He was a person of average height, having, by a rare exception in the Gun Club, all his limbs intact.  His strongly-marked features seemed to be drawn by square and rule, and if it be true that in order to guess the instincts of a man one must look at his profile, Barbicane seen thus offered the most certain indications of energy, audacity, and sang-froid.

At that moment he remained motionless in his chair, mute, absorbed, with an inward look sheltered under his tall hat, a cylinder of black silk, which seems screwed down upon the skull of American men.

His colleagues talked noisily around him without disturbing him; they questioned one another, launched into the field of suppositions, examined their president, and tried, but in vain, to make out the x of his imperturbable physiognomy.

Just as eight o’clock struck from the fulminating clock of the large hall, Barbicane, as if moved by a spring, jumped up; a general silence ensued, and the orator, in a slightly emphatic tone, spoke as follows:—­

“Brave colleagues,—­It is some time since an unfruitful peace plunged the members of the Gun Club into deplorable inactivity.  After a period of some years, so full of incidents, we have been obliged to abandon our works and stop short on the road of progress.  I do not fear to proclaim aloud that any war which would put arms in our hands again would be welcome—­”

“Yes, war!” cried impetuous J.T.  Maston.

“Hear, hear!” was heard on every side.

“But war,” said Barbicane, “war is impossible under actual circumstances, and, whatever my honourable interrupter may hope, long years will elapse before our cannons thunder on a field of battle.  We must, therefore, make up our minds to it, and seek in another order of ideas food for the activity by which we are devoured.”

The assembly felt that its president was coming to the delicate point; it redoubled its attention.

“A few months ago, my brave colleagues,” continued Barbicane, “I asked myself if, whilst still remaining in our speciality, we could not undertake some grand experiment worthy of the nineteenth century, and if the progress of ballistics would not allow us to execute it with success.  I have therefore sought, worked, calculated, and the conviction has resulted from my studies that we must succeed in an enterprise that would seem impracticable in any other country.  This project, elaborated at length, will form the subject of my communication; it is worthy of you, worthy of the Gun Club’s past history, and cannot fail to make a noise in the world!”

“Much noise?” cried a passionate artilleryman.

“Much noise in the true sense of the word,” answered Barbicane.

“Don’t interrupt!” repeated several voices.

“I therefore beg of you, my brave colleagues,” resumed the president, “to grant me all your attention.”

A shudder ran through the assembly.  Barbicane, having with a rapid gesture firmly fixed his hat on his head, continued his speech in a calm tone:—­