XXV
Between Fire and Water
Jacques Paganel’s story had a very great success. He was greatly applauded, but each retained his own opinion, and the geographer obtained the result common to most discussions—of convincing nobody. However, they were agreed on this point, that it was necessary to have courage for every fortune, and be contented with a tree when one has neither palace nor cottage.
During the course of this confabulation evening had come on. Only a good sleep could thoroughly refresh, after this eventful day. The inmates of the tree felt themselves not only fatigued by the sudden changes of the inundation, but especially overcome by the heat, which had been excessive. Their feathered companions had already set the example; the jilgueros, those nightingales of the Pampas, had ceased their melodious warblings, and all the birds had disappeared in the recesses of the foliage. The best plan was to imitate them.
But before “retiring to their nest,” as Paganel said, Glenarvan, Robert, and he climbed to the observatory, to examine for the last time the watery expanse. It was about nine o’clock. The sun had just set in the sparkling mists of the horizon, and all the western part of the firmament was bathed in a warm vapor. The constellations, usually so dazzling, seemed veiled in a soft haze. Still they could be distinguished, and Paganel pointed out to Robert, for Glenarvan’s benefit, that zone where the stars are most brilliant.
While the geographer was discoursing thus, the whole eastern horizon assumed a stormy aspect. A dense and dark band, clearly defined, gradually rose, dimming the light of the stars. This cloud of threatening appearance soon invaded almost the entire vault of the sky. Its motive power must have been inherent in itself, for there was not a breath of wind. Not a leaf stirred on the tree, not a ripple curled the surface of the waters. Even the air seemed to fail, as if some huge pneumatic machine had rarefied it. A strong electric current was perceptible in the atmosphere, and every creature felt it course along the nerves. Glenarvan, Paganel, and Robert were sensibly affected by these electric currents.
“We shall have a storm,” said Paganel.
“You are not afraid of thunder?” asked Glenarvan of the boy.
“Oh, no, my lord,” replied Robert.
“Well, so much the better; for the storm is now not far distant.”
“And it will be violent,” continued Paganel, “so far as I can judge from the state of the sky.”
“It is not the storm that troubles me,” said Glenarvan, “but the torrents of rain with which it will be accompanied. We shall be drenched to the skin again. Whatever you may say, Paganel, a nest cannot suffice a man, as you will soon learn to your cost.”
“Oh, yes, it can, with philosophy,” briskly replied the geographer.
“Philosophy does not prevent you from getting wet.”
“No, but it warms you.”
“Well, then,” said Glenarvan, “let us join our friends and persuade them to envelop us with their philosophy and their ponchos as closely as possible, and especially to lay in a stock of patience, for we shall need it.”
So saying, he gave another look at the threatening sky. The mass of clouds now covered it entirely. A faint line of light towards the horizon was scarcely discernible in the dimness. The sombre appearance of the water had increased, and between the dark mass below and the clouds above there was scarcely a separation. At the same time all perception seemed dulled; and a leaden torpor rested upon both eyes and ears, while the silence was profound.
“Let us go down,” said Glenarvan; “the lightning will soon be here.”
His two companions and himself slid down the smooth branches, and were somewhat surprised to find themselves in a remarkable kind of twilight, which was produced by myriads of luminous objects that crossed each other and buzzed on the surface of the water.
“Phosphorescences?” said Glenarvan.
“No,” replied Paganel, “but phosphorescent insects, real glowworms—living diamonds, and not expensive, of which the ladies of Buenos Aires make magnificent ornaments for themselves.”
“What!” cried Robert, “are these things, that fly like sparks, insects?”
“Yes, my boy.”
Robert caught one of the brilliant creatures. Paganel was right. It was a kind of large beetle, an inch in length, to which the Indians give the name of tuco-tuco. This curious insect threw out flashes at two points situated in front of its sheath, and its light would have enabled one to read in the darkness. Paganel, on bringing it close to his watch, saw that it was ten o’clock.
Glenarvan now joined the major and the three sailors, and gave them instructions for the night. A terrible storm was to be expected. After the first rollings of the thunder, the wind would doubtless break forth and the tree be violently shaken. It was, therefore, advisable for everyone to tie himself firmly to
