Preserved vegetables, “fresher than the natural ones,” as the amiable Michel observed, succeeded the meat, and were followed by some cups of tea and slices of bread and butter, American fashion.  This beverage, pronounced excellent, was made from tea of the first quality, of which the Emperor of Russia had put some cases at the disposition of the travellers.

Lastly, as a worthy ending to the meal, Ardan ferreted out a fine bottle of “Nuits” burgundy that “happened” to be in the provision compartment.  The three friends drank it to the union of the earth and her satellite.

And as if the generous wine it had distilled upon the hill-sides of Burgundy were not enough, the sun was determined to help in the feast.  The projectile at that moment emerged from the cone of shadow cast by the terrestrial globe, and the sun’s rays fell directly upon the lower disc of the bullet, on account of the angle which the orbit of the moon makes with that of the earth.

“The sun!” exclaimed Michel Ardan.

“Of course,” answered Barbicane; “I expected it.”

“But,” said Michel, “the cone of shadow thrown by the earth into space extends beyond the moon.”

“Much beyond if you do not take the atmospheric refraction into account,” said Barbicane.  “But when the moon is enveloped in that shadow the centres of the three heavenly bodies—­the sun, the earth, and the moon—­are in a straight line.  Then the nodes coincide with the full moon and there is an eclipse.  If, therefore, we had started during an eclipse of the moon all our journey would have been accomplished in the dark, which would have been a pity.”

“Why?”

“Because, although we are journeying in the void, our projectile, bathed in the solar rays, will gather their light and heat; therefore there will be economy of gas, a precious economy in every way.”

In fact, under these rays, the temperature and brilliancy of which there was no atmosphere to soften, the projectile was lighted and warmed as if it had suddenly passed from winter to summer.  The moon above and the sun below inundated it with their rays.

“It is pleasant here now,” said Nicholl.

“I believe you!” cried Michel Ardan.  “With a little vegetable soil spread over our aluminium planet we could grow green peas in twenty-four hours.  I have only one fear, that is that the walls of our bullet will melt.”

“You need not alarm yourself, my worthy friend,” answered Barbicane.  “The projectile supported a much higher temperature while it was travelling through the atmosphere.  I should not even wonder if it looked to the eyes of the spectators like a fiery meteor.”

“Then J.T.  Maston must think we are roasted!”

“What I am astonished at,” answered Barbicane, “is that we are not.  It was a danger we did not foresee.”

“I feared it,” answered Nicholl simply.

“And you did not say anything about it, sublime captain!” cried Michel Ardan, shaking his companion’s hand.