The light of the returning sun soon extinguished the glory of the stars, and rendered it necessary for the captain to postpone his observations. He had sought in vain for further trace of the huge disc that had so excited his wonder on the 1st, and it seemed most probable that, in its irregular orbit, it had been carried beyond the range of vision.
The weather was still superb. The wind, after veering to the west, had sunk to a perfect calm. Pursuing its inverted course, the sun rose and set with undeviating regularity; and the days and nights were still divided into periods of precisely six hours each—a sure proof that the sun remained close to the new equator which manifestly passed through Gourbi Island.
Meanwhile the temperature was steadily increasing. The captain kept his thermometer close at hand where he could repeatedly consult it, and on the 15th he found that it registered 50 degrees centigrade in the shade.
No attempt had been made to rebuild the gourbi, but the captain and Ben Zoof managed to make up quarters sufficiently comfortable in the principal apartment of the adjoining structure, where the stone walls, that at first afforded a refuge from the torrents of rain, now formed an equally acceptable shelter from the burning sun. The heat was becoming insufferable, surpassing the heat of Senegal and other equatorial regions; not a cloud ever tempered the intensity of the solar rays; and unless some modification ensued, it seemed inevitable that all vegetation should become scorched and burnt off from the face of the island.
In spite, however, of the profuse perspirations from which he suffered, Ben Zoof, constant to his principles, expressed no surprise at the unwonted heat. No remonstrances from his master could induce him to abandon his watch from the cliff. To withstand the vertical beams of that noontide sun would seem to require a skin of brass and a brain of adamant; but yet, hour after hour, he would remain conscientiously scanning the surface of the Mediterranean, which, calm and deserted, lay outstretched before him. On one occasion, Servadac, struck by his orderly’s indomitable perseverance, happened to remark:
“You must have been born somewhere on the equator!”
“No, captain, at Montmartre. But it’s all the same!”
The worthy fellow was unwilling to own that, even in the matter of heat, the tropics could in any way surpass his own much-loved home.
This unprecedented temperature very soon began to take effect upon the products of the soil. The sap rose rapidly in the trees, so that in the course of a few days buds, leaves, flowers, and fruit had come to full maturity. It was the same with the cereals; wheat and maize sprouted and ripened as if by magic, and for a while a rank and luxuriant pasturage clothed the meadows. Summer and autumn seemed blended into one. If Captain Servadac had been more deeply versed in astronomy, he would perhaps have been able to bring to bear his knowledge that if the axis of the Earth, as everything seemed to indicate, now formed a right angle with the plane of the ecliptic, her various seasons, like those of the planet Jupiter, would become limited to certain zones, in which they would remain invariable. But even if he had understood the rationale of the change, the convulsion that had brought it about would have been as much a mystery as ever.
The precocity of vegetation caused some embarrassment. The time for the corn and fruit harvest had fallen simultaneously with that of the haymaking; and as the extreme heat precluded any prolonged exertions, it was evident “the population” of the island would find it difficult to provide the necessary amount of labour. Not that the prospect gave them much concern: the provisions of the gourbi were still far from exhausted, and now that the roughness of the weather had so happily subsided, they had every encouragement to hope that a ship of some sort would soon appear. Not only was that part of the Mediterranean systematically frequented by the government steamers that watched the coast, but vessels of all nations were constantly cruising off the shore.
In spite, however, of all their sanguine speculations, no ship appeared. Ben Zoof admitted the necessity of extemporizing a kind of parasol for himself, otherwise he must literally have been roasted to death upon the exposed summit of the cliff.
Meanwhile, Servadac was doing his utmost—it must be acknowledged, with indifferent success—to recall the lessons of his school-days. He would plunge into the wildest speculations in his endeavours to unravel the difficulties of the new situation, and struggled into a kind of conviction that if there had been a change of manner in the Earth’s rotation on her axis, there would be a corresponding change in her revolution round the sun, which would involve the consequence of the length of the year being either diminished or increased.
Independently of the increased and increasing heat, there was another very conclusive demonstration that the Earth had thus suddenly approximated towards the sun. The diameter of the solar disc was now exactly twice what it ordinarily looks to the naked eye; in fact, it was precisely such as it would appear to an observer on the surface of the planet Venus. The most obvious inference would therefore be that the Earth’s distance from the sun had been diminished from 91,000,000 to 66,000,000 miles. If the just equilibrium of the Earth had thus been destroyed, and should this diminution of distance still continue, would there not be reason to fear that the terrestrial world would be carried onwards to actual contact with the sun, which must result in its total annihilation?
The continuance of the splendid weather afforded Servadac every facility for observing the heavens. Night after night, constellations in their beauty lay stretched before his eyes—an alphabet which, to his mortification, not to say his rage, he was unable to decipher. In the apparent dimensions of the fixed stars, in their distance, in their relative position with regard to each other, he could observe no change. Although it is established that our sun is approaching the constellation of Hercules at the rate of more than 126,000,000 miles a year, and although Arcturus is travelling through space at the rate of fifty-four miles a second—three times faster than the Earth goes round the sun— yet such is the remoteness of those stars that no appreciable change is evident to the senses. The fixed stars taught him nothing.
Far otherwise was it with the planets. The orbits of Venus and Mercury are within the orbit of the Earth, Venus rotating at an average distance of 66,130,000 miles from the sun, and Mercury at that of 35,393,000. After pondering long, and as profoundly as he could, upon these figures, Captain Servadac came to the conclusion that, as the Earth was now receiving about double the amount of light and heat that it had been receiving before the catastrophe, it was receiving about the same as the planet Venus; he was driven, therefore, to the estimate of the measure in which the Earth must have approximated to the sun, a deduction in which he was confirmed when the opportunity came for him to observe Venus herself in the splendid proportions that she now assumed.
That magnificent planet which—as Phosphorus or Lucifer, Hesperus or Vesper, the evening star, the morning star, or the shepherd’s star—has never failed to attract the rapturous admiration of Earthly observers, here revealed herself with unprecedented glory, exhibiting all the phases of a lustrous moon in miniature. Various indentations in the outline of its crescent showed that the solar beams were refracted into regions of its surface where the sun had already set, and proved, beyond a doubt, that the planet had an atmosphere of her own; and certain luminous points projecting from the crescent as plainly marked the existence of mountains, peaks that Schroeter had correctly estimated to have been ten times the height of Mont Blanc.
As the result of Servadac’s computations, he formed the opinion that Venus could hardly be at a greater distance than two million leagues from the Earth.
“And a very safe distance, too,” said Ben Zoof, when his master told him the conclusion at which he had arrived.
“All very well for two armies, but for a couple of planets, it’s nothing at all.”
“So what do you think will happen?”
“Blast it! We may end up falling onto Venus!”
“So! So, captain, any air down there?”
“Then why shouldn’t we go and visit Venus?”
“Well, the shock of collision would be devastating. These two planets are of roughly equal mass, and were travelling with great velocity in opposite directions, any collision between them is bound to be attended with the most disastrous consequences to one or both.”
“Like two trains, what? Two trains crashing into one another?” replied Ben Zoof, with a calmness that infuriated the captain.
“Trains? You idiot!” he angrily exclaimed; “cannot you understand that the planets are travelling a thousand times faster than the fastest express trains, and that if they meet, either one or the other must be destroyed? What would become of your darling Montmartre then?”
The captain had touched a tender chord. For a moment Ben Zoof stood with clenched teeth and contracted muscles; then, in a voice of real concern, he inquired whether anything could be done to avert the calamity.
“Nothing whatever; so you may go to the devil for all I care,” was the captain’s brusque rejoinder.
All discomfited and bewildered, Ben Zoof retired without a word.
During the ensuing days the distance between the two planets continued to decrease, and it became more and more obvious that the Earth, on her new orbit, was about to cross the orbit of Venus. Throughout this time the Earth had been making a perceptible approach towards Mercury, and that planet—which is rarely visible to the naked eye, and then only at what are termed the periods of its greatest eastern and western elongations—now appeared in all its splendour. It amply justified the epithet of “sparkling” which the ancients were accustomed to confer upon it, and could scarcely fail to awaken a new interest. The periodic recurrence of its phases; its reflection of the sun’s rays, shedding upon it a light and a heat seven times greater than that received by the Earth; its glacial and its torrid zones, which, on account of the great inclination of the axis, are scarcely separable; its equatorial bands; its mountains eleven miles high—were all subjects of observation worthy of the most studious regard.
But no danger was to be apprehended from Mercury. It was Venus that threatened imminent collision. By the l8th of January the distance between that planet and the Earth had become reduced to between two and three millions of miles, and the intensity of its light cast heavy shadows from all terrestrial objects. It might be observed to turn upon its own axis in twenty-three hours twenty-one minutes—an evidence, from the unaltered duration of its days, that the planet had not shared in the disturbance. On its disc the clouds formed from its atmospheric vapour were plainly perceptible, as also were the seven spots, which, according to Bianchini, are a chain of seas. It was now visible in broad daylight. Napoleon Bonaparte, when Revolutionary France was still being ruled by the Directory, once had his attention called to Venus at noon, and immediately hailed it joyfully, recognizing it as his own peculiar star in the ascendant.
On the 20th, the distance between the two bodies had again sensibly diminished. The captain had ceased to be surprised that no vessel had been sent to rescue himself and his companion from their strange imprisonment; the governor general and the minister of war were doubtless far differently occupied, and their interests far otherwise engrossed. What sensational articles, he thought, must now be teeming to the newspapers! What crowds must be flocking to the churches! The end of the world approaching! The great climax close at hand! Two days more, and the Earth, shivered into a myriad atoms, would be lost in boundless space!
These dire forebodings, however, were not destined to be realized. Gradually the distance between the two planets began to increase; the planes of their orbits did not coincide, and accordingly the dreaded catastrophe did not ensue. By the 25th, Venus was sufficiently remote to preclude any further fear of collision. Ben Zoof gave a sigh of relief when the captain communicated the glad intelligence.
Their proximity to Venus had been close enough to demonstrate that beyond a doubt that planet has no moon or satellite such as Cassini, Short, Montaigne of Limoges, Montbarron, and some other astronomers have imagined to exist. “Had there been such a satellite,” said Servadac, “we might have captured it in passing. But what can be the meaning,” he added seriously, “of all this displacement of the heavenly bodies?”
“Captain?” asked Ben Zoof.
“What do you want?”
“What is that great building at Paris, captain, with a top like a cap?”
“That’s the place. Are there not people living in the Observatory who could explain all this?”
“Very likely; but what of that?”
“Let us be philosophers, and wait patiently until we can hear their explanation.”
Servadac smiled. “Do you know what it is to be a philosopher, Ben Zoof?” he asked.
“Indeed. In the sense that I am a soldier, sir.”
“A soldier knows that what can’t be cured must be endured.”
The captain made no reply, but for a time, at least, he desisted from puzzling himself over matters which he felt he was utterly incompetent to explain. But an event soon afterwards occurred which awakened his keenest interest.
About nine o’clock on the morning of the 27th, Ben Zoof walked deliberately into his master’s apartment, and, in reply to a question as to what he wanted, announced with the utmost composure that a ship was in sight.
“A ship!” exclaimed Servadac, starting to his feet. “A ship! Ben Zoof, you donkey! you speak as unconcernedly as though you were telling me that my dinner was ready.”
“Are we not philosophers, captain?” said the orderly.