In short, his motto was, “Whatever it may cost!” and the love of the impossible his “ruling passion,” according to Pope’s fine expression.
But this enterprising fellow had the defects of his qualities. Who risks nothing wins nothing, it is said. Ardan often risked much and got nothing. He was perfectly disinterested and chivalric; he would not have signed the death-warrant of his worst enemy, and would have sold himself into slavery to redeem a negro.
In France and Europe everybody knew this brilliant, bustling person. Did he not get talked of ceaselessly by the hundred voices of Fame, hoarse in his service? Did he not live in a glass house, taking the entire universe as confidant of his most intimate secrets? But he also possessed an admirable collection of enemies amongst those he had cuffed and wounded whilst using his elbows to make a passage in the crowd.
Still he was generally liked and treated like a spoiled child. Everyone was interested in his bold enterprises, and followed them with uneasy mind. He was known to be so imprudent! When some friend wished to stop him by predicting an approaching catastrophe, “The forest is only burnt by its own trees,” he answered with an amiable smile, not knowing that he was quoting the prettiest of Arabian proverbs.
Such was the passenger of the Atlanta, always in a bustle, always boiling under the action of inward fire, always moved, not by what he had come to do in America—he did not even think about it—but on account of his feverish organisation. If ever individuals offered a striking contrast they were the Frenchman Michel Ardan and the Yankee Barbicane, both, however, enterprising, bold, and audacious, each in his own way.
Barbicane’s contemplation of his rival was quickly interrupted by the cheers of the crowd. These cries became even so frantic and the enthusiasm took such a personal form that Michel Ardan, after having shaken a thousand hands in which he nearly left his ten fingers, was obliged to take refuge in his cabin.
Barbicane followed him without having uttered a word.
“You are Barbicane?” Michel Ardan asked him as soon as they were alone, and in the same tone as he would have spoken to a friend of twenty years’ standing.
“Yes,” answered the president of the Gun Club.
“Well, good morning, Barbicane. How are you? Very well? That’s right! that’s right!”
“Then,” said Barbicane, without further preliminary, “you have decided to go?”
“Quite decided.”
“Nothing will stop you?”
“Nothing. Have you altered your projectile as I told you in my message?”
“I waited till you came. But,” asked Barbicane, insisting once more, “you have quite reflected?”
“Reflected! have I any time to lose? I find the occasion to go for a trip to the moon, I profit by it, and that is all. It seems to me that does not want so much reflection.”
Barbicane looked eagerly at the man who spoke of his project of journey with so much carelessness, and with such absence of anxiety.
“But at least,” he said, “you have some plan, some means of execution?”
“Excellent means. But allow me to tell you one thing. I like to say my say once and for all, and to everybody, and to hear no more about it. Then, unless you can think of something better, call together your friends, your colleagues, all the town, all Florida, all America if you like, and tomorrow I shall be ready to state my means of execution, and answer any objections, whatever they may be. Will that do?”
“Yes, that will do,” answered Barbicane.
Whereupon the president left the cabin, and told the crowd about Michel Ardan’s proposition. His words were received with great demonstrations of joy. That cut short all difficulties. The next day everyone could contemplate the European hero at their ease. Still some of the most obstinate spectators would not leave the deck of the Atlanta; they passed the night on board. Amongst others, J. T. Maston had screwed his steel hook into the combing of the poop, and it would have taken the capstan to get it out again.
“He is a hero! a hero!” cried he in every tone, “and we are only old women compared to that European!”
As to the president, after having requested the spectators to withdraw, he re-entered the passenger’s cabin, and did not leave it till the bell of the steamer rang out the midnight quarter.
But then the two rivals in popularity shook each other warmly by the hand, and separated friends.
A Meeting
The next day the sun did not rise early enough to satisfy public impatience. Barbicane, fearing that indiscreet questions would be put to Michel Ardan, would like to have reduced his auditors to a small number of adepts, to his colleagues for instance. But it was as easy as to dam up the Falls at Niagara. He was, therefore, obliged to renounce his project, and let his friend run all the risks of a public lecture. The new Town Hall of Tampa Town, notwithstanding its colossal dimensions, was considered insufficient for the occasion, which had assumed the proportions of a public meeting.
The place chosen was a vast plain, situated outside the town. In a few hours they succeeded in sheltering it from the rays of the sun. The ships of the port, rich in canvas, furnished the necessary accessories for a colossal tent. Soon an immense sky of cloth was spread over the calcined plain, and defended it against the heat of the day. There 300,000 persons stood and braved a stifling temperature for several hours whilst awaiting the Frenchman’s arrival. Of that crowd of spectators one-third alone could see and hear; a second third saw badly, and did not hear. As to the remaining third, it neither heard nor saw, though it was not the least eager to applaud.
At three o’clock Michel Ardan made his appearance, accompanied by the principal members of the Gun Club. He gave his right arm to President Barbicane, and his left
