Gradually, but uninterruptedly, life and spirits continued to revive, and by the end of the month Servadac and his little colony had regained most of their ordinary physical and mental energies. Ben Zoof, in particular, roused himself with redoubled vigor, like a giant refreshed from his slumbers. The visits, consequently, to the long-neglected galleries of Nina’s Hive became more and more frequent.
One day an excursion was made to the shore. It was still bitterly cold, but the atmosphere had lost nothing of its former stillness, and not a cloud was visible from horizon to zenith. The old footmarks were all as distinct as on the day in which they had been imprinted, and the only portion of the shore where any change was apparent was in the little creek. Here the elevation of the ice had gone on increasing, until the schooner and the tartan had been uplifted to a height of 150 feet, not only rendering them quite inaccessible, but exposing them to all but certain destruction in the event of a thaw.
Isaac Hakkabut, immovable from the personal oversight of his property in the cavern, had not accompanied the party, and consequently was in blissful ignorance of the fate that threatened his vessel. “A good thing the old fellow wasn’t there to see,” observed Ben Zoof; “he would have screamed like a peacock. What a misfortune it is,” he added, speaking to himself, “to have a peacock’s voice, without its plumage!”
During the months of July and August, Gallia advanced 164,000,000 leagues along her orbit. At night the cold was still intense, but in the daytime the sun, here full upon the equator, caused an appreciable difference of 20 degrees in the temperature. Like birds, the population spent whole days exposed to its grateful warmth, rarely returning till nightfall to the shade of their gloomy home.
This spring-time, if such it may be called, had a most enlivening influence upon all. Hope and courage revived as day by day the sun’s disc expanded in the heavens, and every evening the earth assumed a greater magnitude amongst the fixed stars. It was distant yet, but the goal was cheeringly in view.
“I can’t believe that yonder little speck of light contains my mountain of Montmartre,” said Ben Zoof, one night, after he had been gazing long and steadily at the far-off world.
“You will, I hope, some day find out that it does,” answered his master.
“I hope so,” said the orderly, without moving his eye from the distant sphere. After meditating a while, he spoke again. “I suppose Professor Rosette couldn’t make his comet go straight back, could he?”
“Hush!” cried Servadac.
Ben Zoof understood the correction.