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.
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 to teach it to Michel Ardan, who willingly lent himself to their innocent mania, and promised to take their messages to their friends in the moon.
“Singular folly!” said he to Barbicane, after having dismissed them; “and a folly that often takes possession of men of great intelligence. One of our most illustrious savants, Arago, told me that many very wise and reserved people in their conceptions became much excited and gave way to incredible singularities every time the moon occupied them. Do you believe in the influence of the moon upon maladies?”
“Very little,” answered the president of the Gun Club.
“I do not either, and yet history has preserved some facts that, to say the least, are astonishing. Thus in 1693, during an epidemic, people perished in the greatest numbers on the 21st of January, during an eclipse. The celebrated Bacon fainted during the moon eclipses, and only came to himself after its entire emersion. King Charles VI. relapsed six times into madness during the year 1399, either at the new or full moon. Physicians have ranked epilepsy amongst the maladies that follow the phases of the moon. Nervous maladies have often appeared to be influenced by it. Mead speaks of a child who had convulsions when the moon was in opposition. Gall remarked that insane persons underwent an accession of their disorder twice in every month, at the epochs of the new and full moon. Lastly, a thousand observations of this sort made upon malignant fevers and somnambulism tend to prove that the Queen of Night has a mysterious influence upon terrestrial maladies.”
“But how? why?” asked Barbicane.
“Why?” answered Ardan. “Why, the only thing I can tell you is what Arago repeated nineteen centuries after Plutarch. Perhaps it is because it is not true.”
In the height of his triumph Michel Ardan could not escape any of the annoyances incidental to a celebrated man. Managers of entertainments wished to exhibit him. Barnum offered him a million dollars to show him as a curious animal in the different towns of the United States.
Still, though he refused to satisfy public curiosity in that way, his portraits went all over the world, and occupied the place of honour in albums; proofs were made of all sizes from life size to medallions. Every one could possess the hero in all positions—head, bust, standing, full-face, profile, three-quarters, back. Fifteen hundred thousand copies were taken, and it would have been a fine occasion to get money by relics, but he did not profit by it. If he had sold his hairs for a dollar apiece there would have remained enough to make his fortune!
To tell the truth, this popularity did not displease him. On the contrary, he put himself at the disposition of the public, and corresponded with the entire universe. They repeated his witticisms, especially those he did not perpetrate.
Not only had he all the men for him, but the women too. What an infinite number of good marriages he might have made if he had taken a fancy to “settle!” Old maids especially dreamt before his portraits day and night.
It is certain that he would have found female companions by hundreds, even if he had imposed the condition of following him up into the air. Women are intrepid when they are not afraid of everything. But he had no intention of transplanting a race of Franco-Americans upon the lunar continent, so he refused.
“I do not mean,” said he, “to play the part of Adam with a daughter of Eve up there. I might meet with serpents!”
As soon as he could withdraw from the joys of triumph, too often repeated, he went with his friends to pay a visit to the Columbiad. He owed it that. Besides,
