An Unknown World

by Pierre de Sélènes

  They prepared to set off for the departure point.

  Rugel, Merovar and Azali had offered to accompany them until the last moment. Emotion was at its peak.

  The three friends shook the hands extended toward them one last time, and bowed respectfully to Aldeovaze. The young woman to whom Lord Rodilan had shown himself so paternal starred at him with wide moist eyes.

  “Don’t cry, my child,” he said to her. “You’ve found a mother who will love you better than I would have been able to do”—Orealis had, in fact, taken in the sad orphan and was testifying a touching affection for her—“and you’ll soon be consoled. If you retain the memory of the man who was your friend, you’ll be able, in a few years’ time, to give my name to your first-born son. You can call him Douglas.”

  Then, lifting the child up in his strong arms, he hugged her energetically to his heart. Putting her down again, he turned away in order furtively to wipe away a tear. That moment of emotion was brief, and almost immediately, he advanced with Jacques to say goodbye to the beautiful Orealis. She had been gentle and maternal to them; it was under her benevolent protection that their reason, temporarily obscured, had reawakened; they retained a profound gratitude for that, and the kisses thy deposited on her cheeks had something grave and meditative about them.

  To Jacques, Orealis said: “Tell the one you are going to recover that she has a sister here who will always love her.” Turning to Lord Rodilan, she added: “As for you, don’t retain too bad a memory of the time you spent among us. Your heart, we know, is better than you want to let it seem, and we won’t forget the good and generous man you really are.”

  Marcel was the last to come forward. In his turn he applied his lips to the face of the woman with whom he had dreamed of uniting his destiny, and put into that first and last kiss all of his disappointed hopes, and all the great love that nothing would ever efface from his heart.

  They were both too emotional to say anything; their hands squeezed one another in a long and mute grip.

  The three voyagers had gone.

  All those who had stayed in the observatory were standing on the glazed terrace, their eyes fixed in the direction of the location from which the departure would take place. Suddenly, the horizon lit up with a vivid flash, which momentarily veiled the light that the Earth was pouring down on the surface of the Moon. Almost immediately, a dull rumble became audible.

  Orealis fell to her knees in an attitude of prayer.

  The grave voice of Aldeovaze was heard: “May the Sovereign Spirit that governs the worlds protect them, and bring them safe and sound to their journey’s end.”

  XVII. In the Pacific Ocean

  “Devil take your friends, my dear Marcel!” exclaimed Lord Rodilan, quitting the porthole through which he had been examining the surface of the ocean. “For three days we’ve been adrift in this region—they ought to have fished us out by now.”

  “Damn!” said Marcel, laughing “How our voyage to the Moon has changed you, my dear lord! You, once so phlegmatic, whose cold indifference nothing affected, are now as impatient as a little mistress.”

  “You’re utterly content, then?” riposted the Englishman.

  “No, of course not, but is it nothing to have above our heads, instead of a granite vault, that beautiful azure sky, those capriciously-formed clouds with shiny edges, to fill one’s lungs with these saline breezes, to feel ourselves bathed by that bright and gentle sunlight, of which we’ve been deprived for so long? What do you say, Jacques?”

  “Oh, as for me,” said the young physician, “I’m as impatient as Lord Rodilan. I can’t wait to get out of our floating prison and hug those who are waiting for us. Only then will I enjoy the happiness of having returned safe and sound to Earth.”

  “You’re very lucky to be loved and awaited,” Marcel murmured, dully, his forehead clouded. He soon pulled himself together, though. “My word, my friends, success has spoiled you. Everything has succeeded thus far, and you’re still not satisfied. We’ve accomplished, the most hazardous journey in conditions for which we could hardly have hoped; we’ve fallen into the exact region of the Pacific for which we aimed; our projectile penetrated to the deepest larger of the ocean and came back to the surface without encountering any obstacle; now we’re floating on a placid sea under a pure sky. What more do you want?

  “Our friends, warned by the last dispatch we addressed to them, knowing the exact moment of our departure and arrival, are undoubtedly looking for us. As we discovered by taking a bearing that we fell at 136° 15´ west longitude and 9° 23´ south latitude—which is to say, outside any regular shipping route—there’s nothing astonishing in the fact that the ships sent to find us haven’t yet sighted us. We’ve done the wisest thing, setting a course for the nearest land, in the Marquesas archipelago, but our craft, excellent for interplanetary travel, would cut a sad figure in Yacht Club races, as you know, and in spite of the best efforts of our propeller, it’ll take us a long time to come ashore.”

  “Well, so be it,” said Lord Rodilan, with a comical resignation. “My voyage to the Moon won’t have been a waste of time; I’ll have learned to be patient.”

  Marcel was not mistaken. Numerous ships were in the region searching for the voyagers.

  On 5 January the Long’s Peak Observatory had transmitted a dispatch to Biskra saying: Will depart 25 February 8:45:37. Will fall in Pacific near equator longitude 130 degrees. M. J. R.

  An immense joy had filled the hearts of Mathieu-Rollère and his daughter. Telegrams had immediately spread the astonishing news throughout the entire world. For a long time, no doubt had remained regarding the reality of the extraordinary voyage. The regularity of the communications exchanged, with the most incredulous had been able to verify with their own eyes, the precise information coming from the satellite, some of which had been confirmed by scientific observations already made, which others had furnished rational and satisfactory solutions to obscure problems, had reckoned with ill-will and routine.

  At the announcement of the return of the bold explorers, all scientific societies had become excited. A great tide of curiosity and sympathy was manifest in all the civilized nations, and under the pressure of public opinion the great maritime powers of the world had sent ships to cruise the region where the projectile would fall. Mathieu-Rollère, his daughter and Georges Dumesnil had traveled in haste to Panama, and there had taken passage on the Galathée, a fast cruiser from the Pacific fleet placed at their disposal by the French government.

  They had reached the region indicated by the lunar telegram without delay, where two other French ships from the same fleet and a number of English, American, Russian and even Japanese vessels were already sailing. The government in Tokyo, in fact, eager to keep up with all progress, had seized the opportunity to take part in all the scientific discussions.

  A good number of pleasure yachts attracted by curiosity were also traveling in the region, ordinarily deserted, where an unusual activity had been noticeable for some days.

  To facilitate the surveillance of the region of the Pacific in which the projectile would fall, and prevent the ships of different nations from wandering at random, and agreement had been made between the various governments. The officer of the longest-established rank was to take charge of the search and assign each vessel its observation post. To that effect, the region had been divided up into distinct zones, each of which had been allocated to a naval unit.

  It was to Captain Francis Clayton of the United States Navy, an old sea-dog, commander of the first-class cruiser Maryland, that the command of the flotilla had devolved, which counted some forty ships of various tonnage. His instructions dictated that the first vessel to see the floating shell and pick up the voyagers would immediately head for the Maryland, situated in the middle of the region. At the same time, it would fire a cannon at regular intervals by day and launch powerful rockets by night intended to be seen at long distances. Those signals would be repeated by all the ships
that perceived them, and when they were produced they would imply an order for a general rally.

  When all that was settled, each ship had taken up its station, circling within the limits assigned to it.

  Three days had gone by since the moment when the projectile departing from the Moon must have been swallowed by the ocean depths, and nothing had appeared on the surface of the tranquil sea.

  While they were searching in every direction, Marcel and his companions, lost in the ocean, were making their way slowly toward the target they had selected. Their propeller was functioning efficiently, but the rounded form of their strange vessel rendered its maneuvering extremely difficult. In order to keep the shell moving in the chosen direction, it was necessary for one of the three companions to be permanently stationed at the tiller. They were, so to speak, sculling.

  On the morning of the eighth day since the fall had taken place, Marcel, at the top of the ladder leading to the forward porthole, was searching the limited horizon that the slight elevation of the shell permitted him to see with his binoculars.

  “There’s land!” he suddenly shouted.

  His two companions leapt to their feet, and each came in turn to observe the presence of the coast so ardently desired.

  At the indecisive limit where the sea seemed to be confused with the sky, a blue-tinted line appeared, slightly indented—evidently the crest of a mountain chain of mediocre height.

  “Finally,” sighed Lord Rodilan, “we can get out of this damned prison, where I’m beginning to go moldy, and live on land again.”

  “Don’t speak ill of our poor shell,” said Marcel, smiling. “It’s performed bravely. Do you know many skiffs that could have crossed such a distance at such a speed? It’s not its fault if, constructed to fly through space, we’ve converted it into a pleasure-boat.”

  “Hélène! My uncle!” Jacques murmured. “I’m going to see them again.”

  They imposed maximum velocity on the propeller and resumed sculling madly, and the strange vessel, limping along as fast it could, approached the mountainous mass, whose contours stood out increasingly clearly.

  Marcel had checked his map, and, having taken a new bearing, said: “That must be the island of Fatu Hiva, the most southerly of the Marquesas. We’ll surely find a French post there where they’ll hasten to welcome us.”

  “As long as they can offer us a nice slice of roast beef, or a steak,” muttered the Englishman, his mouth watering at the thought of the lavish dinner he had promised himself.

  As the distance diminished, the view of the coast became more precise. Dense forests, whose dark green cut through the blue of the sky, covered the mountains, which now closed the horizon. They sloped down toward a small beach limited to the right and left by rugged rocks; the sea breaking at their feet bordered them with a fringe of foam.

  It was toward that inlet that the travelers steered.

  It was about ten o’clock in the morning when the shell ran aground. Its considerable weight, augmented by the speed of the propeller, had sufficed to embed it profoundly, half a cable from the shore. As far as the eye could see, the place seemed deserted; there was no trace of human habitation.

  Lord Rodilan was about to dive into the sea in order to swim to shore when Marcel stopped him.

  “Steady on, my dear friend. It’s as well, before descending on this coast, which we don’t know, to take a few precautions. The Marquesas group undoubtedly belongs to France, but I’m not sure that we’ve landed in the vicinity of a post, and we might happen upon one of the savage tribes that still occupy the islands and, far from any surveillance, might do us harm. Admit that it would be unfortunate to come so far only to perish in some wretched ambush.”

  “By Jove!” said Lord Rodilan. “It wouldn’t displease me to fire a shot or two. It would be a change from the monotonous life we’ve been leading for two years.”

  “Monotonous!” retorted Jacques. “You’re hard to please! But Marcel’s right—we mustn’t neglect any precaution.”

  Having carefully wrapped their carbines, revolvers and some ammunition in an impermeable sack, the three men jumped boldly into the water, and reached the shore in a few strokes.

  When they set foot on the soil of the Earth that they had quite such a long time ago, and had feared so many times that they might never see again, they let out a sigh of relief. They had triumphed over the impossible; their astonishing odyssey as now over, their ordeals had ended.

  They had abandoned themselves to the joy of the return, and were shaking hands effusively, when a gunshot suddenly rang out, fired from a thicket bordering the strand, and Lord Rodilan’s hat fell at his feet, traversed by a bullet.

  “Ah!” said the Englishman. “Good! Now I’m sure that I’m on Earth. I’ve rediscovered the gentle and hospitable mores of my compatriots!”

  Meanwhile, a dozen savages armed with long rifles emerged from the woods and advanced, firing, reassured by the small number of the strangers, with whom they thought they would reckon easily. Fortunately, their ill-directed shots had no result.

  When the first moment of surprise had passed, Lord Rodilan and his companions, kneeling on the ground to steady their shots, directed the redoubtable fire of their repeating rifles at their assailants. Each one had a dozen savages in front of him. Already their long-range bullets had opened up gaps in the savages’ ranks, and numerous cadavers were strewn on the ground.

  Disconcerted by that resistance, which they had not expected, the indigenes were retreating when a larger troop of armed men emerged from the woods. Attracted by the sound of gunfire, the entire tribe had come running, brandishing rifles and uttering frightful howls.

  “You wanted a battle, Milord,” said Marcel, with fine self-composure. “I believe you’ve got your wish.”

  “We can’t allow ourselves to be slaughtered by those brutes,” said Jacques. “It would be too stupid.”

  “Let’s fire into the mass,” said Lord Rodilan, “while we fall back to the shell. Once there, we can stand them off without danger.”

  The barbarian host had spread out along the beach and was threatening to surround the three friends, who, retreating step by step, taking careful aim to save their ammunition, were dropping a man with every shot.33

  Already, several of the savages, getting ahead of their companions, fearful of seeing the strangers escape, were racing between them and the shore, when there was a deafening racket, and twenty of the most fervent attackers bit the dust. While the ferocious horde fled in terror, Marcel and his companions, not knowing where that unexpected aid had come from, turned their heads. A troop of twenty sailors wearing French uniforms were calmly reloading their weapons.

  A man dressed with supreme elegance in a costume that was half-naval and half civilian, who seemed to be in command, came toward the three companions, rendered immobile by surprise.

  “Messieurs,” he said to them, taking off his cap, “I bless the hazard that permitted me to arrive in time to rid you of that vermin. I have no need to ask you whom I have the honor of addressing; the shell that I can see run aground not far away tells me that I’m in the presence of the three illustrious voyagers for whom forty ships have been searching in vain for a week. I’m Comte Hector de Rochebrune; my yacht is anchored beyond that point, and I hope that you’ll do me the honor of coming aboard in order to go with me to rejoin the people awaiting you with so much impatience.”

  The ease with which the newcomer expressed himself denoted a person of the highest society. His open expression and the frankness of his manners immediately gained Marcel’s sympathy, and he shook the hand extended to him vigorously. His name was, in any case, not unknown to him. Although still young—he was scarcely twenty-five years old—the Comte de Rochebrune was famous in the annals of voyages of circumnavigation. The master of an immense fortune, passionate about science, he had already traveled extensively in both hemispheres, and had brought back from each of his voyages precious zoological and ethnological collect
ions, which had considerably enriched the natural history museum in Paris, to which he had presented them.

  “Thank you, Monsieur le Comte,” Marcel replied, warmly, “on behalf of myself and my companions, whom I have the honor of introducing to you: Lord Rodilan and Dr. Jacques Deligny.”

  The latter bowed gravely, but the Comte cried, cheerfully: “Enough ceremony, Messieurs. We are, with your permission, old acquaintances. For a long time, your names have been on all lips; I’ve been looking for you for a week, and I’m delighted to shake your hands.” So saying, he headed toward the party of sailors, who had remained within range the range of their weapons, in an utterly military immobility.

  “My friends,” the Comte said to them, “Chance has served us marvelously. These are the three heroes for whom we’ve been searching, the men who have accomplished a voyage such as no sailor has ever attempted.”

  A formidable cheer was raised; all of them, including the Comte, gazed with respectful admiration at the three astonishing men surrounded by the prestige of such marvelous adventures. They seemed to be unable to sate their gaze. That testimony of ardent enthusiasm went straight to the three voyagers’ hearts, but left them somewhat embarrassed, habituated as they had been for a long time to the calm and discreet manners of lunar humankind.

  The Comte noticed that, and took out his watch. “It’s noon, Messieurs, the time to go to table, and I hope that you’ll do me the honor of accepting my modest hospitality.”

  At the idea of a meal, which, to judge by the distinction of the host, would be a fine one, Lord Rodilan’s eyes lit up in satisfaction. His British pride would not allow anything to show, but Marcel and Jacques were not deceived, and looked at him, smiling.

  An elegant launch was moored on the shore; the Comte and his new friends took their places therein, and the craft, propelled by twelve vigorous oarsmen, had soon doubled the rocky point behind which a superb 200-tonne steam yacht was anchored, slender and bold in form, its fine silhouette standing out against the sky.