As he finished these words, an exclamation rang out, followed by a dull thud. It was Fedor Sharp, who, in accordance with Fricoulet’s expectations, had just fallen over, his face already blackened and his eyes bloodshot. The two friends leapt upon him, one seizing him by the shoulders and the other by the legs, and, without losing a moment, transported him to one of the shell’s circular cushions.
Ten minutes later, Gontran and Fricoulet, divested of their helmets, were comfortably ensconced on the padding of the divan. Each of them was holding a revolver in his right hand, and a glass full of an excellent port—with which the shell’s stores had been abundantly supplied ever since the departure from Cotopaxi—in the other.
“My God!” said Fricoulet, moistening his lips with the odorant liquid. “How good it is to feel at home!” He clinked glasses with Flammermont and added, lightly: “To the health of the excellent Monsieur Sharp.”
A profound sigh attracted their attention to the sick man, who thus advertised his return to consciousness, emphasizing the manifestation with tremors in his arms and legs.
“Look out,” said Gontran, “the scoundrel’s coming round.”
“I entreat you,” said Fricoulet, “not to use such expressions, or my plan will come unstuck.”
“But you haven’t told me what your plan is.”
“It doesn’t matter—its purpose is to save you.”
At that moment, Sharp sat up on his cushion and rubbed his eyes with his closed fists for some time, like someone awakening from a long sleep. Then he became suddenly immobile, dumbfounded by the sight of the two men who were looking at him, smiling. He tried to cry out then, but his voice stuck in his throat. He tried to get up, but the two revolver barrels aimed at him commanded him to be still.
“My dear Gontran,” Fricoulet said, still smiling, “would you do me the honor of introducing me to the estimable Monsieur Sharp.” Seeing that Flammermont was having a great deal of difficulty restraining his indignation, he added: “On seeing you again, after such a long time, my friend Gontran is experiencing an emotion so profound that, as you can see, joy is rendering him mute—but I, who don’t have the same reasons as he does for being emotional on seeing you, will tell you who I am myself. My name is Alcide Fricoulet; I’m an engineer—and if Mikhail Ossipoff has been able to carry out the wonderful intersidereal expedition, the idea of which you borrowed from him, in spite of everything, it’s to some extent thanks to me.”
Sharp’s already-livid face became even paler, and his blanched lips contracted nervously.
“I tell you that,” Fricoulet continued, “not in order to boast—my friend Monsieur Flammermont will confirm that, from the viewpoint of modesty, the violet is nothing by comparison with me—but in order that we can get to know one another better. Is that understood?”
The ex-permanent secretary of the St. Petersburg Institute of Sciences did not reply immediately. Eventually, he decided to ask, in a cavernous voice. “What do you want?”
“To persuade you that you’re in our hands and that you’ll have do as we wish. You’ve guessed, of course, that if we didn’t have any need of you, the little tricks you’ve already played would have got your brains blown out.” So saying, he passed the barrel of his revolver beneath the trembling wretch’s nose. “Yes, Monsieur Sharp,” Fricoulet went on, “We have need of you. ‘One often has need of one more rascally than oneself,’ La Fontaine has said; we’ll furnish the proof of it. First of all, is it really necessary to demonstrate to you that certain death awaits you, and that all those you have played false will compete for the bloodthirsty pleasure of sending you to join the old moons? No—you must know as well as we do the sentiments professed in your regard by Mikhail Ossipoff, Gontran de Flammermont and Jonathan Farenheit.”
Fedor Sharp took on a greenish tint.
“I alone had some sympathy with you on the day when, by abducting Mademoiselle Selena, you made it impossible for my friend Gontran to marry her—but, thanks to your cowardice and your inhumanity, we’ve recovered Mademoiselle Selena, with the result that the abyss into which I wanted to prevent Monsieur de Flammermont from falling is once again hollowed out beneath his feet. That’s why I hold an implacable and personal grudge against you, which I shall consent not to take out on your villainous flesh…on one condition.”
“What’s that?” murmured the wretch.
“That in the course of your peregrinations around the Sun, you have indubitably established the existence of the planet Vulcan.”
Sharp almost jumped off his cushion. “What!” he cried. “You’re mad.”
“Mad? Why is that?”
“Because no one is better placed than I am to deny the existence of that planet, brainchild of the optical illusion of some and the over-enthusiastic imagination of others.”
“Monsieur de Flammermont, however,” said Fricoulet, still smiling, “not only believes in Vulcan but also observed its passage across the solar disk not 24 hours ago.”
Sharp remained open-mouthed for a moment, uncertain as to whether the engineer was being serious or mocking him. Finally, he uttered a little snigger and addressed himself directly to Gontran. “I wish you would explain that to me, Monsieur…” he began.
Fricoulet cut him off. “Explanations,” he said, harshly, “are unnecessary. The situation is this: have you, or have you not, established the existence of Vulcan? If the answer is yes. Monsieur de Flammermont will forgive you for having abducted his fiancée and abandoned her, at the risk of her dying of starvation. Furthermore, we’ll undertake to reconcile you with Ossipoff and Farenheit. If not, the tricks you’ve played will deprive your vile soul of its vile envelope.”
“I believe in the existence of Vulcan,” Fedor Sharp made haste to say, “and I’m willing to swear to that before the entire Universe.”
“In that case, my dear Monsieur Sharp, Gontran and I are your friends. Keep your promise…and we’ll keep ours.”
The wretch held out his hands, which the two young men shook as a sign of reconciliation—but not without a grimace of disgust. “Now let’s go,” said Fricoulet, getting to his feet. “The others must be getting mortally anxious; it’s time to rejoin them.”
“One moment,” said Gontran. “Let me tidy myself up a bit.”
So saying, he went to the cupboard and released a sigh of satisfaction on observing that his effects were in the same condition in which he had left them. Swiftly, he donned a pair of nankeen trousers and a light jacket, and completed the transformation by putting on a straw Panama hat.
“You look as if you’re about to go fishing with a rod and line,” said Fricoulet, laughing.
“Or about to come back,” replied the young Comte. “For that’s a fine catch that we’ve made.”
Rapidly, the engineer followed his friend’s example. Then, having donned their respirols and making Sharp put on his own, all three of them went out of the shell. After carefully closing the door behind them, they set off back to the camp.
The Sun was beginning to disappear over the horizon when they arrived at the foot of the Mercurian hill that served as their refuge. There they took off their helmets and deliberated as to the course to follow with a view to effecting a reconciliation between Sharp and his enemies. Fricoulet proposed that he should go on ahead as an ambassador and negotiate the matter. Gontran, on the other hand, opined that they should tackle the matter squarely, to see what effect that the sudden appearance of the wretch would have on those who had complained about him, and act according to the circumstances. It was the latter opinion that prevailed and the little troop set about slowly climbing the wooded hill on which the selenium sphere stood, illuminated by the dazzling light of Venus.
On perceiving Gontran, who was marching in the lead, Selena uttered a cry of joy and ran to the young man, with her arms extended. “Finally!” she said, with tears in her voice. “There you are, you bad boy. If you knew how anxious we’ve been…”
“Pardon me, my dear Selena,”
Flammermont replied. “I was working for our happiness.”
Farenheit had come running in response to the young woman’s call. “By God!” said the Americam. “It’s high time you came back. I was starting to go mad. The old man’s taken his telescope apart and reassembled it four times over…one of the lenses seems to be missing. He’s in a frightful fury—listen to that!”
High above, in the makeshift observatory organized in the top of the sphere, furious speech was audible, punctuated by curses and exclamations of despair.
“Monsieur Ossipoff!” Fricoulet shouted. “Monsieur Ossipoff! Come down a moment—we have something very interesting to tell you.”
When the old man had joined them, the engineer turned round to Sharp, whom he had left lurking in a dark corner, and came back leading the wretch by the hand.
When he appeared in the circle of light formed by the selenium lamp, amazement made Ossipoff and the American take several steps backward. Then, all of a sudden., without saying a word, Farenheit hurled himself forward, his arms widespread and his hands open: formidable pincers that were about to wring the ex-permanent secretary’s neck.
Fortunately, Gontran de Flammermont positioned himself between the two men. At the same time, the old man, clinging on to the American’s coat-tails, dragged him backwards. “One moment, Mr. Farenheit,” he said, in a firm voice. “This man belongs as much to me as to you. He was my enemy before he was yours; you will therefore agree that my vengeance ought to be exacted before yours.”
“Your credit is privileged,” said Fricoulet, laughing.
The American was fuming. “What!” he groaned. “This man has cheated me, ruined me, attempted to murder me, and I must calmly fold my arms? Oh no! Lynch law is not a vain phrase.”
Sharp turned to him. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Farenheit,” he said, with marvelous self-composure, “but it’s wrong of you to accuse me of having ruined you. What did I promise you? Diamond mines—well, I’ve delivered more than I promised, since you’re in an entire land made of diamond at this moment.”
“It’s not your fault that I’m here, you wretch!” growled Farenheit.
“It’s yours!” retorted Sharp. “Bah! Does one pay attention to such details in your country? In America, you fire off revolver shots as you raise your hats, but you’re no better off for it.”
The American was about to reply, but Ossipoff cut him off. “This wretch belongs to me and I won’t permit anyone to raise a hand against him until I declare my vengeance satisfied.”
A mocking smile played on the lips of the ex-permanent secretary. “Your vengeance!” he repeated, in a sardonic tone. “Before going in search of whatever torture of refined cruelty you might be able to inflict on my hide for all my misdeeds, let me ask you whether astronomical questions still impassion you as they did in the past?”
A trifle nonplussed by this question, Ossipoff replied, after a momentary pause: “I don’t understand the reason for your question.”
“It’s because I have a bargain to propose.”
“A bargain! What?”
“During the 20 days that the journey I’ve made through space in the vicinity of the Sun lasted, I devoted myself to a profound study of the central star of the Universe. I’ve been able to find explanations for many phenomena that have plunged terrestrial astronomers into profound amazement for centuries. These studies and observations I’ve committed, day by day, to a notebook. Let me live, pardon me, accept me as a collaborator in the excursion you have undertaken, and that notebook is yours.”
“Never!” howled Farenheit. “Never! Don’t accept, Monsieur Ossipoff! It’s a fool’s bargain!”
The old man reflected, with his head bowed; eventually, he looked up, his features contracted by a profound emotion, and replied, simply: “Fedor Sharp, in the name of science, I accept.”
“But we’d find these notes after your death,” the American said.
“You’d find nothing but pieces of paper covered with incomprehensible symbols.”
Ossipoff turned to Selena. “My child,” he said, “Will you consent to forget what this man has done to you?”
“If you forgive him, Father,” the young woman replied, “I shall forgive him.”
“What about you, Monsieur de Flammermont?”
“I put one condition on my forgiveness,” declared the former diplomat, “and that is that Monsieur Sharp will tell us sincerely what he thinks about the planet Vulcan.”
There was a pause, and everyone—except the American, to whom the question as of no importance—looked anxiously at Fedor Sharp. As the latter appeared to hesitate, a small click was heard in the darkness; it was Fricoulet cocking his revolver.
Sharp shivered, and in a slightly tremulous voice, he said: “I have seen the planet Vulcan with my own eyes and I have established that, in accordance with the prognostications of Le Verrier, it describes an orbit around the central star in 33 days. Actually, it’s more of a nebulous mass than a world, properly speaking.”
Ossipoff suddenly became pale and leaned toward Gontran’s ear. “Forgive me,” he said, “and let’s forget our dispute. In matters of astronomy, I’m a mere child by comparison with you.”
Chapter XXXI
The Suburbs of the Sun
Wednesday, March 25. Alone. Here I am, alone now—and it seemed odd, on waking up, not to see the young woman lying in her hammock. At first, with my memory still numbed by sleep, I looked for her, and then I suddenly remembered what had happened the day before: my calculations, clearly establishing the excessive weight of the projectile—an excess corresponding, almost to the gram, of Selena’s weight—my hesitations, my scruples and, finally, my abrupt decision.
Could I, for a mere question of humanity, renounce this celestial exploration, which will surround my name with an aureole of unimaginable glory? Could I sacrifice to that young woman the gigantic step that my voyage is making for science?
Then again, I was beginning to get attached to that child, so gentle and so lovable, and beside her pure victim’s silhouette I was beginning to look too much like an executioner…that was like a living remorse. Yes, from every point of view, I did well to abandon her. I have no regrets.
Thursday, March 26. This morning, I experienced the same thing as yesterday. When I awoke, my eyes immediately looked for Selena…she made a singular impression on me.
Bah! I’ll get used to it.
I’m now 4,000,000 leagues from Mercury. What a journey to make in 48 hours! And my velocity is increasing!
I’ve measured the diameter of the Sun with the aid of the micrometer, and the dimension is increasing, so to speak, visibly. The projectile is flying through space with vertiginous rapidity. The calculations give me nearly 40 kilometers a second.
Friday, March 27. Last night I was woken up by the intolerable heat. It seemed to me that I was in a red-hot furnace. Although I was virtually naked, my body was inundated by an abundant sweat, which transformed itself without any discontinuity into a thick cloud of vapor.
The interior of the projectile seemed to be on fire. At firs, I thought there really was a fire; I got up precipitately and realized that a dazzling red light was coming through the portholes, which tinted the surrounding objects and my own body the color of blood.
Quickly, to my telescope!
A marvelous spectacle! In velvety black space, extinguishing with its splendid light all the stars in the firmament, a bright and sparkling meteor flew by with unprecedented rapidity, sweeping the immensity with a luminous train in which I was enveloped myself, and which was emitting the suffocating heat that had woken me up.
It’s a comet—doubtless Tuttle’s; that’s the only one that can be crossing the sky in this location, at this time. I’ve consulted my horary; Tuttle’s comet was sighted in 1871; its period is 13 years; this is 1884—it’s certainly that one.
I note here, from memory, its aphelion, which is 10.483; its perihelion, which is 1.030; and the eccentricity of its orbit,
0.821.140 Tuttle’s orbit cuts across the orbits of all the planets in the plane of the ecliptic, passes Saturn, reaches its aphelion after 13 years and returns towards our system, after traveling millions and millions of leagues. That’s the vehicle I need to travel the interplanetary immensity!—instead of this miserable fragment of metal that’s carrying me.
Saturday, March 28. The heat has diminished, I’m breathing more easily. Measured by the micrometer, the Sun’s diameter has grown. I’m looking for the comet. In less than a day it’s lost itself in space; thanks to my telescope, I find it again out here, far away, on the sidereal horizon. It will cross Mercury’s orbit.
I’ve been making calculations all day, and I’ve established that Tuttle’s comet will almost certainly collide with Mercury. What will the result of the impact be? One comet fewer in the Solar System, no doubt.
Suddenly, the thought of Selena came back to mind; poor child, it’s implacable death that awaits her…my God! Just as long as she doesn’t suffer too much. I’m a wretch!
Sunday, March 29. I spent a sleepless night. The thought of the horrible cataclysm that’s brewing kept my eyes wide open for long hours. Anguish drained me of all strength I didn’t even have the courage to go to the porthole to study the two stars marching towards their mutual impact.
Poor Selena! As long as her curses don’t bring me bad luck!
The heat is increasing terribly as I get nearer to the Sun. To distract my mind from the thought of Selena, I’m calmly examining the eventualities that await me. Either I continue to head straight toward the Sun, and then, at a distance of 10,000,000 leagues, I’ll fall into the central star and—having been burned, turned to ash and volatilized—disappear as impalpable matter into the great All…or I won’t reach the attractive zone and, under the impulse of my velocity, I’ll take a turn around the Sun and continue my journey.
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 60
