Off on a Comet! a Journey through Planetary Space by Jules Verne (free ebook reader for android TXT) 📗

“Here is a trace of fresh water, the first that Gallia has exhibited,” said the count to his companions, as they toiled up the precipitous path.

“And probably,” replied the lieutenant, “as we ascend we shall find not only snow but ice. We must suppose this Gallia of ours to be a sphere, and if it is so, we must now be very close to her Arctic regions; it is true that her axis is not so much inclined as to prolong day and night as at the poles of the earth, but the rays of the sun must reach us here only very obliquely, and the cold, in all likelihood, will be intense.”

“So cold, do you think,” asked Servadac, “that animal life must be extinct?”

“I do not say that, captain,” answered the lieutenant; “for, however far our little world may be removed from the sun, I do not see why its temperature should fall below what prevails in those outlying regions beyond our system where sky and air are not.” “And what temperature may that be?” inquired the captain with a shudder.

“Fourier estimates that even in those vast unfathomable tracts, the temperature never descends lower than 60 degrees,” said Procope.

“Sixty! Sixty degrees below zero!” cried the count. “Why, there’s not a Russian could endure it!”

“I beg your pardon, count. It is placed on record that the English have survived it, or something quite approximate, upon their Arctic expeditions. When Captain Parry was on Melville Island, he knew the thermometer to fall to 56 degrees,” said Procope.

As the explorers advanced, they seemed glad to pause from time to time, that they might recover their breath; for the air, becoming more and more rarefied, made respiration somewhat difficult and the ascent fatiguing. Before they had reached an altitude of 600 feet they noticed a sensible diminution of the temperature; but neither cold nor fatigue deterred them, and they were resolved to persevere. Fortunately, the deep striae or furrows in the surface of the rocks that made the bottom of the ravine in some degree facilitated their progress, but it was not until they had been toiling up for two hours more that they succeeded in reaching the summit of the cliff.

Eagerly and anxiously did they look around. To the south there was nothing but the sea they had traversed; to the north, nothing but one drear, inhospitable stretch.

Servadac could not suppress a cry of dismay. Where was his beloved France? Had he gained this arduous height only to behold the rocks carpeted with ice and snow, and reaching interminably to the far-off horizon? His heart sank within him.

The whole region appeared to consist of nothing but the same strange, uniform mineral conglomerate, crystallized into regular hexagonal prisms. But whatever was its geological character, it was only too evident that it had entirely replaced the former soil, so that not a vestige of the old continent of Europe could be discerned. The lovely scenery of Provence, with the grace of its rich and undulating landscape; its gardens of citrons and oranges rising tier upon tier from the deep red soil—all, all had vanished. Of the vegetable kingdom, there was not a single representative; the most meager of Arctic plants, the most insignificant of lichens, could obtain no hold upon that stony waste. Nor did the animal world assert the feeblest sway. The mineral kingdom reigned supreme.

Captain Servadac’s deep dejection was in strange contrast to his general hilarity. Silent and tearful, he stood upon an ice-bound rock, straining his eyes across the boundless vista of the mysterious territory. “It cannot be!” he exclaimed. “We must somehow have mistaken our bearings. True, we have encountered this barrier; but France is there beyond! Yes, France is there! Come, count, come! By all that’s pitiful, I entreat you, come and explore the farthest verge of the ice-bound track!”

He pushed onwards along the rugged surface of the rock, but had not proceeded far before he came to a sudden pause. His foot had come in contact with something hard beneath the snow, and, stooping down, he picked up a little block of stony substance, which the first glance revealed to be of a geological character altogether alien to the universal rocks around. It proved to be a fragment of dis-colored marble, on which several letters were inscribed, of which the only part at all decipherable was the syllable “Vil.”

“Vil—Villa!” he cried out, in his excitement dropping the marble, which was broken into atoms by the fall.

What else could this fragment be but the sole surviving remnant of some sumptuous mansion that once had stood on this unrivaled site? Was it not the residue of some edifice that had crowned the luxuriant headland of Antibes, overlooking Nice, and commanding the gorgeous panorama that embraced the Maritime Alps and reached beyond Monaco and Mentone to the Italian height of Bordighera? And did it not give in its sad and too convincing testimony that Antibes itself had been involved in the great destruction? Servadac gazed upon the shattered marble, pensive and disheartened.

Count Timascheff laid his hand kindly on the captain’s shoulder, and said, “My friend, do you not remember the motto of the old Hope family?”

He shook his head mournfully.

“Orbe fracto, spes illoesa,” continued the count—“Though the world be shattered, hope is unimpaired.”

Servadac smiled faintly, and replied that he felt rather compelled to take up the despairing cry of Dante, “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”

“Nay, not so,” answered the count; “for the present at least, let our maxim be Nil desperandum!”