, and besides the furs brought from the Dobryna’s stores, fresh skins could very easily be procured and made up into wearing apparel. A daily course of out-door exercise was enforced upon everyone; not even Pablo and Nina were exempted from the general rule; the two children, muffled up in furs, looking like little Esquimeaux, skated along together, Pablo ever at his companion’s side, ready to give her a helping hand whenever she was weary with her exertions.
After his interview with the newly arrived astronomer, Isaac Hakkabut slunk back again to his tartan. A change had come over his ideas; he could no longer resist the conviction that he was indeed millions and millions of miles away from the earth, where he had carried on so varied and remunerative a traffic. It might be imagined that this realization of his true position would have led him to a better mind, and that, in some degree at least, he would have been induced to regard the few fellow-creatures with whom his lot had been so strangely cast, otherwise than as mere instruments to be turned to his own personal and pecuniary advantage; but no—the desire of gain was too thoroughly ingrained into his hard nature ever to be eradicated, and secure in his knowledge that he was under the protection of a French officer, who, except under the most urgent necessity, would not permit him to be molested in retaining his property, he determined to wait for some emergency to arise which should enable him to use his present situation for his own profit.
On the one hand, the Jew took it into account that although the chances of returning to the earth might be remote, yet from what he had heard from the professor he could not believe that they were improbable; on the other, he knew that a considerable sum of money, in English and Russian coinage, was in the possession of various members of the little colony, and this, although valueless now, would be worth as much as ever if the proper condition of things should be restored; accordingly, he set his heart on getting all the monetary wealth of Gallia into his possession, and to do this he must sell his goods. But he would not sell them yet; there might come a time when for many articles the supply would not be equal to the demand; that would be the time for him; by waiting he reckoned he should be able to transact some lucrative business.
Such in his solitude were old Isaac’s cogitations, whilst the universal population of Nina’s Hive were congratulating themselves upon being rid of his odious presence.
As already stated in the message brought by the carrier pigeon, the distance traveled by Gallia in April was 39,000,000 leagues, and at the end of the month she was 110,000,000 leagues from the sun. A diagram representing the elliptical orbit of the planet, accompanied by an ephemeris made out in minute detail, had been drawn out by the professor. The curve was divided into twenty-four sections of unequal length, representing respectively the distance described in the twenty-four months of the Gallian year, the twelve former divisions, according to Kepler’s law, gradually diminishing in length as they approached the point denoting the aphelion and increasing as they neared the perihelion.
It was on the 12th of May that Rosette exhibited this result of his labors to Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant, who visited his apartment and naturally examined the drawing with the keenest interest. Gallia’s path, extending beyond the orbit of Jupiter, lay clearly defined before their eyes, the progress along the orbit and the solar distances being inserted for each month separately. Nothing could look plainer, and if the professor’s calculations were correct (a point upon which they dared not, if they would, express the semblance of a doubt), Gallia would accomplish her revolution in precisely two years, and would meet the earth, which would in the same period of time have completed two annual revolutions, in the very same spot as before. What would be the consequences of a second collision they scarcely ventured to think.
Without lifting his eye from the diagram, which he was still carefully scrutinizing, Servadac said, “I see that during the month of May, Gallia will only travel 30,400,000 leagues, and that this will leave her about 140,000,000 leagues distant from the sun.”
“Just so,” replied the professor.
“Then we have already passed the zone of the telescopic planets, have we not?” asked the count.
“Can you not use your eyes?” said the professor, testily. “If you will look you will see the zone marked clearly enough upon the map.”
Without noticing the interruption, Servadac continued his own remarks, “The comet then, I see, is to reach its aphelion on the 15th of January, exactly a twelvemonth after passing its perihelion.”
“A twelvemonth! Not a Gallian twelvemonth?” exclaimed Rosette.
Servadac looked bewildered. Lieutenant Procope could not suppress a smile.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded the professor, turning round upon him angrily.
“Nothing, sir; only it amuses me to see how you want to revise the terrestrial calendar.”
“I want to be logical, that’s all.”
“By all manner of means, my dear professor, let us be logical.”
“Well, then, listen to me,” resumed the professor, stiffly. “I presume you are taking it for granted that the Gallian year—by which I mean the time in which Gallia makes one revolution round the sun—is equal in length to two terrestrial years.”
They signified their assent.
“And that year, like every other year, ought to be divided into twelve months.”
“Yes, certainly, if you wish it,” said the captain, acquiescing.
“If I wish it!” exclaimed Rosette. “Nothing of the sort! Of course a year must have twelve months!”
“Of course,” said the captain.
“And how many days will make a month?” asked the professor.
“I suppose sixty or sixty-two, as the case may be. The days now are only half as long as they used to be,” answered the captain.
“Servadac, don’t be thoughtless!” cried Rosette, with all the petulant impatience of the old pedagogue. “If the days are only half as long as they were, sixty of them cannot make up a twelfth part of Gallia’s year—cannot be a month.”
“I suppose not,” replied the confused captain.
“Do you not see, then,” continued the astronomer, “that if a Gallian month is twice as long as a terrestrial month, and a Gallian day is only half as long as a terrestrial day, there must be a hundred and twenty days in every month?”
“No doubt you are right, professor,” said Count Timascheff; “but do you not think that the use of a new calendar such as this would practically be very troublesome?”
“Not at all! not at all! I do not intend to use any other,” was the professor’s bluff reply.
After pondering for a few moments, the captain spoke again. “According, then, to this new calendar, it isn’t the middle of May at all; it must now be some time in March.”
“Yes,” said the professor, “to-day is the 26th of March. It is the 266th day of the Gallian year. It corresponds with the 133d day of the terrestrial year. You are quite correct, it is the 26th of March.”
“Strange!” muttered Servadac.
“And a month, a terrestrial month, thirty old days, sixty new days hence, it will be the 86th of March.”
“Ha, ha!” roared the captain; “this is logic with a vengeance!”
The old professor had an undefined consciousness that his former pupil was laughing at him; and as it was growing late, he made an excuse that he had no more leisure. The visitors accordingly quitted the observatory.
It must be owned that the revised calendar was left to the professor’s sole use, and the colony was fairly puzzled whenever he referred to such unheard-of dates as the 47th of April or the 118th of May.
According to the old calendar, June had now arrived; [illustration omitted] [page intentionally blank] and by the professor’s tables Gallia during the month would have advanced 27,500,000 leagues farther along its orbit, and would have attained a distance of 155,000,000 leagues from the sun. The thermometer continued to fall; the atmosphere remained clear as heretofore. The population performed their daily avocations with systematic routine; and almost the only thing that broke the monotony of existence was an occasional visit from the blustering, nervous, little professor, when some sudden fancy induced him to throw aside his astronomical studies for a time, and pay a visit to the common hall. His arrival there was generally hailed as the precursor of a little season of excitement. Somehow or other the conversation would eventually work its way round to the topic of a future collision between the comet and the earth; and in the same degree as this was a matter of sanguine anticipation to Captain Servadac and his friends, it was a matter of aversion to the astronomical enthusiast, who had no desire to quit his present quarters in a sphere which, being of his own discovery, he could hardly have cared for more if it had been of his own creation. The interview would often terminate in a scene of considerable animation.
On the 27th of June (old calendar) the professor burst like a cannon-ball into the central hall, where they were all assembled, and without a word of salutation or of preface, accosted the lieutenant in the way in which in earlier days he had been accustomed to speak to an idle school-boy, “Now, lieutenant! no evasions! no shufflings! Tell me, have you or have you not circumnavigated Gallia?”
The lieutenant drew himself up stiffly. “Evasions! shufflings! I am not accustomed, sir—” he began in a tone evidencing no little resentment; but catching a hint from the count he subdued his voice, and simply said, “We have.”
“And may I ask,” continued the professor, quite unaware of his previous discourtesy, “whether, when you made your voyage, you took any account of distances?”
“As approximately as I could,” replied the lieutenant; “I did what I could by log and compass. I was unable to take the altitude of sun or star.”
“At what result did you arrive? What is the measurement of our equator?”
“I estimate the total circumference of the equator to be about 1,400 miles.”
“Ah!” said the professor, more than half speaking to himself, “a circumference of 1,400 miles would give a diameter of about 450 miles. That would be approximately about one-sixteenth of the diameter of the earth.”
Raising his voice, he continued, “Gentlemen, in order to complete my account of my comet Gallia, I require to know its area, its mass, its volume, its density, its specific gravity.”
“Since we know the diameter,” remarked the lieutenant, “there can be no difficulty in finding its surface and its volume.”
“And did I say there was any difficulty?” asked the professor, fiercely. “I have been able to reckon that ever since I was born.”
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” cried Ben Zoof, delighted at any opportunity of paying off his old grudge.
The professor looked at him, but did not vouchsafe a word. Addressing the captain, he said, “Now, Servadac, take your paper and a pen, and find me the surface of Gallia.”
With more submission than when he was a school-boy, the captain sat down and endeavored to recall the proper formula.
“The surface of a sphere? Multiply circumference by diameter.”
“Right!” cried Rosette; “but it ought to be done by this time.”
“Circumference, 1,400; diameter, 450; area of surface, 630,000,” read the captain.
“True,” replied Rosette, “630,000 square miles; just 292 times less than that of the earth.”
“Pretty little comet! nice little comet!” muttered Ben Zoof.
The astronomer bit his lip, snorted, and cast at him a withering look, but did not take any further notice.
“Now, Captain Servadac,” said the professor, “take your pen again, and find me the volume of Gallia.”
The captain hesitated.
“Quick, quick!” cried the professor, impatiently; “surely you have not forgotten how to find the volume of a sphere!”
“A moment’s breathing time, please.”
“Breathing time, indeed! A mathematician should not want breathing time! Come, multiply the surface by the third of the radius. Don’t you recollect?”
Captain Servadac applied himself to his task while the by-standers waited, with some difficulty suppressing their inclination to laugh. There was a short silence, at the end of which Servadac announced that the volume of the comet was 47,880,000 cubic miles.
“Just about 5,000 times less than the earth,” observed the lieutenant.
“Nice little comet! pretty little comet!” said Ben Zoof.
The professor scowled at him, and was manifestly annoyed at having the insignificant dimensions of his comet pointed out in so disparaging a manner. Lieutenant Procope further remarked that from the earth he supposed it to be about as conspicuous as a star of the seventh magnitude, and would require a good telescope to see it.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the orderly, aloud; “charming little comet! so pretty; and so modest!”
“You rascal!” roared the professor, and clenched his hand in passion, as if about to strike him. Ben Zoof laughed the more, and was on the point of repeating his satirical comments, when a stern order from the captain made him hold his tongue. The truth was that the professor was just as sensitive about his comet as the orderly was about Montmartre, and if the contention between the two had been allowed to go on unchecked, it is impossible to say what serious quarrel might not have arisen.
When Professor Rosette’s equanimity had been restored, he said, “Thus, then, gentlemen, the diameter, the surface, the volume of my comet are settled; but there is more to be done. I shall not be satisfied until, by actual measurement, I have determined its mass, its density, and the force of gravity at its surface.”
“A laborious problem,” remarked Count Timascheff.
“Laborious or not, it has to be accomplished. I am resolved to find out what my comet weighs.”
“Would it not be of some assistance, if we knew of what substance it is composed?” asked the lieutenant.
“That is of no moment at all,” replied the professor; “the problem is independent of it.”
“Then we await your orders,” was the captain’s reply.
“You must understand, however,” said Rosette, “that there are various preliminary calculations to be made; you will have to wait till they are finished.”
“As long as you please,” said the count.
“No hurry at all,” observed the captain, who was not in the least impatient to continue his mathematical exercises.
“Then, gentlemen,” said the astronomer, “with your leave we will for this purpose make an appointment a few weeks hence. What do you say to the 62d of April?”
Without noticing the general smile which the novel date provoked, the astronomer left the hall, and retired to his observatory.
CHAPTER V. WANTED: A STEELYARD
Under the still diminishing influence of the sun’s attraction, but without let or hindrance, Gallia continued its interplanetary course, accompanied by Nerina, its captured satellite, which performed its fortnightly revolutions with unvarying regularity.
Meanwhile, the question beyond all others important was ever recurring to the minds of Servadac and his two companions: were the astronomer’s calculations correct, and was there a sound foundation for his prediction that the comet would again touch the earth? But whatever might be their doubts or anxieties, they were fain to keep all their misgivings to themselves; the professor was of a temper far too cross-grained for them to venture to ask him to revise or re-examine the results of his observations.
The rest of the community by no means shared in their uneasiness. Negrete and his fellow-countrymen yielded to their destiny with philosophical indifference. Happier and better provided for than they had ever been in their lives, it did not give them a passing thought, far less cause any serious concern, whether they were still circling round the sun, or whether they were being carried right away within the limits of another system. Utterly careless of the future, the majos, light-hearted as ever, carolled out their favorite songs, just as if they had never quitted the shores of their native land.
Happiest of all were Pablo and Nina. Racing through the galleries of the Hive, clambering over the rocks upon the shore, one day skating far away across the frozen ocean, the next fishing in the lake that was kept liquid by the heat of the lava-torrent, the two children led a life of perpetual enjoyment. Nor was their recreation allowed to interfere with their studies. Captain Servadac, who in common with the count really liked them both, conceived that the responsibilities of a parent in some degree had devolved upon him, and took great care in superintending their daily lessons, which he succeeded in making hardly less pleasant than their sports.
Indulged and loved by all, it was little wonder that young Pablo had no longing for the scorching plains of Andalusia, or that little Nina had lost all wish to return with her pet goat to the barren rocks of Sardinia. They had now a home in which they had nothing to desire.
“Have you no father nor mother?” asked Pablo, one day.
“No,” she answered.
“No more have I,” said the boy, “I used to run along by the side of the diligences when I was in Spain.”
“I used to look after goats at Madalena,” said Nina; “but it is much nicer here—I am so happy here. I have you for a brother, and everybody is so kind. I am afraid they will spoil us, Pablo,” she added, smiling.
“Oh, no, Nina; you are too good to be spoiled, and when I am with you, you make me good too,” said Pablo, gravely.
July had now arrived. During the month Gallia’s advance along its orbit would be reduced to 22,000,000 leagues, the distance from the sun at the end being 172,000,000 leagues, about four and a half times as great as the average distance of the earth from the sun. It was traveling now at about the same speed as the earth, which traverses the ecliptic at a rate of 21,000,000 leagues a month, or 28,800 leagues an hour.
In due time the 62d April, according to the revised Gallian calendar, dawned; and in punctual fulfillment of the professor’s appointment, a note was delivered to Servadac to say that he was ready, and hoped that day to commence operations for calculating the mass and density of his comet, as well as the force of gravity at its surface.
A point of far greater interest to Captain Servadac and his friends would have been to ascertain the nature of the substance of which the comet was composed, but they felt pledged to render the professor any aid they could in the researches upon which he had set his heart. Without delay, therefore, they assembled in the central hall, where they were soon joined by Rosette, who seemed to be in fairly good temper.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “I propose to-day to endeavor to complete our observations of the elements of my comet. Three matters of investigation are before us. First, the measure of gravity at its surface; this attractive force we know, by the increase of our own muscular force, must of course be considerably less than that at the surface of the earth. Secondly, its mass, that is, the quality of its matter. And thirdly, its density or quantity of matter in a unit of its volume. We will proceed, gentlemen, if you please, to weigh Gallia.”
Ben Zoof, who had just entered the hall, caught the professor’s last sentence, and without saying a word, went out again and was absent for some minutes. When he returned, he said, “If you want to weigh this comet of yours, I suppose you want a pair of scales; but I have been to look, and I cannot find a pair anywhere. And what’s more,” he added mischievously, “you won’t get them anywhere.”
A frown came over the professor’s countenance. Servadac saw it, and gave his orderly a sign that he should desist entirely from his bantering.
“I require, gentlemen,” resumed Rosette, “first of all to know by how much the weight of a kilogramme here differs from its weight upon the earth; the attraction, as we have said, being less, the weight will proportionately be less also.”
“Then an ordinary pair of scales, being under the influence of attraction, I suppose, would not answer your purpose,” submitted the lieutenant.
“And the very kilogramme weight you used would have become lighter,” put in the count, deferentially.
“Pray, gentlemen, do not interrupt me,” said the professor, authoritatively, as if ex cathedra. “I need no instruction on these points.”
Procope and Timascheff demurely bowed their heads.
The professor resumed. “Upon a steelyard, or spring-balance, dependent upon mere tension or flexibility, the attraction will have no influence. If I suspend a weight equivalent to the weight of a kilogramme, the index will register the proper weight on the surface of Gallia. Thus I shall arrive at the difference I want: the difference between the earth’s attraction and the comet’s. Will you, therefore, have the goodness to provide me at once with a steelyard and a tested kilogramme?”
The audience looked at one another, and then at Ben Zoof, who was thoroughly acquainted with all their resources. “We have neither one nor the other,” said the orderly.
The professor stamped with vexation.
“I believe old Hakkabut has a steelyard on board his tartan,” said Ben Zoof, presently.
“Then why didn’t you say so before, you idiot?” roared the excitable little man.
Anxious to pacify him, Servadac assured him that every exertion should be made to procure the instrument, and directed Ben Zoof to go to the Jew and borrow it.
“No, stop a moment,” he said, as Ben Zoof was moving away on his, errand; “perhaps I had better go with you myself; the old Jew may make a difficulty about lending us any of his property.”
“Why should we not all go?” asked the count; “we should see what kind of a life the misanthrope leads on board the Hansa.”
The proposal met with general approbation. Before they started, Professor Rosette requested that one of the men might be ordered to cut him a cubic decimeter out of the solid substance of Gallia. “My engineer is the man for that,” said the count; “he will do it well for you if you will give him the precise measurement.”
“What! you don’t mean,” exclaimed the professor, again going off into a passion, “that you haven’t a proper measure of length?”
Ben Zoof was sent off to ransack the stores for the article in question, but no measure was forthcoming. “Most likely we shall find one on the tartan,” said the orderly.
“Then let us lose no time in trying,” answered the professor, as he hustled with hasty strides into the gallery.
The rest of the party followed, and were soon in the open air upon the rocks that overhung the shore. They descended to the level of the frozen water and made their way towards the little creek where the Dobryna and the Hansa lay firmly imprisoned in their icy bonds.
The temperature was low beyond previous experience; but well muffled up in fur, they all endured it without much actual suffering. Their breath issued in vapor, which was at once congealed into little crystals upon their whiskers, beards, eyebrows, and eyelashes, until their faces, covered with countless snow-white prickles, were truly ludicrous. The little professor, most comical of all, resembled nothing so much as the cub of an Arctic bear.
It was eight o’clock in the morning. The sun was rapidly approaching the zenith; but its disc, from the extreme remoteness, was proportionately dwarfed; its beams being all but destitute of their proper warmth and radiance. The volcano to its very summit and the surrounding rocks were still covered with the unsullied mantle of snow that had fallen while the atmosphere was still to some extent charged with vapor; but on the north side the snow had given place to the cascade of fiery lava, which, making its way down the sloping rocks as far as the vaulted opening of the central cavern, fell thence perpendicularly into the sea. Above the cavern, 130 feet up the mountain, was a dark hole, above which the stream of lava made a bifurcation in its course. From this hole projected the case of an astronomer’s telescope; it was the opening of Palmyrin Rosette’s observatory.
Sea and land seemed blended into one dreary whiteness, to which the pale blue sky offered scarcely any contrast. The shore was indented with the marks of many footsteps left by the colonists either on their way to collect ice for drinking purposes, or as the result of their skating expeditions; the edges of the skates had cut out a labyrinth of curves complicated as the figures traced by aquatic insects upon the surface of a pool.
Across the quarter of a mile of level ground that lay between the mountain and the creek, a series of footprints, frozen hard into the snow, marked the course taken by Isaac Hakkabut on his last return from Nina’s Hive.
On approaching the creek, Lieutenant Procope drew his companions’ attention to the elevation of the Dobryna’s and Hansa’s waterline, both vessels being now some fifteen feet above the level of the sea.
“What a strange phenomenon!” exclaimed the captain.
“It makes me very uneasy,” rejoined the lieutenant; “in shallow places like this, as the crust of ice thickens, it forces everything upwards with irresistible force.”
“But surely this process of congelation must have a limit!” said the count.
“But who can say what that limit will be? Remember that we have not yet reached our maximum of cold,” replied Procope.
“Indeed, I hope not!” exclaimed the professor; “where would be the use of our traveling 200,000,000 leagues from the sun, if we are only to experience the same temperature as we should find at the poles of the earth?”
“Fortunately for us, however, professor,” said the lieutenant, with a smile, “the temperature of the remotest space never descends beyond 70 degrees below zero.”
“And as long as there is no wind,” added Servadac, “we may pass comfortably through the winter, without a single attack of catarrh.”
Lieutenant Procope proceeded to impart to the count his anxiety about the situation of his yacht. He pointed out that by the constant superposition of new deposits of ice, the vessel would be elevated to a great height, and consequently in the event of a thaw, it must be exposed to a calamity similar to those which in polar seas cause destruction to so many whalers.
There was no time now for concerting measures offhand to prevent the disaster, for the other members of the party had already reached the spot where the Hansa lay bound in her icy trammels. A flight of steps, recently hewn by Hakkabut himself, gave access for the present to the gangway, but it was evident that some different contrivance would have to be resorted to when the tartan should be elevated perhaps to a hundred feet.
A thin curl of blue smoke issued from the copper funnel that projected above the mass of snow which had accumulated upon the deck of the Hansa. The owner was sparing of his fuel, and it was only the non-conducting layer of ice enveloping the tartan that rendered the internal temperature endurable.
“Hi! old Nebuchadnezzar, where are you?” shouted Ben Zoof, at the full strength of his lungs.
At the sound of his voice, the cabin door opened, and the Jew’s head and shoulders protruded onto the deck.
CHAPTER VI. MONEY AT A PREMIUM
“Who’s there? I have nothing here for anyone. Go away!” Such was the inhospitable greeting with which Isaac Hakkabut received his visitors.
“Hakkabut! do you take us for thieves?” asked Servadac, in tones of stern displeasure.
“Oh, your Excellency, my lord, I did not know that it was you,” whined the Jew, but without emerging any farther from his cabin.
“Now, old Hakkabut, come out of your shell! Come and show the governor proper respect, when he gives you the honor of his company,” cried Ben Zoof, who by this time had clambered onto the deck.
After considerable hesitation, but still keeping his hold upon the cabin-door, the Jew made up his mind to step outside. “What do you want?” he inquired, timorously.
“I want a word with you,” said Servadac, “but I do not want to stand talking out here in the cold.”
Followed by the rest of the party, he proceeded to mount the steps. The Jew trembled from head to foot. “But I cannot let you into my cabin. I am a poor man; I have nothing to give you,” he moaned piteously.
“Here he is!” laughed Ben Zoof, contemptuously; “he is beginning his chapter of lamentations over again. But standing out here will never do. Out of the way, old Hakkabut, I say! out of the way!” and, without more ado, he thrust the astonished Jew on one side and opened the door of the cabin.
Servadac, however, declined to enter until he had taken the pains to explain to the owner of the tartan that he had no intention of laying violent hands upon his property, and that if the time should ever come that his cargo was in requisition for the common use, he should receive a proper price for his goods, the same as he would in Europe.
“Europe, indeed!” muttered the Jew maliciously between his teeth. “European prices will not do for me. I must have Gallian prices—and of my own fixing, too!”
So large a portion of the vessel had been appropriated to the cargo that the space reserved for the cabin was of most meager dimensions. In one corner of the compartment stood a small iron stove, in which smoldered a bare handful of coals; in another was a trestle-board which served as a bed; two or three stools and a rickety deal table, together with a few cooking utensils, completed a stock of furniture which was worthy of its proprietor.
On entering the cabin, Ben Zoof’s first proceeding was to throw on the fire a liberal supply of coals, utterly regardless of the groans of poor Isaac, who would almost as soon have parted with his own bones as submit to such reckless expenditure of his fuel. The perishing temperature of the cabin, however, was sufficient justification for the orderly’s conduct, and by a little skillful manipulation he soon succeeded in getting up a tolerable fire.
The visitors having taken what seats they could, Hakkabut closed the door, and, like a prisoner awaiting his sentence, stood with folded hands, expecting the captain to speak.
“Listen,” said Servadac; “we have come to ask a favor.”
Imagining that at least half his property was to be confiscated, the Jew began to break out into his usual formula about being a poor man and having nothing to spare; but Servadac, without heeding his complainings, went on: “We are not going to ruin you, you know.”
Hakkabut looked keenly into the captain’s face.
“We have only come to know whether you can lend us a steelyard.”
So far from showing any symptom of relief, the old miser exclaimed, with a stare of astonishment, as if he had been asked for some thousand francs: “A steelyard?”
“Yes!” echoed the professor, impatiently; “a steelyard.”
“Have you not one?” asked Servadac.
“To be sure he has!” said Ben Zoof.
Old Isaac stammered and stuttered, but at last confessed that perhaps there might be one amongst the stores.
“Then, surely, you will not object to lend it to us?” said the captain.
“Only for one day,” added the professor.
The Jew stammered again, and began to object. “It is a very delicate instrument, your Excellency. The cold, you know, the cold may do injury to the spring; and perhaps you are going to use it to weigh something very heavy.”
“Why, old Ephraim, do you suppose we are going to weigh a mountain with it?” said Ben Zoof.
“Better than that!” cried out the professor, triumphantly; “we are going to weigh Gallia with it; my comet.”
“Merciful Heaven!” shrieked Isaac, feigning consternation at the bare suggestion.
Servadac knew well enough that the Jew was holding out only for a good bargain, and assured him that the steelyard was required for no other purpose than to weigh a kilogramme, which (considering how much lighter everything had become) could not possibly put the slightest strain upon the instrument.
The Jew still spluttered, and moaned, and hesitated.
“Well, then,” said Servadac, “if you do not like to lend us your steelyard, do you object to sell it to us?”
Isaac fairly shrieked aloud. “God of Israel!” he ejaculated, “sell my steelyard? Would you deprive me of one of the most indispensable of my means of livelihood? How should I weigh my merchandise without my steelyard—my solitary steelyard, so delicate and so correct?”
The orderly wondered how his master could refrain from strangling the old miser upon the spot; but Servadac, rather amused than otherwise, determined to try another form of persuasion. “Come, Hakkabut, I see that you are not disposed either to lend or to sell your steelyard. What do you say to letting us hire it?”
The Jew’s eyes twinkled with a satisfaction that he was unable to conceal. “But what security would you give? The instrument is very valuable;” and he looked more cunning than ever.
“What is it worth? If it is worth twenty francs, I will leave a deposit of a hundred. Will that satisfy you?”
He shook his head doubtfully. “It is very little; indeed, it is too little, your Excellency. Consider, it is the only steelyard in all this new world of ours; it is worth more, much more. If I take your deposit it must be in gold—all gold. But how much do you agree to give me for the hire—the hire, one day?”
“You shall have twenty francs,” said Servadac.
“Oh, it is dirt cheap; but never mind, for one day, you shall have it. Deposit in gold money a hundred francs, and twenty francs for the hire.” The old man folded his hands in meek resignation.
“The fellow knows how to make a good bargain,” said Servadac, as Isaac, after casting a distrustful look around, went out of the cabin.
“Detestable old wretch!” replied the count, full of disgust.
Hardly a minute elapsed before the Jew was back again, carrying his precious steelyard with ostentatious care. It was of an ordinary kind. A spring balance, fitted with a hook, held the article to be weighed; a pointer, revolving on a disc, indicated the weight of the article. Professor Rosette was manifestly right in asserting that such a machine would register results quite independently of any change in the force of attraction. On the earth it would have registered a kilogramme as a kilogramme; here it recorded a different value altogether, as the result of the altered force of gravity.
Gold coinage to the worth of one hundred and twenty francs was handed over to the Jew, who clutched at the money with unmistakable eagerness. The steelyard was committed to the keeping of Ben Zoof, and the visitors prepared to quit the Hansa.
All at once it occurred to the professor that the steelyard would be absolutely useless to him, unless he had the means for ascertaining the precise measurement of the unit of the soil of Gallia which he proposed to weigh. “Something more you must lend me,” he said, addressing the Jew. “I must have a measure, and I must have a kilogramme.”
“I have neither of them,” answered Isaac. “I have neither. I am sorry; I am very sorry.” And this time the old Jew spoke the truth. He would have been really glad to do another stroke or two of business upon terms as advantageous as the transaction he had just concluded.
Palmyrin Rosette scratched his head in perplexity, glaring round upon his companions as if they were personally responsible for his annoyance. He muttered something about finding a way out of his difficulty, and hastily mounted the cabin-ladder. The rest followed, but they had hardly reached the deck when the chink of money was heard in the room below. Hakkabut was locking away the gold in one of the drawers.
Back again, down the ladder, scrambled the little professor, and before the Jew was aware of his presence he had seized him by the tail of his slouchy overcoat. “Some of your money! I must have money!” he said.
“Money!” gasped Hakkabut; “I have no money.” He was pale with fright, and hardly knew what he was saying.
“Falsehood!” roared Rosette. “Do you think I cannot see?” And peering down into the drawer which the Jew was vainly trying to close, he cried, “Heaps of money! French money! Five-franc pieces! the very thing I want! I must have them!”
The captain and his friends, who had returned to the cabin looked on with mingled amusement and bewilderment.
“They are mine!” shrieked Hakkabut.
“I will have them!” shouted the professor.
“You shall kill me first!” bellowed the Jew.
“No, but I must!” persisted the professor again.
It was manifestly time for Servadac to interfere. “My dear professor,” he said, smiling, “allow me to settle this little matter for you.”
“Ah! your Excellency,” moaned the agitated Jew, “protect me! I am but a poor man—”
“None of that, Hakkabut. Hold your tongue.” And, turning to Rosette, the captain said, “If, sir, I understand right, you require some silver five-franc pieces for your operation?”
“Forty,” said Rosette, surlily.
“Two hundred francs!” whined Hakkabut.
“Silence!” cried the captain.
“I must have more than that,” the professor continued. “I want ten two-franc pieces, and twenty half-francs.”
“Let me see,” said Servadac, “how much is that in all? Two hundred and thirty francs, is it not?”
“I dare say it is,” answered the professor.
“Count, may I ask you,” continued Servadac, “to be security to the Jew for this loan to the professor?”
“Loan!” cried the Jew, “do you mean only a loan?”
“Silence!” again shouted the captain.
Count Timascheff, expressing his regret that his purse contained only paper money, begged to place it at Captain Servadac’s disposal.
“No paper, no paper!” exclaimed Isaac. “Paper has no currency in Gallia.”
“About as much as silver,” coolly retorted the count.
“I am a poor man,” began the Jew.
“Now, Hakkabut, stop these miserable lamentations of yours, once for all. Hand us over two hundred and thirty francs in silver money, or we will proceed to help ourselves.”
Isaac began to yell with all his might: “Thieves! thieves!”
In a moment Ben Zoof’s hand was clasped tightly over his mouth. “Stop that howling, Belshazzar!”
“Let him alone, Ben Zoof. He will soon come to his senses,” said Servadac, quietly.
When the old Jew had again recovered himself, the captain addressed him. “Now, tell us, what interest do you expect?”
Nothing could overcome the Jew’s anxiety to make another good bargain. He began: “Money is scarce, very scarce, you know—”
“No more of this!” shouted Servadac. “What interest, I say, what interest do you ask?”
Faltering and undecided still, the Jew went on. “Very scarce, you know. Ten francs a day, I think, would not be unreasonable, considering—”
The count had no patience to allow him to finish what he was about to say. He flung down notes to the value of several rubles. With a greediness that could not be concealed, Hakkabut grasped them all. Paper, indeed, they were; but the cunning Israelite knew that they would in any case be security far beyond the value of his cash. He was making some eighteen hundred per cent. interest, and accordingly chuckled within himself at his unexpected stroke of business.
The professor pocketed his French coins with a satisfaction far more demonstrative. “Gentlemen,” he said, “with these franc pieces I obtain the means of determining accurately both a meter and a kilogramme.”