“Yes,” said the captain, “now I
don’t know where I am going, I will know why
I am going.”
“Why?” cried Michel, jumping a yard high—“why?
To take possession of the moon in the name of the
United States! To add a fortieth State to the
Union! To colonise the lunar regions, to cultivate
them, people them, to take them all the wonders of
art, science, and industry! To civilise the Selenites,
unless they are more civilised than we are, and to
make them into a republic if they have not already
done it for themselves!”
“If there are any Selenites!” answered
Nicholl, who under the empire of this inexplicable
intoxication became very contradictory.
“Who says there are no Selenites?” cried
Michel in a threatening tone.
“I do!” shouted Nicholl.
“Captain,” said Michel, “do not
repeat that insult or I will knock your teeth down
your throat!”
The two adversaries were about to rush upon one another,
and this incoherent discussion was threatening to
degenerate into a battle, when Barbicane interfered.
“Stop, unhappy men,” said he, putting
his two companions back to back, “if there are
no Selenites, we will do without them!”
“Yes!” exclaimed Michel, who did not care
more about them than that. “We have nothing
to do with the Selenites! Bother the Selenites!”
“The empire of the moon shall be ours,”
said Nicholl. “Let us found a Republic
of three!”
“I shall be the Congress,” cried Michel.
“And I the Senate,” answered Nicholl.
“And Barbicane the President,” shouted
Michel.
“No President elected by the nation!”
answered Barbicane.
“Well, then, a President elected by the Congress,”
exclaimed Michel; “and as I am the Congress
I elect you unanimously.”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah for President Barbicane!”
exclaimed Nicholl.
“Hip—hip—hip! hurrah!”
vociferated Michel Ardan.
Then the President and Senate struck up “Yankee
Doodle” as loudly as they could, whilst the
Congress shouted the virile “Marseillaise.”
Then began a frantic dance with maniacal gestures,
mad stamping, and somersaults of boneless clowns.
Diana took part in the dance, howling too, and jumped
to the very roof of the projectile. An inexplicable
flapping of wings and cock-crows of singular sonority
were heard. Five or six fowls flew about striking
the walls like mad bats.
Then the three travelling companions, whose lungs
were disorganised under some incomprehensible influence,
more than intoxicated, burnt by the air that had set
their breathing apparatus on fire, fell motionless
upon the bottom of the projectile.
AT SEVENTY-EIGHT THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN
LEAGUES.
What had happened? What was the cause of that
singular intoxication, the consequences of which might
prove so disastrous? Simply carelessness on Michel’s
part, which Nicholl was able to remedy in time.
