LITMIR.BIZ

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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_.”

CHAPTER XXII.

      THE NEW CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES.

      Table of Contents

      That day all America heard about the duel and its singular termination. The part played by the chivalrous European, his unexpected proposition which solved the difficulty, the simultaneous acceptation of the two rivals, that conquest of the lunar continent to which France and the United States were going to march in concert—everything tended to increase Michel Ardan’s popularity. It is well known how enthusiastic the Yankees will get about an individual. In a country where grave magistrates harness themselves to a dancer’s carriage and draw it in triumph, it may be judged how the bold Frenchman was treated. If they did not take out his horses it was probably because he had none, but all other marks of enthusiasm were showered upon him. There was no citizen who did not join him heart and mind:—_Ex pluribus unam_, according to the motto of the United States.

      From that day Michel Ardan had not a minute’s rest. Deputations from all parts of the Union worried him incessantly. He was forced to receive them whether he would or no. The hands he shook could not be counted; he was soon completely worn out, his voice became hoarse in consequence of his innumerable speeches, and only escaped from his lips in unintelligible sounds, and he nearly caught a gastro-enterite after the toasts he proposed to the Union. This success would have intoxicated another man from the first, but he managed to stay in a spirituelle and charming demi-inebriety.

      Amongst the deputations of every sort that assailed him, that of the “Lunatics” did not forget what they owed to the future conqueror of the moon. One day some of these poor creatures, numerous enough in America, went to him and asked to return with him to their native country. Some of them pretended to speak “Selenite,” and wished

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