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Updated: May 22, 2025
To mention only the planets, we should be either broiled alive in some, or frozen to death in others, according as they are more or less removed from the sun." "I regret," replied Michel Ardan, "that I have not the honor of personally knowing my contradictor, for I would have attempted to answer him.
"Still we must remember," observed Barbican, "that even the sharpest eye cannot detect a man at a distance greater than four miles and a-half, and our glasses have not yet brought us nearer than five." "Which means to say," observed Ardan, "that though we can't see the Selenites, they can see our Projectile!"
"Since there is nothing else to be done," said Nicholl, "I make a proposition." "What is it?" asked Barbicane. "I propose to go to sleep." "What a motion!" exclaimed Michel Ardan. "It is forty hours since we closed our eyes," said Nicholl. "Some hours of sleep will restore our strength." "Never," interrupted Michel. "Well," continued Nicholl, "every one to his taste; I shall go to sleep."
"Ardan," interrupted Barbican, "after a very little while we shall have plenty of time for philosophical disputations. Just now let us think of something far more pressing." "More pressing! what do you mean? are we not fully prepared?" "Yes, fully prepared, as far at least as we have been able to foresee.
"My stake is deposited at the bank in Baltimore," replied Barbicane simply; "and if Nicholl is not there, it will go to his heirs." "Ah, you practical men!" exclaimed Michel Ardan; "I admire you the more for not being able to understand you." "Forty-two minutes past ten!" said Nicholl. "Only five minutes more!" answered Barbicane.
In less than thirty seconds more, the Captain not only was able to sit up himself, but he even insisted on helping Ardan to lift Barbican, and deposit him gently on the sofa. The poor President had evidently suffered more from the concussion than either of his companions.
"Yes, he has been breathing for some time," replied Ardan, quietly, still unconsciously speaking French. "A little more rubbing and pulling and pounding will make him as spry as a young grasshopper."
Some pieces of glass remained in the frame, showing that it had been broken. This scuttle was actually five feet above the water. A boat came alongside, that of J. T. Maston, and J. T. Maston rushed to the broken window. At that moment they heard a clear and merry voice, the voice of Michel Ardan, exclaiming in an accent of triumph: "White all, Barbicane, white all!"
"Hurrah for Ardan! Hurrah for Barbicane! Hurrah for Nicholl!" rose to the skies. Thousands of persons, noses in air, armed with telescopes and race-glasses, were questioning space, forgetting all contusions and emotions in the one idea of watching for the projectile. They looked in vain! It was no longer to be seen, and they were obliged to wait for telegrams from Long's Peak.
The platform was lifted by a hundred strong arms, and the president of the Gun Club shared with Michel Ardan triumphal honors. The shield was heavy, but the bearers came in continuous relays, disputing, struggling, even fighting among themselves in their eagerness to lend their shoulders to this demonstration. However, the unknown had not profited by the tumult to quit his post.
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