fr:Hector Servadac - II - Chapitre XV
CHAPTER XV.THE PROFESSOR PERPLEXED.
Another month passed away, and it was now September, but it was still impossible to leave the warmth of the subterranean retreat for the more airy and commodious quarters of the Hive, where “the bees” would certainly have been frozen to death in their cells. It was altogether quite as much a matter of congratulation as of regret that the volcano showed no symptoms of resuming its activity; for although a return of the eruption might have rendered their former resort again habitable, any sudden outbreak would have been disastrous to them where they were, the crater being the sole outlet by which the burning lava could escape.
“A wretched time we have had for the last seven
months,” said the orderly one day to his master; “but
what a comfort little Nina has been to us all!”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Servadac; “she is a charming
little creature. I hardly know how we should have got on
without her.”
“What is to become of her when we arrive back at the
earth?”
“Not much fear, Ben Zoof, but that she will be well
taken care of. Perhaps you and I had better adopt her.”
“Ay, yes,” assented the orderly. “You can be her
father, and I can be her mother.”
Servadac laughed.
“Then you and I shall be man and wife.”
“We have been as good as that for a long time” observed Ben Zoof, gravely.
By the beginning of October, the temperature had so
far moderated that it could scarcely be said to be intolerable. The comet's distance was scarcely three times as great from the sun as the earth from the sun, so that the thermometer rarely sunk beyond 35° below zero. The whole party began to make almost daily visits to the Hive, and frequently proceeded to the shore, where they resumed their skating exercise, rejoicing in their recovered freedom like prisoners liberated from a dungeon. Whilst the rest were enjoying their recreation, Servadac and the count would hold long conversations with Lieutenant Procope about their present position and future prospects, discussing all manner of speculations as to the results of the anticipated collision with the earth, and wondering whether any measures could be devised for mitigating the violence of a shock which might be terrible in its consequences, even if it did not entail a total annihilation of themselves.
There was no visitor to the Hive more regular than
Rosette. He had already directed his telescope to be
moved back to his former observatory, where, as much as
the cold would permit him, he persisted in making his all-absorbing
studies of the heavens.
The result of these studies no one ventured to inquire; but it became generally noticed that something was very seriously disturbing the professor's equanimity. Not only would he be seen toiling more frequently up the arduous way that lay between his nook below and his telescope above, but he would be heard muttering in an angry tone that indicated considerable agitation.
One day, as he was hurrying down to his study, he met
Ben Zoof, who, secretly entertaining a feeling of delight at
the professor's manifest discomfiture, made some casual
remark about things not being very straight. The way in
which his advance was received the good orderly never
divulged, but henceforward he maintained the firm conviction
that there was something very much amiss up in
the sky.
To Servadac and his friends this continual disquietude
and ill-humour on the part of the professor occasioned no
little anxiety. From what, they asked, could his dissatisfaction
arise? They could only conjecture that he had
discovered some flaw in his reckonings; and if this were
so, might there not be reason to apprehend that their
anticipations of coming into contact with the earth, at the
settled time, might all be falsified?
Day followed day, and still there was no cessation of
the professor's discomposure. He was the most miserable
of mortals. If really his calculations and his observations
were at variance, this, in a man of his irritable temperament, would account for his perpetual perturbation. But he entered into no explanation; he only climbed up to his telescope, looking haggard and distressed, and when compelled by the frost to retire, he would make his way back to his study more furious than ever.
At times he was heard giving vent to his vexation: