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Did the adversary of Michel Ardan’s theories hazard any further arguments? It is impossible to say, for the frantic cries of the crowd would have prevented any opinion from being promulgated. When silence was again restored, even in the most distant groups, the triumphant orator contented himself with adding the following considerations:—

“You will think, gentlemen, that I have hardly touched upon this grave question. I am not here to give you an instructive lecture upon this vast subject. There is another series of arguments in favour of the heavenly bodies being inhabited; I do not look upon that. Allow me only to insist upon one point. To the people who maintain that the planets are not inhabited you must answer, ‘You may be right if it is demonstrated that the earth is the best of possible worlds; but it is not so, notwithstanding Voltaire.’ It has only one satellite, whilst Jupiter, Uranus, Saturn, and Neptune have several at their service, an advantage that is not to be disdained. But that which now renders the earth an uncomfortable place of abode is the inclination of its axis upon its orbit. Hence the inequality of day and night; hence the unfortunate diversity of seasons. Upon our miserable spheroid it is always either too warm or too cold; we are frozen in winter and roasted in summer; it is the planet of colds, rheumatism, and consumption, whilst on the surface of Jupiter, for instance, where the axis has only a very slight inclination, the inhabitants can enjoy invariable temperature. There is the perpetual spring, summer, autumn, and winter zone; each ‘Jovian’ may choose the climate that suits him, and may shelter himself all his life from the variations of the temperature. You will doubtless agree to this superiority of Jupiter over our planet without speaking of its years, which each lasts twelve years! What is more, it is evident to me that, under these auspices, and under such marvellous conditions of existence, the inhabitants of that fortunate world are superior beings—that savants are more learned, artists more artistic, the wicked less wicked, and the good are better. Alas! what is wanting to our spheroid to reach this perfection is very little!—an axis of rotation less inclined on the plane of its orbit.”

“Well!” cried an impetuous voice, “let us unite our efforts, invent machines, and rectify the earth’s axis!”

Thunders of applause greeted this proposition, the author of which could be no other than J.T. Maston. It is probable that the fiery secretary had been carried away by his instincts as engineer to venture such a proposition; but it must be said, for it is the truth, many encouraged him with their cries, and doubtless, if they had found the resting-point demanded by Archimedes, the Americans would have constructed a lever capable of raising the world and redressing its axis. But this point was wanting to these bold mechanicians.

Nevertheless, this eminently practical idea had enormous success: the discussion was suspended for a good quarter of an hour, and long, very long afterwards, they talked in the United States of America of the proposition so energetically enunciated by the perpetual secretary of the Gun Club.

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This incident seemed to have terminated the discussion, but when the agitation had subsided these words were heard uttered in a loud and severe voice:—

“Now that the orator has allowed his fancy to roam, perhaps he would kindly go back to his subject, pay less attention to theories, and discuss the practical part of his expedition.”

All eyes were turned towards the person who spoke thus. He was a thin, dry-looking man, with an energetic face and an American beard. By taking advantage of the agitation in the assembly from time to time he had gained, by degrees, the front row of spectators. There, with his arms crossed, his eyes brilliant and bold, he stared imperturbably at the hero of the meeting. After having asked his question he kept silence, and did not seem disturbed by the thousands of eyes directed towards him nor by the disapproving murmur excited by his words. The answer being delayed he again put the question with the same clear and precise accent; then he added—

“We are here to discuss the moon, not the earth.”

“You are right, sir,” answered Michel Ardan, “the discussion has wandered from the point; we will return to the moon.”

“Sir,” resumed the unknown man, “you pretend that our satellite is inhabited. So far so good; but if Selenites do exist they certainly live without breathing, for—I tell you the fact for your good—there is not the least particle of air on the surface of the moon.”

At this affirmation Ardan shook his red mane; he understood that a struggle was coming with this man on the real question. He looked at him fixedly in his turn, and said—

“Ah! there is no air in the moon! And who says so, pray?”

“The savants .”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

“Sir,” resumed Michel, “joking apart, I have a profound respect for savants who know, but a profound contempt for savants who do not know.”

“Do you know any who belong to the latter category?”

“Yes; in France there is one who maintains that, ‘mathematically,’ a bird cannot fly, and another who demonstrates that a fish is not made to live in water.”

“There is no question of those two, sir, and I can quote in support of my proposition names that you will not object to.”

“Then, sir, you would greatly embarrass a poor ignorant man like me!”

“Then why do you meddle with scientific questions which you have never studied?” asked the unknown brutally.

“Why?” answered Ardan; “because the man who does not suspect danger is always brave! I know nothing, it is true, but it is precisely my weakness that makes my strength.”

“Your weakness goes as far as madness,” exclaimed the unknown in a bad-tempered tone.

“So much the better,” replied the Frenchman, “if my madness takes me to the moon!”

Barbicane and his colleagues stared at the intruder who had come so boldly to stand in the way of their enterprise. None of them knew him, and the president, not reassured upon the upshot of such a discussion, looked at his new friend with some apprehension. The assembly was attentive and slightly uneasy, for this struggle called attention to the dangers and impossibilities of the expedition.

“Sir,” resumed Michel Ardan’s adversary, “the reasons that prove the absence of all atmosphere round the moon are numerous and indisputable. I may say, even, that, _à priori_ if that atmosphere had ever existed, it must have been drawn away by the earth, but I would rather oppose you with incontestable facts.”

“Oppose, sir,” answered Michel Ardan, with perfect gallantry—oppose as much as you like.”

“You know,” said the unknown, “that when the sun’s rays traverse a medium like air they are deviated from a straight line, or, in other words, they are refracted. Well, when stars are occulted by the moon their rays, on grazing the edge of her disc, do not show the least deviation nor offer the slightest indication of refraction. It follows, therefore, that the moon can have no atmosphere.”

Every one looked at the Frenchman, for, this once admitted, the consequences were rigorous.

“In fact,” answered Michel Ardan, “that is your best if not only argument, and a savant , perhaps, would be embarrassed to answer it. I can only tell you that this argument has no absolute value because it supposes the angular diameter of the moon to be perfectly determined, which it is not. But let us waive that, and tell me, my dear sir, if you admit the existence of volcanoes on the surface of the moon.”