The Moon-Voyage

CHAPTER XXI.

HOW A FRENCH­MAN SET­TLES AN AF­FAIR.

Whilst the du­el was be­ing dis­cussed be­tween the pres­ident and the cap­tain--a ter­ri­ble and sav­age du­el in which each ad­ver­sary be­came a man-​hunter--Michel Ar­dan was rest­ing af­ter the fa­tigues of his tri­umph. Rest­ing is ev­ident­ly not the right ex­pres­sion, for Amer­ican beds ri­val in hard­ness ta­bles of mar­ble or gran­ite.

Ar­dan slept bad­ly, turn­ing over and over be­tween the _servi­ettes_ that served him for sheets, and he was think­ing of in­stalling a more com­fort­able bed in his pro­jec­tile when a vi­olent noise star­tled him from his slum­bers. Thun­der­ing blows shook his door. They seemed to be ad­min­is­tered with an iron in­stru­ment. Shouts were heard in this rack­et, rather too ear­ly to be agree­able.

“Open!” some one cried. “Open, for Heav­en's sake!”

There was no rea­son why Ar­dan should ac­qui­esce in so peremp­to­ry a de­mand. Still he rose and opened his door at the mo­ment it was giv­ing way un­der the ef­forts of the ob­sti­nate vis­itor.

The sec­re­tary of the Gun Club bound­ed in­to the room. A bomb would not have en­tered with less cer­emo­ny.

“Yes­ter­day evening,” ex­claimed J.T. Mas­ton _ex abrup­to_, “our pres­ident was pub­licly in­sult­ed dur­ing the meet­ing! He has chal­lenged his ad­ver­sary, who is no oth­er than Cap­tain Nicholl! They are go­ing to fight this morn­ing in Sker­snaw Wood! I learnt it all from Bar­bi­cane him­self! If he is killed our project will be at an end! This du­el must be pre­vent­ed! Now one man on­ly can have enough em­pire over Bar­bi­cane to stop it, and that man is Michel Ar­dan.”

Whilst J.T. Mas­ton was speak­ing thus, Michel Ar­dan, giv­ing up in­ter­rupt­ing him, jumped in­to his vast trousers, and in less than two min­utes af­ter the two friends were rush­ing as fast as they could go to­wards the sub­urbs of Tam­pa Town.

It was dur­ing this rapid course that Mas­ton told Ar­dan the state of the case. He told him the re­al caus­es of the en­mi­ty be­tween Bar­bi­cane and Nicholl, how that en­mi­ty was of old date, why un­til then, thanks to mu­tu­al friends, the pres­ident and the cap­tain had nev­er met; he added that it was sole­ly a ri­val­ry be­tween iron-​plate and bul­let; and, last­ly, that the scene of the meet­ing had on­ly been an oc­ca­sion long sought by Nicholl to sat­is­fy an old grudge.

There is noth­ing more ter­ri­ble than these pri­vate du­els in Amer­ica, dur­ing which the two ad­ver­saries seek each oth­er across thick­ets, and hunt each oth­er like wild an­imals. It is then that each must en­vy those mar­vel­lous qual­ities so nat­ural to the In­di­ans of the prairies, their rapid in­tel­li­gence, their in­ge­nious ruse, their scent of the en­emy. An er­ror, a hes­ita­tion, a wrong step, may cause death. In these meet­ings the Yan­kees are of­ten ac­com­pa­nied by their dogs, and both sports­men and game go on for hours.

“What demons you are!” ex­claimed Michel Ar­dan, when his com­pan­ion had de­pict­ed the scene with much en­er­gy.

“We are what we are,” an­swered J.T. Mas­ton mod­est­ly; “but let us make haste.”

In vain did Michel Ar­dan and he rush across the plain still wet with dew, jump the creeks, take the short­est cuts; they could not reach Sker­snaw Wood be­fore half-​past five. Bar­bi­cane must have en­tered it half-​an-​hour be­fore.

There an old bush­man was ty­ing up fag­gots his axe had cut.

Mas­ton ran to him cry­ing--

“Have you seen a man en­ter the wood armed with a ri­fle? Bar­bi­cane, the pres­ident--my best friend?”

The wor­thy sec­re­tary of the Gun Club thought naïve­ly that all the world must know his pres­ident. But the bush­man did not seem to un­der­stand.

“A sports­man,” then said Ar­dan.

“A sports­man? Yes,” an­swered the bush­man.

“Is it long since?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Too late!” ex­claimed Mas­ton.

“Have you heard any fir­ing?” asked Michel Ar­dan.

“No.”

“Not one shot?”

“Not one. That sports­man does not seem to bag much game!”

“What shall we do?” said Mas­ton.

“En­ter the wood at the risk of catch­ing a bul­let not meant for us.”

“Ah!” ex­claimed Mas­ton, with an un­mis­tak­able ac­cent, “I would rather have ten bul­lets in my head than one in Bar­bi­cane's head.”

“Go ahead, then!” said Ar­dan, press­ing his com­pan­ion's hand.

A few sec­onds af­ter the two com­pan­ions dis­ap­peared in a copse. It was a dense thick­et made of huge cy­press­es, sycamores, tulip-​trees, olives, tamarinds, oaks, and mag­no­lias. The dif­fer­ent trees in­ter­min­gled their branch­es in in­ex­tri­ca­ble con­fu­sion, and quite hid the view. Michel Ar­dan and Mas­ton walked on side by side phas­ing silent­ly through the tall grass, mak­ing a road for them­selves through the vig­or­ous creep­ers, look­ing in all the bush­es or branch­es lost in the som­bre shade of the fo­liage, and ex­pect­ing to hear a shot at ev­ery step. As to the traces that Bar­bi­cane must have left of his pas­sage through the wood, it was im­pos­si­ble for them to see them, and they marched blind­ly on in the hard­ly-​formed paths in which an In­di­an would have fol­lowed his ad­ver­sary step by step.

Af­ter a vain search of about an hour's length the two com­pan­ions stopped. Their anx­iety was re­dou­bled.

“It must be all over,” said Mas­ton in de­spair. “A man like Bar­bi­cane would not lay traps or con­de­scend to any ma­noeu­vre! He is too frank, too coura­geous. He has gone straight in­to dan­ger, and doubt­less far enough from the bush­man for the wind to car­ry off the noise of the shot!”

“But we should have heard it!” an­swered Michel Ar­dan.

“But what if we came too late?” ex­claimed J.T. Mas­ton in an ac­cent of de­spair.

Michel Ar­dan did not find any an­swer to make. Mas­ton and he re­sumed their in­ter­rupt­ed walk. From time to time they shout­ed; they called ei­ther Bar­bi­cane or Nicholl; but nei­ther of the two ad­ver­saries an­swered. Joy­ful flocks of birds, roused by the noise, dis­ap­peared amongst the branch­es, and some fright­ened deer fled through the copses.

They con­tin­ued their search an­oth­er hour. The greater part of the wood had been ex­plored. Noth­ing re­vealed the pres­ence of the com­bat­ants. They be­gan to doubt the af­fir­ma­tion of the bush­man, and Ar­dan was go­ing to re­nounce the pur­suit as use­less, when all at once Mas­ton stopped.

“Hush!” said he. “There is some one yon­der!”

“Some one?” an­swered Michel Ar­dan.

“Yes! a man! He does not seem to move. His ri­fle is not in his hand. What can he be do­ing?”

“But do you recog­nise him?” asked Michel Ar­dan.

“Yes, yes! he is turn­ing round,” an­swered Mas­ton.

“Who is it?”

“Cap­tain Nicholl!”

“Nicholl!” cried Michel Ar­dan, whose heart al­most stopped beat­ing.

“Nicholl dis­armed! Then he had noth­ing more to fear from his ad­ver­sary?”

“Let us go to him,” said Michel Ar­dan; “we shall know how it is.”

But his com­pan­ion and he had not gone fifty steps when they stopped to ex­am­ine the cap­tain more at­ten­tive­ly. They imag­ined they should find a blood­thirsty and re­venge­ful man. Up­on see­ing him they re­mained stu­pe­fied.

A net with fine mesh­es was hung be­tween two gi­gan­tic tulip-​trees, and in it a small bird, with its wings en­tan­gled, was strug­gling with plain­tive cries. The bird-​catch­er who had hung the net was not a hu­man be­ing but a ven­omous spi­der, pe­cu­liar to the coun­try, as large as a pi­geon's egg, and fur­nished with enor­mous legs. The hideous in­sect, as he was rush­ing on his prey, was forced to turn back and take refuge in the high branch­es of a tulip-​tree, for a formidable en­emy threat­ened him in his turn.

In fact, Cap­tain Nicholl, with his gun on the ground, for­get­ting the dan­gers of his sit­ua­tion, was oc­cu­pied in de­liv­er­ing as del­icate­ly as pos­si­ble the vic­tim tak­en in the mesh­es of the mon­strous spi­der. When he had fin­ished he let the lit­tle bird fly away; it flut­tered its wings joy­ful­ly and dis­ap­peared.

Nicholl, touched, was watch­ing it fly through the copse when he heard these words ut­tered in a voice full of emo­tion:--

“You are a brave man, you are!”

He turned. Michel Ar­dan was in front of him, re­peat­ing in ev­ery tone--

“And a kind one!”

“Michel Ar­dan!” ex­claimed the cap­tain, “what have you come here for, sir?”

“To shake hands with you, Nicholl, and pre­vent you killing Bar­bi­cane or be­ing killed by him.”

“Bar­bi­cane!” cried the cap­tain, “I have been look­ing for him these two hours with­out find­ing him! Where is he hid­ing him­self?”

“Nicholl!” said Michel Ar­dan, “this is not po­lite! You must al­ways re­spect your ad­ver­sary; don't be un­easy; if Bar­bi­cane is alive we shall find him, and so much the more eas­ily that if he has not amused him­self with pro­tect­ing birds he must be look­ing for you too. But when you have found him--and Michel Ar­dan tells you this--there will be no du­el be­tween you.”

“Be­tween Pres­ident Bar­bi­cane and me,” an­swered Nicholl grave­ly, “there is such ri­val­ry that the death of one of us--”

“Come, come!” re­sumed Michel Ar­dan, “brave men like you may de­test one an­oth­er, but they re­spect one an­oth­er too. You will not fight.”

“I shall fight, sir.”

“No you won't.”

“Cap­tain,” then said J.T. Mas­ton hearti­ly, “I am the pres­ident's friend, his _al­ter ego_; if you must ab­so­lute­ly kill some one kill me; that will be ex­act­ly the same thing.”

“Sir,” said Nicholl, con­vul­sive­ly seiz­ing his ri­fle, “this jok­ing--”

“Friend Mas­ton is not jok­ing,” an­swered Michel Ar­dan, “and I un­der­stand his want­ing to be killed for the man he loves; but nei­ther he nor Bar­bi­cane will fall un­der Cap­tain Nicholl's bul­lets, for I have so tempt­ing a propo­si­tion to make to the two ri­vals that they will has­ten to ac­cept it.”

“But what is it, pray?” asked Nicholl, with vis­ible in­creduli­ty.

“Pa­tience,” an­swered Ar­dan; “I can on­ly com­mu­ni­cate it in Bar­bi­cane's pres­ence.”

“Let us look for him, then,” cried the cap­tain.

The three men im­me­di­ate­ly set out; the cap­tain, hav­ing dis­charged his ri­fle, threw it on his shoul­der and walked on in si­lence.

Dur­ing an­oth­er half-​hour the search was in vain. Mas­ton was seized with a sin­is­ter pre­sen­ti­ment. He ob­served Cap­tain Nicholl close­ly, ask­ing him­self if, once the cap­tain's vengeance sat­is­fied, the un­for­tu­nate Bar­bi­cane had not been left ly­ing in some bloody thick­et. Michel Ar­dan seemed to have the same thought, and they were both look­ing ques­tion­ing­ly at Cap­tain Nicholl when Mas­ton sud­den­ly stopped.

The mo­tion­less bust of a man lean­ing against a gi­gan­tic catal­pa ap­peared twen­ty feet off half hid­den in the grass.

“It is he!” said Mas­ton.

Bar­bi­cane did not move. Ar­dan stared at the cap­tain, but he did not wince. Ar­dan rushed for­ward, cry­ing--

“Bar­bi­cane! Bar­bi­cane!”

No an­swer. Ar­dan was about to seize his arm; he stopped short, ut­ter­ing a cry of sur­prise.

Bar­bi­cane, with a pen­cil in his hand, was trac­ing ge­omet­ri­cal fig­ures up­on a mem­oran­dum-​book, whilst his un­load­ed gun lay on the ground.

Ab­sorbed in his work, the _sa­vant_, for­get­ting in his turn his du­el and his vengeance, had nei­ther seen nor heard any­thing.

But when Michel Ar­dan placed his hand on that of the pres­ident, he got up and looked at him with as­ton­ish­ment.

“Ah!” cried he at last; “you here! I have found it, my friend, I have found it!”

“What?”

“The way to do it.”

“The way to do what?”

“To coun­ter­act the ef­fect of the shock at the de­par­ture of the pro­jec­tile.”

“Re­al­ly?” said Michel, look­ing at the cap­tain out of the cor­ner of his eye.

“Yes, wa­ter! sim­ply wa­ter, which will act as a spring. Ah, Mas­ton!” cried Bar­bi­cane, “you too!”

“Him­self,” an­swered Michel Ar­dan; “and al­low me to in­tro­duce at the same time the wor­thy Cap­tain Nicholl.”

“Nicholl!” cried Bar­bi­cane, up in a mo­ment. “Ex­cuse me, cap­tain,” said he; “I had for­got­ten. I am ready.”

Michel Ar­dan in­ter­fered be­fore the two en­emies had time to re­crim­inate.

“Faith,” said he, “it is for­tu­nate that brave fel­lows like you did not meet soon­er. We should now have to mourn for one or oth­er of you; but, thanks to God, who has pre­vent­ed it, there is noth­ing more to fear. When one for­gets his ha­tred to plunge in­to me­chan­ical prob­lems and the oth­er to play tricks on spi­ders, their ha­tred can­not be dan­ger­ous to any­body.”

And Michel Ar­dan re­lat­ed the cap­tain's sto­ry to the pres­ident.

“I ask you now,” said he as he con­clud­ed, “if two good be­ings like you were made to break each oth­er's heads with gun­shots?”

There was in this rather ridicu­lous sit­ua­tion some­thing so un­ex­pect­ed, that Bar­bi­cane and Nicholl did not know how to look at one an­oth­er. Michel Ar­dan felt this, and re­solved to try for a rec­on­cil­ia­tion.

“My brave friends,” said he, smil­ing in his most fas­ci­nat­ing man­ner, “it has all been a mis­take be­tween you, noth­ing more. Well, to prove that all is end­ed be­tween you, and as you are men who risk your lives, frankly ac­cept the propo­si­tion that I am go­ing to make to you.”

“Speak,” said Nicholl.

“Friend Bar­bi­cane be­lieves that his pro­jec­tile will go straight to the moon.”

“Yes, cer­tain­ly,” replied the pres­ident.

“And friend Nicholl is per­suad­ed that it will fall back on the earth.”

“I am cer­tain of it,” cried the cap­tain.

“Good,” re­sumed Michel Ar­dan. “I do not pre­tend to make you agree; all I say to you is, 'Come with me, and see if we shall stop on the road.'”

“What?” said J.T. Mas­ton, stu­pe­fied.

The two ri­vals at this sud­den propo­si­tion had raised their eyes and looked at each oth­er at­ten­tive­ly. Bar­bi­cane wait­ed for Cap­tain Nicholl's an­swer; Nicholl await­ed the pres­ident's re­ply.

“Well,” said Michel in his most en­gag­ing tone, “as there is now no shock to fear----”

“Ac­cept­ed!” cried Bar­bi­cane.

But al­though this word was ut­tered very quick­ly, Nicholl had fin­ished it at the same time.

“Hur­rah! bra­vo!” cried Michel Ar­dan, hold­ing out his hands to the two ad­ver­saries. “And now that the af­fair is ar­ranged, my friends, al­low me to treat you French fash­ion. _Al­lons dé­je­uner_.”