Volume 1880
Georges Dodds'
The Ape-Man: his Kith and Kin
A collection of texts which prepared the advent of Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs
Presents
http://www.erbzine.com/mag18/saturnin.htm
In the field of imaginative literature, Robida's first contribution was the four part, lavishly (450 black and white and colour illustrations) illustrated, near 800 page Voyages très extraordinaires de Saturnin Farandoul dans les 5 ou 6 parties du monde, et dans tous les pays connus et même inconnus de Monsieur Jules Verne (1879). Part I and a small portion of Part II were translated into English and saw publication in the New York-based humor magazine Puck [6(151)-7(163), Jan. 28 - April 21, 1880] under the title Hermesianax Pratt. His Variegated Adventures in all the Countries of the Globe, Including some Unknown to Jules Verne. Some have suggested that the first part of this work may have inspired Edgar Rice Burroughs' Tarzan of the Apes.
Robida also contributed three illustrated novels of science fiction or romans d'anticipation: Le Vingtième Siècle (1883), La Guerre au Vingtième Siècle, (1887) and Le Vingtième Siècle - La Vie Électrique (1890). A very shy, reserved and straight-laced man, though with a biting wit, Robida died at his home in Neuilly, October 11, 1926.
The fact that a translation appeared in Puck means that it is possible that it was seen by Burroughs.
Cited as source of Tarzan by Lacassin (1982)
| Chapter I. | How Saturnin Farandoul, aged four months and seven days, embarked upon a career of adventure - - His adoptive family take him for an incompetent monkey. |
| Chapter II. | In which we are introduced to La Belle Léocadie -- The Bora-Bora Company for the skimming of the Sunda Islands -- The boar filled with grape-shot. |
| Chapter III. | Siege and blockade -- The heroic conduct of the tortoises of the Mysterious Island -- A terrible stew! |
| Chapter IV. | Captain Nemo's divers -- Lieutenant Mandibul is swallowed by an oyster -- Love in a diving-suit. |
| Chapter V. | How poor Mysora ended up in the aquarium of Valentin Croknuff, an aged but very ardent man of science -- Saturnin Farandoul declares war on England. |
| Chapter VI. | The Conquest of Australia -- Telegrams and Correspondence in the Melbourne Herald -- The great Melbourne Aquarium will not capitulate! |
| Chapter VII | The assault on the Great Aquarium -- The horrible wickedness of the bimane Croknuff! -- The world devoid of happiness; Mysora is no more. |
| Chapter VIII. | The organisation of the Farandoulian Empire -- Biographies of the principal bimane and quadrumane leaders -- In which the great ideas of Saturnin I regarding the regeneration of the world in general, and old Europe in particular, are revealed to the reader. |
| Chapter IX. | The Perfidious Schemes of Perfidious Albion -- Lady Arabella Cardigan, a bimane spy, seduces quadrumane Colonel Makako -- How empires perish!!! |
| Chapter X. | How the bimane generals imprisoned by the English regained their liberty -- Bora-Bora's treasure -- The lamentable fate of La Belle Léocadie. |
THE MONKEY KING
In the mid-Pacific region of the 10th north parallel and 150° west longitude -- roughly that of the Polynesian isles of Pomotou -- the great Ocean, so prolific in storms, belied its name even more than usual on that day. In the completely unsettled sky, masses of purplish-black cloud skittered along the distant horizon at a truly incalculable rate. The waves climbed to heights unknown in our paltry European seas; howling and roaring, they hurled themselves one after another and one upon another, as if that furious sea were mounting an assault upon the furious sky, bursting forth in frightful downpours, beneath whose weight the tallest waves loudly collapsed in whirlwinds of foam. Chapter I
Alas, a few fragments of the masts and timbers of ships and barrels, floating here and there, indicated that the god of storms would not be returning to his deep caverns with an empty bag. Amidst the debris, however, a peculiar item of wreckage was discernible, sometimes thrust up to the crests of the waves and sometimes disappearing in the hollow valleys between the monstrous billows.
This wreck was simply a cradle, and the cradle in question contained an infant, well-swathed and well-secured. The child was sleeping like a log, apparently finding no difference between the rocking effect of the Ocean and that employed by his nurse.
Hours passed. Miraculously, the cradle had not sunk; the ocean continued to swing it to and fro. The storm had calmed; the sky, clearing little by little, allowed a long line of rocks to become visible upon the horizon. The frail craft, evidently carried by a current, was steering towards an unhoped-for port!
Little by little the coast became more visible, its cliffs outlined, sheltering little creeks where the billows were calmer -- but in order to get that far it was necessary for one to pass, without breaking up, through a chain of coral reefs, upon which the waves broke into cascades of foam.
In the end, the cradle came through and ran aground, still accompanied by fragments of mast. One last roller carried it well up the beach and left it high and dry -- and the brat, abruptly awoken by the cessation of movement, cried out for the first time with all his might.
It was evening. The sun, which had not appeared all day, finally showed through, and, having arrived at the end of its course, prepared to extinguish its extended and glittering orange-yellow rays in the waves of the open sea.
To take advantage of this hour of delicious calm after a stormy day, and also to take a little exercise after the evening meal, an honourable family of monkeys was strolling on the damp beach, admiring the splendours of the setting sun.
The entire natural world was their oyster. They appeared to be enjoying the admirable view with a tranquil proprietary right that no anxiety could trouble. There, as if in a magical looking-glass, all the beauties of the tropics were spread out: all the glorious flowers that the equatorial sun could bring into bloom, marvellous plants, giant trees and a thousand-fold weave of lianas.
Four little monkeys of various heights gambolled on the grass, swinging from descending lianas as they went past, and chasing one another around the coconut palms under the protective eye of their father and mother -- more serious individuals, who were content to mark their joy at the good weather's return by quietly shaking their hindquarters with perfect panache.
The mother, a lovely she-monkey with an elegant figure and a graceful demeanour, carried in her arms a fifth offspring, which she suckled as she walked, with a candour and a dignified serenity that would have tempted the chisel of a Praxiteles.
Suddenly, their tranquillity was disturbed. The father, at the sight of an object extended on the beach, turned two or three somersaults -- a gesture which, among the monkeys of these distant climes, signifies the most colossal astonishment. The mother -- without ceasing to nurse her infant -- and the four little monkeys likewise turned half a dozen simultaneous somersaults before coming to rest on all fours, unnerved. If they were alarmed it was that the object perceived by the monkey was stirring and struggling, desperately twirling its arms and legs, as a crab does when one plays the practical joke of setting it down on its back.
[B&W Illustration p. 1: "Une trouvaille" = "A Find"]
It was our recent acquaintance, the young and charming castaway who, having been awakened by the landing, was giving vent to unfathomable feelings.
Papa Orang-utan -- for it is a family of orang-utans that we are introducing to our readers -- made a cautious circuit of the disquieting object before allowing his family to approach it. Having judged it largely danger-free, he signalled to the mother with a reassuring gesture and showed her the cradle, scratching his nose in a puzzled manner.
What could the unknown animal be which the sea had brought and cast up on the beach? That was what the reunited family appeared to be asking themselves arrayed in a circle around the cradle to discuss the matter. The little ones, full of surprise, had no idea at all, but sought to read the results of their parents' reflections in their faces.
Eventually, the father, taking every possible precaution to avoid being bitten, delicately picked up the little castaway, who was still gesticulating wildly. He plucked the child out of the cradle by one leg and passed him to the she-monkey -- who looked at him for a long time, placing him beside her last-born for comparison, reflected carefully, and showed by a few significant shakes of the head that she considered this new species of monkey greatly inferior in physical beauty to the family of orangs.
The little castaway continued crying, in spite of the antics of the young monkeys -- who, fully reassured by now, wanted to welcome this new comrade into their company.
The she-monkey understood the reason for these cries. Passing her nursling to the father, she took the child and generously offered it her maternal bounty.
What joy for the little castaway! For many hours he had wandered without nourishment on the crests of the waves, tormented by a hunger he could at last appease! He drank so much that, suddenly comfortable again, he ended up falling asleep on the breast of his exotic nurse.
Meanwhile, the little monkeys had been rummaging around in the cradle, to make sure that it did not contain a second example of this peculiar species. They had found nothing there but a kind of bag closely tied with a leather thong. This bag intrigued them enormously at first, but their perplexity was boundless at the sight of the piece of paper that the eldest of the little monkeys drew forth from it.
They turned it over and over without result, then as a last resort passed it to their father. He too, after examining it for a quarter of an hour, could make nothing of the bizarre symbols with which it was covered.
[B&W Illustration p. 3: "Que pouvait être cet animal inconnu" = "What could this unknown animal be"]
Nevertheless, the thing was very simple; let us state forthwith that the bag found in the cradle was a tobacco-pouch, probably the paternal tobacco-pouch, which the unhappy parents had confided to the hazards of the tempest along with their child, at the moment when their ship sank. As for the paper covered in hieroglyphics that had so intrigued the naive orangs, it will clarify for us the status of the young castaway, for it was nothing other than his duly-registered birth certificate.
The infant's name is Fortuné-Gracieux-Saturnin Farandoul. The names of the parents and witnesses are irrelevant to our story, so we shall pass over them in silence, but we must state that this document had further implications: firstly, that Saturnin Farandoul was a French citizen; and secondly, that he was only four months and seven days old. Truly, this was an early start for a career as a castaway.
After mature reflection, Papa Orang-utan evidently came to a decision in the matter of the newly-discovered infant; he made a gesture signifying that five might just as well be six, and got up. The child was adopted; the family, thus augmented, ambled back along the path to their abode.
It was a good night for all concerned. The moon illuminated the tranquil sleep of our hero in the bosom of his adopted family, in the deep forest. The sun rose to find Farandoul perfectly comfortable in his new social estate, and his adoptive parents quite content with their lucky find.
In her hut of branches covered with large banana leaves, the good she-monkey studied her nursling while he feasted greedily upon the banquet offered to his lips by beneficent Nature. In addition to the little monkeys, fascinated by the appearance of this new companion, there was a large crowd in the hut, dominated by she-monkeys.
What astonishment there was on every face! With what curiosity were the least movements of little Farandoul followed! At first, the young she-monkeys could not suppress a thrill of fear when the nursing mother jokingly extended the infant towards them, but soon the gentleness of Farandoul won every one of their hearts, and the entire audience was soon competing for the privilege of loving him up. The hut never emptied; male and female monkeys came from the neighbouring forests carrying gifts of fruit and coconuts, which Farandoul pushed away with his hands and feet in order to thrust himself back upon the quasi-maternal breast.
Outside, Farandoul's foster-father, surrounded by old white-bearded orangs, seemed to be telling the story of his discovery. Perhaps he was giving his report to the authorities; in any case, he saw by their benevolent gestures that the elders approved of his conduct and appeared well pleased with him.
[B&W Illustration p. 5: "La Déclaration aux Autorités" = "Reporting to the authorities"]
Little by little, the fuss caused by the new arrival died down, and life resumed its ordinary course.
If Farandoul had been older, he would have been able to marvel at the patriarchal existence led by the monkeys. Indeed, the happy populations of that fortunate isle, lost in the vastness of the Pacific far distant from the customary shipping routes, was still in the Golden Age! The island was extraordinarily fertile. All the fruits of the earth grew in abundance, lavishly distributed without the least requirement for cultivation. No fearsome wild beasts infested the forests, where even the most inoffensive creatures lived in total security.
The simian race was the pinnacle of the evolutionary scale, dominating by its intelligence the entire natural order of the island. Man was unknown there, never having repressed it with his barbarity or perverted it with his example -- as he has those fallen races of monkeys, condemned to ignominy, which will vegetate forever in the lands inhabited by humankind, unless some monkey of genius arrives one day to effect their return to the purer life of ancient times, in some wilderness inaccessible to man.
These monkeys belonged to a race intermediate between the Orang-utans and Chimpanzees. Aggregated in tribes, whose villages were composed of about fifty huts made of small branches, they lived quite happily. Each family enjoyed the most complete individual liberty, and where matters of communal interest were concerned they looked to the elders, who often met in council at the foot of a giant eucalyptus, in the branches of which the young ones frolicked without taking part in the discussions.
It must be said that everyone was full of respect for these worthy ancients, and that the smart young monkeys would never allow themselves to jump on their backs or to grab their tails in passing, without previous authorization.
Farandoul had spent a year with the family. He rolled in the grass with his foster-brothers; he played all the exciting games with them that young monkeys play -- but, to the great astonishment of his parents, he remained remarkably inept in leaping about, and adamantly refused to climb coconut palms.
Such timidity in a healthy youth of eighteen months worried the gallant monkeys exceedingly. Although his brothers had set him an excellent example by means of the most audacious ascensions and aerial somersaults, Farandoul never got the hang of gymnastics. As he grew apace into a sturdy little chap, the anxiety of his parents increased. It became a veritable anguish as they saw that he was quite incapable of following them when the family went off on expeditions in search of amusement, hurling themselves about in the crowns of tall trees and forming troupes of acrobats to swing on the natural see-saws generously provided by the coconut palms. Farandoul's brothers made as many footholds as possible for him and ran away into the trees in order to invite him to climb after them, but he remained at the foot of the trees, astonished and angry because he was unable to do as they did.
Farandoul's foster-mother, who loved him at least as much as her other children, and perhaps a little more -- for he was undoubtedly the weakest -- did not know what to do to develop the gymnastic talent that must, she believed, exist in him as in every other monkey. Sometimes, while suspended by the tail from the lower branches of a trees, she would throw herself into space and swing there, calling to Saturnin with little reproachful cries; on other occasions, she turned a thousand somersaults, walked on her hands, made him climb up on her back, and clambered up into the branches with him -- but in the former instances, Saturnin Farandoul stayed down below, deaf to her appeals, and in the latter, he clung fearfully to his mother's fur, refusing to let go. What a torment he was to those brave orangs!
[B&W Illustration p. 7: "Farandoul se cramponnait à la fourrure de sa mamam" = "Farandoul clung to his foster-mother's fur"]
[Was Colour Illustration 2e LIV: "Farandoul et sa nourrice" = "Farandoul and his foster-mother"]
Soon, this preoccupation became perpetual, a chronic worry. Farandoul continued to grow without becoming any more agile. His foster-father -- who, since his lucky find, had become one of the most respected monkeys on the island -- held frequent consultations with the elders -- the venerable monkeys who, as we have said, held their assemblies under the largest eucalyptus in the village. It was obvious that Saturnin Farandoul was the subject of these conversations. These monkeys frequently summoned him, placed their hand on his head, watched him attentively, made him walk and run, consulted one another, scratched themselves, shook their heads, and finally appeared unable to understand it at all.
One day, the astonished Farandoul saw his father come back from a longer-than-usual trip with a very old monkey whom he did not recognise; he was wrinkled and bent over, with a great white beard framing his majestic face and bald patches in his coat of long white hair. This ancient, who might easily have been a hundred years old, came from a distant part of the island to which Farandoul's foster-father had gone in order to consult him; he obviously enjoyed a great reputation for wisdom, because all the monkeys in the vicinity hurried forth in a crowd, with lavish gestures of respect, eager to assist him in his tottering walk, while the she-monkeys showed him off to their children from a distance. Having been greeted by the elders at the entrance to the village, the old monkey sat down at the foot of the eucalyptus, in the middle of the greatest gathering of monkeys that Farandoul had ever seen.
[B&W Illustration p. 11: "En famille" = "Family life"]
Saturnin Farandoul seemed, along with the old monkey, to be the object of everyone's attention; his foster-father came to look for him among the urchins with whom he was rolling in the grass, in order to bring him to the ancient, who considered him carefully from every angle.
The old monkey sat the child on his knee, then stood him up again and flexed all the joints of his arms and legs. All of them were working perfectly, which seemed to amaze the old fellow. He began again, with the same result; seeing this, he plunged into a long meditation from which he roused himself only to recommence his examination. Then he struck his forehead, as if he were proclaiming to himself some triumphant Eureka, and called for one of Farandoul's young brothers. He placed the two of them side by side, with their backs to the crowd. By this means, he showed that the hindquarters of the little monkey were equipped with a magnificent caudal appendage: a flamboyant device, perfectly designed for aerial gymnastics -- the fifth hand which wonderful Nature had generously granted to the species -- of which poor Farandoul could not display the slightest indication.
[B&W Illustration p. 13: "La Consultation" = "The consultation"]
They all lifted their hands to the heavens then; the most distant, who were unable to see anything, drew closer, clamouring to know the reason for this exclamatory gesture. The tribal elders restored order, debating with the most astounded by means of grandiose gestures, and in the end, all the monkeys formed a procession to file past little Farandoul -- or, rather, behind him -- pausing one by one to examine him and to take stock of Nature's fatal forgetfulness. A few passed comment, seemingly enquiring as to whether the condition was incurable; the response of the old white monkey was to make them see that that one could not reasonably found the least hope on the slightest of appearances. However, at an order which he gave after further reflection, several monkeys took themselves off into the rocks while the assembly waited anxiously. After a few minutes, they came back bearing bundles of herbs, which were heaped up between two stones, along with large slugs and snails. An uncommonly dexterous she-monkey made a compress out of it, and pressed it forcefully upon the deficient part of the stupefied Farandoul's body. In spite of his cries of rage, the compress was so firmly attached that the poor little chap, so cruelly afflicted, was no longer able to lie down in comfort.
A light snack was prepared for the venerable monkey, who took nothing but half a dozen coconuts. After an hour's rest in the shade of the eucalyptus, during which he offered a few more items of advice on the teething troubles of little monkeys, the old fellow went back with Farandoul's foster-father to the path that led to his hermitage. Each and everyone separated and returned to their usual occupations.
For the first time, Farandoul went in search of solitude, walking alone on the beach, still wearing his compress, which continued to cause him considerable distress.
The medication having brought about no alteration in the state of things, the compress was not renewed after eight days. The poor she-monkey who was Saturnin Farandoul's adoptive mother tried again, in secret, to rub him with an unguent given to her by some of her cronies, but that remedy worked no better.
The months and the seasons flew past, and the inferiority of Saturnin Farandoul was further accentuated. He was a tall, strong and well-set lad, lithe and agile, skilful in all his bodily exercises, who could easily have got the better of four strong lads of his age -- but by comparison with his foster-brothers, these advantages amounted to nothing, and Farandoul had to admit that he was beaten.
Sometimes, his brothers would lie in wait for him while he walked, hidden in the trees, and at the moment when poor Saturnin Farandoul passed by, sucking on a sugar cane without an evil thought in his head, the playful band would form a chain, the strongest of them suspended by the tail from some high branch, the others clinging to one another as the last in line seized Farandoul under the arms without warning and drew him upwards. They would swing him in the air then, without a care for the kicks that he distributed so liberally, until the entire troop allowed themselves to fall upon the grass.
[B&W Illustration p. 12: "Jeux innocents" = "Innocent games"]
Little by little, though, these games petered out. In growing older, his brothers came to understand that it was unkind to abuse their physical advantages and to remind their young brother continually of his inferiority. To the contrary, they took it upon themselves to help him forget, taking every precaution, and by means of conventional fraternal attentions. But it was too late! Farandoul's intelligence understood the reason for this consideration, and it served only to increase his humiliation. Besides, as he saw very clearly, the entire tribe regarded him with an offensive attitude of commiseration. Pity was all too evident in every eye.
The good she-monkey who was his adoptive mother loved him even more tenderly because she believed that he was destined for an unhappy, and probably solitary, life. With the future in mind, she began to worry a great deal about her son's prospects. Would he ever find a mate? How would he be received by the young she-monkeys of the village, when he began to think about them? And if his heart spoke, how painful it would be for him if his beloved refused his hand, and if he subsequently saw her in another's arms! What misery awaited him! What dramas, perhaps....
All these considerations saddened the hearts of Saturnin Farandoul's parents. Nor were the brains of the brave monkeys the only ones haunted by such anxieties; Farandoul was troubled too. Indeed, Farandoul had seen how different he was from his brothers and the other young monkeys of the tribe. He had given himself a crick in the neck staring at his reflection in the clear water of a spring, but he had seen nothing to allow the least hope that he might one day possess the same triumphant appendage as those he truly believed to be his blood-brothers.
Poor Saturnin Farandoul believed himself irredeemably deformed. From the day of that discovery he dreamed of running away, exiling himself far from those he loved, in order to hide his sorrow and humiliation. For weeks and months he wandered the island's beaches in the vague hope of finding some means of putting this plan into operation.
Finally, on the day after a tropical storm, he found a huge coconut-palm uprooted, lying on the shore -- the means was found! Early the following day, having embraced the good monkey and the gentle she-monkey who had treated him with such affection for years, Saturnin Farandoul went with his five brothers to the beach where the coconut-palm rested. As if it were a game, he bid them push the tree-trunk to the water.
When the moment of embarkation drew near, the resolute Farandoul embraced his brothers tenderly but rapidly, and leapt on to the coconut palm as it floated away from the shore. The five brothers let loose five cries of horror, and lifted five pairs of arms despairingly into the air. The poor monkeys understood that he was already too far away to be recaptured; while they ran like maniacs along the shore, other monkeys hurried in response to their cries.
[B&W Illustration p. 15: "Le Cocotier s'éloigna du rivage" = "The coconut palm floated away from the shore"]
Farandoul, profoundly moved by their distress, recognised his parents, but turned his head and his weeping eyes towards the open sea. He used a branch to steer the coconut-palm adroitly through the reefs, and passed through the barrier without capsizing. The cries of the poor monkeys could barely be heard, when the leaves of the palm tree caught the strengthening breeze and it was carried out to sea.
Some hours later, the isle of monkeys had disappeared and the coconut-palm was cruising in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Saturnin Farandoul, tranquilly seated at the junction of two branches, felt an excitement growing within him as the instincts of a navigator awoke.
His resources consisted of several scores of coconuts still suspended from the tree, and the sun darted its rays upon his naked body; having always lived among monkeys, believing himself to be a monkey, he had no knowledge whatsoever of clothing. Ever since his arrival on the isle, however, he had worn around his neck the tobacco-pouch containing his birth certificate; his adoptive parents had attached it there without really knowing why, and Farandoul had become accustomed to wearing it.
[B&W Illustration p. 16: No title (the old monkey patriarch)]
[B&W Illustration p. 17: "Le capitaine Lastic et le lieutenant Mandibul" = "Captain Lastic and Lieutenant Mandibul"] Chapter II
"Captain Lastic -- look there, out to the south-south-east!"
"Tonnerre d'Honfleur, Lieutenant Mandibul, I've been watching it for the last half-hour through my damn telescope!"
"Well, what do you think, Captain Lastic?"
"Tonnerre d'Honfleur may have my tongue, Lieutenant Mandibul, if it isn't a castaway!"
"And it's moving, Captain Lastic!"
"Tonnerre d'Honfleur, it's a tree, Lieutenant Mandibul, and there's someone on it."
This short dialogue took place on the quarter-deck of La Belle Léocadie, a fine three-master out of Le Havre, between the vessel's captain and first lieutenant. Having carried a cargo of pianos, dresses and confections for the young women of the town of Auckland, the capital of the British colony of New Zealand, La Belle Léocadie was now hastening back to her port of origin with a cargo of hides.
Captain Lastic was a man of prompt resolution; two minutes after having given his telescope to Lieutenant Mandibul, he had given the command to heave to, and oarsmen were steering a long-boat towards our hero's coconut-palm.
Saturnin Farandoul opened his eyes very wide at the sight of the distant vessel, which he took for a terrible monster; even so, he did not attempt to flee and awaited developments.
The long-boat took no more than half an hour to reach him; the appearance of the men who were aboard it plunged Saturnin into a stupor. They bore no more than the remotest resemblance to the monkeys of his island and their faces did not seem to him to be imprinted with the same moral quality. Saturnin was by no means calm, but he stoically presented a smiling face to these unfamiliar monkeys.
"Tonnerre d'Honfleur, what are you doing there?" said Lieutenant Mandibul, who was in command of the long-boat and judged it necessary to his dignity to employ his captain's oaths while standing in for him.
Saturnin had never heard a human voice; he did not understand this greeting at all, and it seemed to him less harmonious than the little monkey cries of his family.
"Are you deaf?" the lieutenant demanded once more.
Saturnin made no more response to this speech than the other, but took it for an invitation and leapt aboard the long-boat, in a fashion that astonished the sailors.
The long-boat turned about and set a course for the ship. The lieutenant addressed no further questions to young Saturnin; that was, after all, the captain's business. Aboard La Belle Léocadie every eye was fixed on the long-boat. Captain Lastic did not lower his telescope until it was no more than a few cables distant.
Saturnin was the first to clamber up on to the bridge, in response to a gesture from the lieutenant. He did so with a single motion that nearly caused the captain -- who had never witnessed such agility -- to fall over.
"Tonnerre d'Honfleur, little porpoise, have you no manners? I'm Captain Lastic!"
The child's only response was a smile. All the sailors surrounded him, and Lieutenant Mandibul admitted that he had not been able to get a word out of the castaway. Saturnin stared raptly, still plunged in the most profound stupefaction. Suddenly, he walked around the captain, then around the lieutenant, then around each of the crewmen. One of the men was up on the mizzen-mast; Saturnin grabbed a rope without hesitation and was level with the topsail in the blink of an eye.
[B&W Illustration p. 19: "Saturnin s'élança dans la mƒture" = "Saturnin leapt into the rigging"]
The top-man had seen him coming, but could not understand why the naked castaway was suddenly climbing up towards him. Saturnin went around him just as he had gone around the others, then let loose a loud cry and slid back down to the bridge. O joy! O happiness! he thought. This new species of monkey was constituted almost as he was himself. No more humiliation! No more shame! In an eruption of delirious joy, Saturnin made several circuits of the ship, turning head over heels. With one last bound he jumped over the flabbergasted sailors and landed on his feet in front of the captain, around whom he walked once more, just to be sure.
"What's all this, Tonnerre d'Honfl...?" cried the captain, in alarm.
The ecstatic Saturnin naturally made no reply.
"Well then, Tonnerre d'Honfleur," the captain continued," will you tell us who you are!"
"Perhaps the porpoise doesn't understand French," suggested the lieutenant.
"Let's try English, then," said the captain, taking Saturnin by the arms. "What is your name?"
No response.
"Was ist ihre name? Siete Italiano? Habla usted espa¤ola? Away with you, then, Tonnerre d'Honfleur," the captain expostulated, having exhausted his linguistic resources, "have you fallen from the moon?"
Saturnin Farandoul tried to make sense of all these novel sounds. As far as he could recall, no human voice had ever struck his ear; the language of monkeys was the only one he understood.
"Look in that tobacco pouch around his neck," the lieutenant suggested.
The captain, who had not previously noticed it, took the pouch. "He has papers on him," he said. "Let's see....ah! He's French, born in Bordeaux." The captain stopped short. "A thousand million Tonnerres d'Honfleur!" he cried, seizing the child by the arms. "Your name is Saturnin Farandoul, my lad, and you're the son of poor Barnabé Farandoul, a captain like me, lost at sea at least ten years ago!"
"Impossible!" said Lieutenant Mandibul.
"See for yourself, lieutenant -- here's the porpoise's birth certificate. He's now eleven and a half years old."
"I'd have said at least fifteen, captain."
"Me too -- the porpoise hasn't suffered for lack of a nurse, Tonnerre d'Honfleur! What a seaman he'd make! I'll adopt you, my boy!"
And Saturnin Farandoul, whose exact age we now know, entered into a new phase of his life. How he succeeded, by means of vivid and animated pantomime, in communicating his history to Captain Lastic we cannot hope to explain; even so, the captain was soon acquainted with the most trivial details of that existence, troubled -- from poor Farandoul's viewpoint -- only by a humiliating infirmity of constitution.
There were a few books aboard La Belle Léocadie. Some engravings of monkeys in an account of ocean voyages were shown to Farandoul, who covered them with tender kisses.
"Let's make shift to be a man, my son -- there'll be time later to bid them good-day, Tonnerre d'Honfleur!" So saying, the good captain cut out the monkeys and pasted them himself to the wall of the little cabin he had given to Farandoul, not far from his own. Our hero was thus able to have the image of his parents on their beach constantly before his eyes, knowing that they might perhaps still be weeping, mourning their poor exile.
Farandoul had a good deal of trouble getting used to the clothes worn by civilized men. He was by no means elegantly turned out during the early days, when he wore his jacket in place of his trousers and his trousers in place of his jacket. As he wished to make himself agreeable to Captain Lastic, he soon managed to make himself presentable.
In addition, he made rapid progress in the study of languages. With sailors of every nationality around him, Farandoul learned French, English, Spanish, Malay, Chinese and Breton all at the same time.
Captain Lastic never left off telling Lieutenant Mandibul how pleased he was. "Tonnerre d'Honfleur, Lieutenant Mandibul, what a seaman! This porpoise is a charming young man. He slides down a rope in two ticks, from the royal to the topgallant -- he could give pointers to the finest seaman in the merchant marine. That boy will do me great honour, Lieutenant Mandibul!"
Indeed, although Farandoul had been obliged to lower the flag before the agility of his foster-brothers on the isle of monkeys, his superiority to the sailors aboard La Belle Léocadie was obvious. None could compare with him in the feats of wild gymnastics that he performed on the topmasts. The masts reminded him of the coconut-palms to which he had been born -- very nearly -- and his greatest pleasure was to swing in the breeze from the crow's nest on the highest mast.
No one who caught sight of Saturnin Farandoul five years after these events would have been able to recognise the monkeys' foundling in the young man with the thin moustache, the intelligent face and the forceful gestures walking on the poop-deck of La Belle Léocadie, in the company of Captain Lastic and Lieutenant Mandibul -- both of whom had aged a little. The benefits of education and civilization had converted the unsuccessful ape of other days into a superior human being! From time to time, Saturnin still thought of his adoptive parents with a certain tenderness,but his mind was fully engaged at present with navigation and commerce.
For five years he had sailed with La Belle Léocadie, carrying clocks, leather gloves and crinolines to the Sandwich Islands, champagne and parasols to the Indies, footwear, haberdashery and perfumery to Chile, returning with cargoes of logwood for the wine-merchants of Bordeaux -- teak, rosewood, ebony and so on. He who had believed during his early youth that the world was bounded by the horizons of his island, with monkeys for all humanity, now found the entire universe quite small. He had already sailed the seas of every quarter of the globe, set foot on every continent, relaxed on many an isle.
Captain Lastic had nothing but praise for his adoptive son. Farandoul had never caused him the slightest trouble. He had been obliged on one occasion to bail him out of Liverpool jail, where he had been committed after an instant's forgetfulness, but that peccadillo had only warmed the captain's heart. The incident had taken place at the Liverpool Museum of Natural History, where Saturnin Farandoul, at the sight of a stuffed monkey, had been unable to restrain his sorrow and anger. He had thrown himself upon the terrified curators with such fury that they had only been torn from his hands in a considerably damaged state.
[B&W Illustration p. 21: "L'affaire de Liverpool" = "The incident in Liverpool"]
At present, La Belle Léocadie, out of Saigon bound for New South Wales, was about to enter the Celebes Sea, passing through the Sulu Isles. Captain Lastic was untroubled. There was nothing to fear on the part of the elements; the sea and sky were calm and everything was set fair for a pleasant voyage. These latitudes were said to be infested with pirates, but Captain Lastic -- who had never encountered any -- did not believe a word of any tale of sea-raiders.
"Pirates! Tonnerre d'Honfleur, Lieutenant Mandibul!" Captain Lastic often said. "It's been fifty years since the last one was hanged. Then again, if there were any left, I wouldn't be sorry to see a few!"
Alas, this wish was to be granted much sooner than the poor captain imagined! That same night, profiting from a moonless sky, Malay canoes came alongside without the slightest noise or splashing sound alerting the sailors on La Belle Léocadie. Were the men on watch asleep, or lost in seductive memories of their recent voyage to Tahiti? At any rate, they did not wake up again once the krises of the Malays had done their work.
[B&W Illustration p. 23: "Des pirogues malaises abordèrent le navire" = "Malay canoes came alongside the ship"]
Still without making the slightest noise, the pirates overran the ship. Captain Lastic woke up, but only to find himself in the hands of the Malays, trussed up so tightly that he was unable to lift a finger. Lieutenant Mandibul, Saturnin Farandoul and the remainder of the fifteen-man crew were also tied up like parcels.
It was a sad moment.
The pirates came and went on the bridge. In the captain's cabin, two or three chiefs with atrociously grim faces discussed what had to be done. Poor Captain Lastic, who had some slight acquaintance with the Malay language, was anxious to know whether the crew would be massacred immediately or on the following day, when the ship was brought to land. He understood enough to know that the Malays were steering the ship towards Bassilan, one of the Sulu Islands, which was only a few leagues distant.
At dawn, Bassilan came within view; the pirates, who were passable seamen, dropped anchor on a sandy sea-bed a few cables from a hazardous rocky coast. A colossal racket then rose up on the ship as fifty or so sinister-looking villains occupied themselves with unloading La Belle Léocadie and transferring their booty to the island. The island's interior, thickly wooded and teeming with life, seemed very pleasant. Even so, Saturnin had no intention whatsoever of admiring the scenery; the pirates had deposited their prisoners on a tall rock, atop which they could follow the plundering of the ship.
The sun rising above the horizon reminded the corsairs that it was nearly time for breakfast. The fine wines of Captain Lastic's store-room had already furnished the occasion with frequent libations; on their final trip, each pirate carried the greatest possible number of bottles, and the orgy began -- much to Captain Lastic's distress.
[B&W Illustration p. 29: "L'orgie commença" = "The orgy began"]
"Let it go," said Saturnin Farandoul. "Perhaps it will be our salvation."
"Tonnerre d'Honfleur! It breaks my heart, all the same! Such excellent cognac!"
What rogues these pirates were! Beards of every colour, eyebrows and noses of every possible shape! Frightful bandit faces tanned by the tropical sun! And what walking arsenals! Pistols of every calibre and every kind in their belts -- operated by flintlocks, matchlocks, firing-pins -- and daggers of every dimension in their packs, some of them straight-bladed, others twisted like flames, some toothed like saws and nearly all of them poisoned. As they walked, these sea-rovers made a clanking noise that was exceedingly satisfying to their ears.
The three chiefs, naturally, possessed the most complicated and the most tortuous arsenals of all, and therefore cut the most rascally dash. By the same token, they had the right to the finest liqueurs of all, and did not stint themselves in the least.
It must be said that these sinister corsairs were known and famed throughout the Sunda islands[3]. The first, the celebrated Bora-Bora, had exploited the troubled seas for many long years, ravaging the archipelagos, seizing ships, massacring their crews and -- the last and most important part of the operation -- finding advantageous means of selling the produce of what he called his business, in Java, Borneo and Sumatra. The other two, Sibocco and Bumbaya, were his lieutenants; they had learned their trade in his school and knew no better way to balance their mercantile accounts than by cutting off the heads of tradesmen.
[Colour Illustration 4e LIV.: "Le pirate Bora- Bora et ses lieutenants" = "The pirate Bora-Bora and his lieutenants"]
Thirst satisfied gives rise to thoughts of food; soon Bora-Bora was hungry. The individual who seemed to be the robber-band's chief cook was given orders to prepare a meal. By way of hors-d'ouvres, they began to make free with the provisions of La Belle Léocadie, while the cook busied himself with putting an enormous wild boar, killed that same morning by one of the Malays, on a roasting-spit.
The cook devoted five relatively tranquil minutes to this serious occupation, but became distracted thereafter, directing envious looks towards his fifty comrades -- who, forming a great circle around the fire over which the boar was cooking, were avidly emptying Captain Lastic's beloved bottles. An idea sprang up in that cranium bronzed by the Pacific sun; in order to have his share of the liquid nourishment, it was only necessary that he should be replaced in his kitchen by one of the prisoners. Taking up an immense cutlass, the cook made his way towards the mariners -- who thought, seeing him approach, that their sacrificial hour had come.
With mighty kicks, the cook knocked several sailors aside in order to get to Saturnin Farandoul, whose bonds he cut before telling him what was required of him.
[B&W Illustration p. 27: "Le maŒtre coq" = "The master-cook"]
"By all means, with pleasure!" said our smiling hero. And the two men made their way back to the feast.
Everything was going well. The gaiety of the honourable assembly had reached its highest pitch. Two or three pirates had already been moved by the heat of debate to inadvertently bury their well-sharpened krises in the bellies of their neighbours. Paying no heed to such mere bagatelles, the cook threw himself upon the bottles of spirits, determined to catch up with his fellows.
[B&W Illustration p. 1: "Une trouvaille" = "A Find"]
Standing before the fire, Farandoul took stock of the situation. Twenty metres away from the pirates their more cumbersome weapons -- rifles, pistols and yatagans -- were deposited, along with numerous cartridge-pouches, powder-horns and boxes of bullets. That was all Farandoul required -- he had his plan. He turned the boar on its spit, and then -- pretending to need firewood -- left the circle and made his way towards the pirates' weapons.
His companions followed his every move from a distance, believing that he had gone to seize as many sabres as he could and would make haste to cut their bonds. Not at all. Saturnin Farandoul gathered wood and foliage, dexterously hid some cartridge-pouches and boxes of bullets among the leaves, and returned to the boar.
Not a single pirate had bothered to budge.
Saturnin had plenty of time to make the boar's body cavity into a magnificent infernal machine[4]: underneath, the powder on a bed of dry leaves; on top, the bags of bullets, augmented by pebbles gathered from around the fire. A fuse taken from a firearm completed the equipment of the bomb.
When everything was ready, Saturnin let the end of the fuse fall into the fire, blew on it to liven the flame and moved away from the group unhurriedly.
There was not long to wait.
The cook, realising that his replacement was no longer to be seen, got up and brandished his kris at the boar; he was just bending over to ascertain the progress of the roast when a jet of flame shot out of the animal.
A frightful detonation rang out. The infernal machine had exploded.
[B&W Illustration p. 1: "L'explosion" = "The explosion"]
No more boar; no more cook! The first was in shreds, the second had had his head blown off. Twenty pirates were writhing on the ground; the bullets and pebbles with which Farandoul had charged his Saint Barbara[5] boar had struck to the right and the left, as if they were a blast of grape-shot, smashing arms and legs, drilling holes in chests, and bursting eyeballs in their sockets.
With lightning rapidity, Farandoul threw himself towards his companions, gathering up an armful of weapons as he went. With fifteen thrusts of a dagger he freed them from their bonds. In no time at all they were armed, and under Farandoul's direction they fell upon the terrified pirates before the brigands were able to collect themselves.
What a fine spectacle it was! Those who had been spared by the grape-shot, or who only had small pebbles embedded in their bodies, snatched up their famous blades and defended themselves like demons! But how could they resist brave mariners who had their revenge to take?
[B&W Illustration p. 32: No title]
Within two minutes, twenty-five pirates were strewn about the sand, and the rest were fleeing into the island's interior like vultures scattered from their prey.
Some forty or forty-five Malays were out of the fight, but the crew of La Belle Léocadie had, alas, to mourn the loss of their chief. The bold Captain Lastic, after having personally brought down two Malays, had been run through by the poisoned kris of the pirate Bumbaya!
Captain Lastic managed one last "Tonnerre d'Honfleur!" as he gave up the ghost, while Saturnin perforated the hideous Bumbaya in his turn.
There was no time to give vent to their anguish; Saturnin had heard the pirate chief Bora-Bora complain about the lateness of a company of his followers, whose return he was expecting at any moment. About fifteen corsairs had fled, Bora-Bora himself among them; they would be able to return in force to crush the mariners. Saturnin therefore made haste to re-embark in order to get away from the fatal island. All the weapons were gathered up; Captain Lastic's body was taken aboard the three-master, and the anchor was raised as soon as the pirates' barques had been scuttled.
Just in time! Hundreds of men were descending upon the beach, frantically hurling spears and firing rifles.
La Belle Léocadie sent forth a blast of grape-shot from its only cannon before her final departure.
As soon as they were at sea, the mariners rendered their final duty to poor Captain Lastic. His command should rightfully have reverted to Lieutenant Mandibul, but the lieutenant, overcome by emotion, declared that Saturnin Farandoul having displayed the very finest qualities during the affair and having saved all their lives; he thought that they could do no better than to appoint him their captain -- as for himself, he intended to continue as second-in-command, under the heroic Farandoul.
The crew applauded.
Farandoul was now captain of La Belle Léocadie; moreover, Captain Lastic, the owner of the three-master, had made him his heir. Everything, therefore, worked out for the best; in honour of poor Lastic, a number of pirates who were found dead drunk in the steward's room were hanged.
The sea was calm; this time, the crew exercised the utmost vigilance.
Still weeping for the poor captain, Saturnin Farandoul remembered that at the end of the battle, he had seized the pirate chief Bora-Bora by the belt, and was about to cleave his skull when the belt had broken, remaining in his hand while Bora-Bora fled. He had kept the belt without bothering to examine it, but he was now curious to do so, in company with Lieutenant Mandibul.
The pockets sewn into the belt's inner surface were stuffed with papers; some seemed to be business documents covered with figures, statements of account and contracts; others seemed even more interesting to Captain Saturnin Farandoul. He studied them carefully, and thanks to his knowledge of the Malay language he eventually understood that he had in his hands a genuine deed of incorporation establishing, under the trade name Bora-Bora & Co., a Company for the Skimming of the Sunda Islands! This company was financed by the Malay merchants of Borneo, charged with the disposal of goods and the investment of profits. All the documents were in order; Bora-Bora had a warrant.
Saturnin Farandoul could read the details of operations recorded on a day-to-day basis, but the document which made him leap to his feet was some sort of current account containing a list of the receipts and savings of Bora-Bora & Co. The total shown was fifty-four million "coins" -- leaving unspecified whether these were gold, silver or copper -- and these savings were deposited in a bank in Borneo.
Farandoul assembled the crew of La Belle Léocadie and told them what the documents were. They all cheered enthusiastically.
"Friends, these riches are ours, by right of conquest! Everyone shall have a share in the prize. Set sail for Borneo! But we'll have to keep a weather-eye open; Bora-Bora isn't dead, and he'll be looking to overtake us!"
Sailing towards Borneo, La Belle Léocadie had no unfortunate encounters. She gave a wide berth to all the islands and guarded against the approach of Malay canoes which appeared to be standing off from her in the channel between the Bonggi islands and the north tip of Borneo. As soon as she lay at anchor, Farandoul went ashore with Lieutenant Mandibul, both of them heavily armed, and made for the pirates' bank. Chapter III
Without offering any explanations, Farandoul laid before the eyes of the crooked banker -- a shifty-looking individual -- the deed of incorporation of Bora-Bora & Co and the pass-book for the current account.
The banker went slightly pale, but did not manifest any surprise.
"Have you the funds?" Farandoul demanded.
"No bank, however well fortified, ever has fifty-four million coins in its coffers," the banker replied, evasively.
"I'll give you until tomorrow," Farandoul said.
"Impossible, Sire! Besides, we must have the signature of my friend Bora-Bora, the company's chief executive. He should have told you that when he sent you to collect...."
"He didn't send us. We're the ones in control of the business...."
"Ventre de phoque, you'll settle up, you old villain!" cried the conciliatory Mandibul.
"No signature, no money," declared the banker, flatly.
"In that case, we'll take it to court," Farandoul calmly replied. And that same day, the suit was launched, under the auspices of the Bornean authorities. Farandoul was worried. Evidently, Bora-Bora had warned the banker; perhaps he was in Borneo himself, lying in wait for an opportunity to get his hands on La Belle Léocadie again. They had to keep their eyes open, as Mandibul put it.
The Léocadie's sailors, knowing that they had to watch over their fortune, were on their guard -- but what could they do if they were attacked some day and overwhelmed by superior forces?
Farandoul understood that the case might drag on for a long time. Justice in the Sultanate of Borneo might perhaps be corrupted, the pirates having friends and accomplices -- and who could tell whether the sultan might not be glad to appropriate the cash-box himself, in order to settle the case? He judged it politic to recruit to his interests a man who was all-powerful in the sultan's court. This person, for a modest commission of twenty per cent, committed himself to watch over the case and to do everything that circumstances permitted to favour the interests of La Belle Léocadie. He made no secret of the fact that the thing might be long-drawn-out, and ended up by advising Farandoul to make himself scarce during the negotiations. Farandoul appreciated the soundness of this advice, and after having given power of attorney to his agent, he set sail on a clear night.
"Friends," Captain Farandoul said to his sailors, "we're taking a holiday; we'll come back again when the case has reached a successful conclusion."
Everyone applauded.
Captain Farandoul's intention was to leave those hostile latitudes and to sail via the sea of Java, the Banda Sea and the Torres Strait towards the isles of Polynesia. He thought of the isle where he had spent his infancy, and said to himself that since Providence had given him the leisure-time, he could not employ it better than by searching for his adoptive family. The late lamented Captain Lastic had often told him that he had picked him up not far from the Tongan archipelago, and it was to that region that Farandoul wanted to direct his research. He told himself that it was impossible that he would be unable to rediscover his island -- in the absence of any other indicator his heart would serve as his compass.
In the meantime, a vigilant watch was kept -- but there was no trace of pirates on the horizon.
When La Belle Léocadie had passed between the New Hebrides and the Solomon islands, and set a new heading due east, Farandoul, thinking that there was nothing more to fear, gave himself over entirely to his search. A course was set for every island sighted by the lookout, at least until it was found to be inhabited. Thus it was that one day, La Belle Léocadie arrived at an island that was absolutely deserted, and not marked on the map. As with the Isle of Monkeys, its shores were defended by a barrier reef, but when that barrier was crossed the sea was absolutely calm, permitting the anchor to be lowered in perfect safety.
The rocky cliffs of the coastline were interrupted by beaches where the coconut-palms descended as far as the sands. Beyond the palms were fleecy hills covered with the most luxurious vegetation; an immense virginal forest covered the island as far as the eye could see, save for the upper slopes of a volcanic peak, which projected 250 metres above sea-level. A narrow river snaked through the woods, its limpid and murmurous waters gushing out into the ocean, on a beach of the finest sand. All around the island, within a few metres of the shore, the terrain became precipitate, as if the isle itself were merely the summit of a mountain emerging from the waves.
The steepness of the sea-bed allowed La Belle Léocadie to drop anchor very close to the shore. It also gave Farandoul the idea of profiting from the tranquil harbour and the resources that the hospitable coast was sure to furnish,in order to make a few necessary repairs to the three-master.
The ship was solidly established on the beach, and the caulkers and carpenters set to work under the direction of Lieutenant Mandibul. Saturnin Farandoul and the rest of the crew devoted themselves to the exploration of the island. Saturnin, though finding that its flora was very similar to that of the Isle of Monkeys, had quickly recognised that it could not be the place where he had spent his infancy. Although there were certain points of resemblance in its general configuration, as seen from a distance, the vague similarities disappeared as soon as they passed through the rocks.
The island seemed to be uninhabited; no tribes of monkeys haunted the forest. Other animals -- including kangaroos and opossums -- hopped away into the undergrowth, and innumerable tortoises of giant proportions were walking slowly along the river banks. These tortoises had even, over time, hollowed out veritable pathways between the mountain and the coast. While Farandoul gave himself eagerly to the pleasures of the hunt, the sailors amused themselves by playing every possible trick on the poor tortoises, not to mention making of them a succulent daily soup. When they surprised the tortoises on the bank, the sailors, passing sticks under their bellies, turned them on their backs and left them there in distress, kicking their legs in a comical fashion.
[B&W Illustration p. 35: "En chasse" = "Hunting"]
This pleasantry had the result of reducing the entire crew to tears of laughter. Able-Seaman Kirkson, a pure-blooded Englishman with a passion for racing, who did not often have the chance to indulge his passion while on ocean voyages, took the opportunity to improvise tortoise races. He required no more, in order to organise derbies of this new kind, than to happen upon a few tortoises travelling together; these chelonians were brought into line by sheer manpower, and at a prearranged signal, sailors leapt upon their shells, and the race was on. Balance was difficult to maintain; some of the makeshift jockeys fell off, while others collapsed into a sitting position on animals which retracted their heads in fear. The man who remained standing longest won, and pocketed the bets.
[B&W Illustration p. 37: "Courses de tortues" = "Turtle races"]
On the slope of the mountain, Captain Farandoul had discovered the entrance to a spacious grotto, whose tunnels and ramifications could only be explored with torches. On that side the mountain was quite steep. The cave's broad mouth, overlooking the blue of the sea, opened on to a sort of platform at the summit of a crag looming over a damp ravine, where hundreds of tortoises were constantly crowding. We shall see how useful this discovery was to the brave mariners in the midst of the complications in which they were soon to be embroiled!
The repairs to La Belle Léocadie had been effectively carried out, and the handsome three-master was as good as new, ready to put out to sea again. The sailors, after a final stroll in the forest, were relaxing on the grassy slopes of a hillock in the lowest foothills of the central peak, some distance away from the beach where La Belle Léocadie still rested on her keel. Captain Farandoul, lost in thought, had pushed on as far as the crest of the hill, from which the entire outline of the coast, with its sharp promontories and deep creeks, could be seen. He had been standing at the summit for several minutes staring into space when he suddenly lowered his gaze towards the coast.
Farandoul went pale. He thought he was dreaming -- but no! He rubbed his eyes and let out an exclamation. A veritable tide of Malay canoes was strewn upon the sea, as rapid and as sinister as a flock of vultures. More were appearing by the minute, doubling one of the island's capes some fifteen hundred metres from the hill on which Farandoul stood.
[B&W Illustration p. 39: "Une pirogue malaise" = "A Malay canoe"]
In response to the captain's cry, the sailors had hastened to their feet and were looking at the innumerable canoes with stupefaction. The vessels were becoming more numerous with every passing moment, seemingly following a strategy of hugging the coast so that they would have the least possible exposure to the open sea.
"It's Bora-Bora, beyond the shadow of a doubt!" Farandoul said, in the end. Turning to his sailors, he cried: "Forward! To La Belle Léocadie! We must warn our friends!"
The entire company filed into the forest in the direction of the ship. Thoughts crowded hurriedly into Farandoul's mind. The impossibility of saving La Belle Léocadie seemed obvious. At sea, it would have been possible to make a fight of it, but run aground as she was, she could not even serve as a citadel for the mariners.
"The cave will be our salvation!" Farandoul said, as he ran. "We'll take all the weapons from La Belle Léocadie and take refuge there."
Breathlessly, they came in sight of the ship. Lieutenant Mandibul and his men were asleep in the shade, but they leapt to their feet when they heard their companions running towards them.
"To arms!" said Farandoul. "We're under attack -- the pirates are here! Grab everything you can carry and climb up to the cave."
"Ventre de phoque! But can't we fight here?"
"Impossible, lieutenant. There's at least six hundred of them! They'll be here within the hour -- we only have the time to..."
Everyone went to work without further explanation. Weapons, powder, camping equipment -- everything that it was possible to carry was taken up. The first canoes were rounding the point of the little bay when Farandoul left the ship; the pirates shouted excitedly at the sight of the three-master, and hastened their progress.
"Quickly!" said Farandoul. "Let's get ready for them."
The sailors hurriedly deposited everything they had saved in the cave. Standing on the little platform, they shook their fists at the pirates, who were visible on the shore, swarming like ants around La Belle Léocadie.
[B&W Illustration p. 33: "Encore des pirates" = "Yet more of the pirates"]
"No time to lose, lads," Farandoul shouted. "Let's prepare our defences."
We have observed that the grotto pierced the mountain above a rather steep ravine. Scaling the slope would be difficult, in the face of several carefully disposed carbines, but to repel the assailants it was necessary to establish some cover on the platform -- the weak point of their fortress.
Farandoul looked around urgently, and immediately caught sight of a few blocks of stone which might be used to form a parapet. Alas, he was soon convinced of the impossibility of extracting even the smallest of them without long hard labour, which would not want for interruption by the corsairs. What to do? Farandoul, leaning over the ravine full of tortoises, had a flash of inspiration. The tortoises could be used as a means of fortification.
Two men descended into the ravine; as they approached, the tortoises retreated into their shells and did not budge. The two mariners rapidly passed ropes, which had been thrown down from above, beneath the bellies of the largest tortoise, making a seaman's knot to prevent the rope from slipping.
"Pull!"
[B&W Illustration p. 43: "Oh...hisse!" = "Pull!"]
In response to this signal, vigorous arms lifted up the poor tortoise, which was terrified to find itself borne aloft. Once arrived at the top, it was laid on its back, and the rope was thrown back down to the men in the ravine.
Thirty tortoises were sent up in succession and laid on their backs, placed one atop another with an artistry which testified that Farandoul possessed a genius for fortification. To prevent the rampart from collapsing, a number of sturdy stakes were wedged into the rock, to which ropes were attached before being tightly knotted around each carapace.
The two men in the ravine had scarcely climbed up again when the pirates made their move; a hundred men set off together to climb the mountain.
"Let them get as far as the ravine," Farandoul said, "and don't fire unless you're sure of your shot."
The gaps between the tortoises formed natural loopholes, through which the men of La Belle Léocadie, with rifles in hand, watched the pirates advancing.
"Bigre de bagasse![2]" murmured the southerner Tournesol, a seaman first-class. "There's every possible colour there."
Indeed, among the copper-coloured Malays, yellow men from Formosa were discernible, along with black dayaks from Borneo and various half-breeds without any distinguishable nationality. Their armaments were just as varied. There were long Muslim rifles, Portuguese blunderbusses, spears, bows and pistols in addition to the familiar arsenal of daggers and Malay krises.
Lieutenant Mandibul nudged Farandoul's elbow. "Look, captain! There's that beggar Bora-Bora. I recognise his big red turban."
"It's him all right," Farandoul replied. "The brigand's keeping out of the way, directing the attack without exposing himself."
After a pause of several minutes, Farandoul called his men to attention. "Here they come!"
Utterly bemused not to have been greeted with rifle-fire, the pirates had climbed to within thirty metres. Thinking, in consequence, that the mariners had not been able to carry their weapons with them, they were grouping to mount an assault, howling horribly.
"Fire!" cried Farandoul.
[B&W Illustration p. 44: "Le rempant des tortues" = "The turtle rampart"]
Fifteen rifle-shots were discharged. It was like a broadside; a terrible collapsed mass rolled down the mountainside, the dead and the wounded carrying those who had not been wounded along with them. The howling redoubled, this time caused by pain and fear.
Bora-Bora, leaping about like a demon, rallied his men behind a clump of trees.
"While we have a moment's respite," Farandoul said, "we have to think about food. We can't eat our rampart, so we must have more tortoises for our larder, and sufficient quantities of grass to nourish them. Someone has to go back down into the ravine to get tortoises and hoist them up at the least exposed spot, while four of our best shots provide them with covering fire.
The pirates perceived this manouvre from a distance, and a few moved to prevent it. A few well-directed bullets caused them to make their way back to those who had not been felled.
The tortoise-hoisting operation came out marvellously. In less than an hour some thirty tortoises were stacked up in the cave, and the men climbed back up without any accident. Meanwhile, the pirates, huddling in the shelter of a clump of trees, seemed to be preparing themselves for a new and more vigorous attack. In the distance, more could be seen dragging their canoes aground to either side of La Belle Léocadie. Sturdier Malay barques were mingled with them closer to the shore -- and all the crews, as soon as they were disembarked, came to swell the ranks of Bora-Bora's army, brandishing their weapons.
It was indeed a veritable army, which Farandoul estimated at seven or eight hundred men. Bora-Bora seemed determined to capture the marines' citadel no matter what the cost. While he formed his best men -- the Malays -- into an assault column, he posted others as snipers to harass the besieged men from every side. The Dayak negroes, armed with ironwood bows, were creeping among the rocks in search of advantageous positions, while other pirates, the Formosans, were opening fire from such a long range that the mariners judged it useless to respond.
The whistling bullets struck the carapaces with dry clicks, at which the armoured heads of the tortoises emerged momentarily before immediately withdrawing -- especially when a mariner, lurking behind his loophole, found a good opportunity to direct a bullet at some overly audacious Dayak. The poor tortoises, terrified by these flashes of fire and thunderous detonations, attempted to turn somersaults, which made the rampart ripple with movement.
Farandoul told his men to concentrate their fire on those Dayaks whose upward-directed arrows might fall within the citadel; not one of these savages came close enough to the cave to reach its defenders.
[B&W Illustration p. 47: "Les Dayacks" = "The Dayaks"]
Suddenly, a howl let loose by six hundred voices burst forth at the foot of the mountain. Bora-Bora was launching the bulk of his forces upon the blockade.
[Colour Illustration 6e LIV.: "L'assaut" = "The assault"]
Six hundred demons climbed the escarpment with a resolution that testified to their determination to crush and finish off the fifteen besieged men by sheer weight of numbers.
"Save your ammunition, and don't fire unless the shot's certain," said Farandoul, mopping sweat from his brow.
More than fifty Malays had already rolled to the bottom of the slope, the dead and wounded making a ladder of sorts for the others -- and the besieged men soon saw them a few metres from the platform: hideous, covered in blood, with rifles in their hands and daggers in their teeth.
"Bigre de bagasse, this is getting worse!" cried Tournesol, "But fear not, we'll lay a few more carcases down before they get past!"
"Ventre de phoque! I won't get to blow away that damn beggar Bora-Bora!"
The howls of the corsairs were redoubled. They believed that their victory was certain -- and the citadel was, in fact, in serious danger. A few more minutes, and they would reach the platform; excited by the hope of carnage, they pressed forward in ever greater numbers.
"Keep firing! Watch out!" Farandoul commanded, having observed the progress of the attackers for some minutes without shooting. Then, taking his knife, he quickly cut through several ropes. "Do as I do, shipmates! All together....push hard!" Matching actions to his words, he set his rifle down and threw himself against the rank of tortoises which formed the crown of the rampart. All had understood and had surged forward.
The entire tier collapsed; ten tortoises, each weighing at least a couple of hundred kilograms, rolled down on to the pirates, breaking heads and ribs and scouring the wall of the crag within the blink of an eye.
[B&W Illustration p. 45: "La rangée entière s'écroula" = "The entire tier collapsed"]
Before those who had not been struck had time to get out of the way, the tortoises comprising the second tier descended upon them like an avalanche, pulverising everything in their way and rebounding from the rocks to shatter in the midst of the panic-stricken throng.
The citadel had been saved once again. The pirates were fleeing from the accursed mountain, paying no heed to the exhortations of a few chiefs who were trying to rally them.
Losing no time, Farandoul had the rampart rebuilt using the tortoises placed in reserve, and a number of men went back down into the ravine, some to recover as many munitions as possible from dead pirates and others to capture more tortoises. Those tortoises which had remained in the ravine, understanding that the place was not safe, were fleeing as quickly as they could from this scene of carnage; there was only time for a handful to be turned over to stop them from escaping.
"Now, shipmates, there's only one thing I'm afraid of," Farandoul said to his men, "And that's Bora-Bora turning the siege into a blockade."
"The brigand kept out of range," Mandibul complained. "I would have been so glad to avenge poor Captain Lastic! Yes, the scoundrel stayed back; a man who has come to possess fifty-four million gold, silver or copper coins looks after his skin! And that makes fifty-four million reasons why he's determined to have ours, whatever the cost. I don't believe our troubles are over yet."
"In the meantime, it's nearly supper-time," Farandoul replied. "It's time to sacrifice one of our tortoises -- we've certainly earned some turtle soup."
The evening and the night passed without incident. Farandoul lay awake for half an hour, his insomnia caused by disquiet. He told himself that a blockade could have the most disastrous consequences for La Belle Léocadie, which he deemed to be very nearly lost, and particularly for her crew. The pirates would be able to find abundant food on the island, while his own men would be dependent on the meagre provisions brought from the ship and the tortoises in the rampart.
"It's very hard," said Lieutenant Mandibul, who was also troubled. "It's very hard for besieged men to eat their fortifications!"
On the following day, the Malays could be seen making an encampment on the beach. This clearly testified to the fact that they had no thought of leaving. In the afternoon, a band of fifty men left the camp and established themselves in the woods from which the attack columns had been sent.
A blockade was being organised.
Nothing changed on either side for several days. A stream of water which ran through the grotto and exited into a fissure leading down to the tortoises' ravine was adequate to the needs of the besieged men, but they took care every morning to bring some grass to the tortoises of the rampart, to keep them alive and in good health.
Farandoul began to find the time weighing heavily upon him and searched for a means of hurrying matters along. In the hope of making some advantageous discovery he and Lieutenant Mandibul followed each of the tunnels leading from the cave to its very end. These ramifications extended deep into the mountain, but the corridors usually ended abruptly in solid walls. One of these narrow fissures, however, took them a long way away from their companions.
"Ventre de phoque, what can we do?" said Mandibul.
"Ah, if I had my monkeys, the pirates wouldn't hold on for long!" Farandoul replied.
"I can save you," said a firm voice, which suddenly emerged from the depths of the tunnel.
Farandoul and Mandibul drew their revolvers.
"Fear not, I'm a friend," the voice went on -- and, to the great astonishment of the two mariners, an unknown man came towards them.
"Don't be astonished, and don't ask me any questions -- just listen to me," he said. "I'm a European like you, and I'll save you."
The three men squatted down on the rocks. The conversation lasted a long time. As it was agreed between them that the identity of the unknown man would not be revealed to the sailors of La Belle Léocadie, we shall keep the secret from our readers until the next chapter.
Mandibul returned from the cave alone. He contented himself with saying that the captain had found a means of saving everyone; that he had gone to put his plan into action; and that all he had asked of the sailors was to wait patiently without risking any useless combat. Any attack that occurred would have to be forcefully repulsed; the pirates must be kept back at all costs.
Farandoul was absent for two weeks -- two weeks during which the corsairs, without renewing their assault, sought to inconvenience the crew of La Belle Léocadie by every available means. Lieutenant Mandibul never stopped fuming with rage throughout the fortnight; as for the sailors, they dreamed of nothing but sorties and hand-to-hand combat.
Soon the situation, already critical, became terrible. The infernal Bora-Bora had an idea of his own, and we shall see how it put the marines into a lamentable position.
One morning, two hundred pirates scaled the far side of the mountain, and established themselves directly above the platform, at the point of origin of the stream that descended into the cave via fissures in the rock. The wretches had brought their cooking-pots and abundant supplies of dry wood. Twelve fires were lit, on which twelve large cooking-pots were set, filled to the brim with water from the spring.
"Ventre de phoque, what diabolical cookery are these brigands up to?" grumbled Lieutenant Mandibul.
The answer was not long in coming
Suddenly, a flood of boiling water fell upon the unhappy tortoises in the rampart, and clouds of hot vapour invaded the grotto. The wretches, being unable to bring active force to bear on the bastion of tortoises, sought to defeat it by slow cooking! All through the day the cooking-pots were continuously at work; the poor tortoises expired in the terrible boiling flood[3] that fell incessantly upon their backs. Mandibul was seething!
[B&W Illustration p. 49: "L'idée de Bora- Bora" = "Bora-Bora's idea"]
There was nothing to be done! That evening, six tortoises having been cooked, the mariners cut their losses by eating them for supper; six replacements were installed under cover of darkness. It was scarcely worth the trouble. Eight more death certificates were issued the following day -- eight boiled tortoises to put on the menu.
The bastion lasted eight days, after which it was comprised of nothing but empty and broken carapaces; the crew of La Belle Léocadie were visibly fatter, but thirst began to make itself felt, for the pirates had found a means to heat the spring itself, so the mariners were really in hot water.
This was the state of things when, one fine night, Lieutenant Mandibul, returned from the depths of the tunnel within the cave, gathered his men together and told them to make ready for a sortie the following day.
"Is there news then, lieutenant?" asked Seaman Tournesol.
"Goodbye hot water -- the captain's back," Mandibul replied. "Ventre de phoque, we're going to fight! Tomorrow, when the first rifle-shot sounds on the beach, we fall upon the beggars down below!"
The night seemed endless to the bold sailors, weary of the vast soup of tortoises which Bora-Bora -- in return for the grapeshot-filled boar of Bassilon -- had been serving them for more than a week. At dawn, Mandibul had them to go down into the ravine -- where they all awaited his signal, rifles in hand.
Let us take ourselves off to the pirates' camp, where the last vicissitudes of the drama will unfold. The wretches are grouped on the beach, around the handful of tents reserved for the principal chiefs. Some are asleep on the grass, wrapped in blankets, others around a few fires -- whose last logs, almost burned-out, occasionally hurl a few sparks and spirals of blue smoke into the still-starry sky. Chapter IV
[B&W Illustration p. 51: "Le camp" = "The camp"]
Overturned canoes and felled trees form the camp's only entrenchments.
Bora-Bora wakes up and shakes his fist at the mountain.
"If they haven't finished eating their tortoises," he says to himself, "we can't risk an attack. I'll send a few scouts their way."And Bora-Bora, prodding a few of his snoring companions with his foot, thrusts his arsenal into his belt.
He has scarcely finished when a rifle shot rings out, no more than twenty paces distant! Savage cries burst forth, and before the bewildered pirates have had time to leap upon their weapons, a hundred black shadows have jumped over the feeble ramparts of the camp and are flinging themselves upon them!
The tents are beaten down beneath the feet of combatants as a frightful confusion breaks out in the half-light of dawn. The attackers have the advantage, and pirate corpses are soon strewn across the ground; it is as if some infernal vortex were whirling around, crushing everything in its path....
Bora-Bora has drawn his pistols, but he does not know which way to shoot. Suddenly, he starts in alarm. These new enemies, worse than men, are sturdy monkeys armed with stout clubs!
The whirlwind of four-armed creatures has already pulverized half the pirate band; the remainder are trying to flee, rolling with the blows of the terrible clubs.
A strange thing! A man -- is it really a man? -- is directing this troop of monkeys; he mingles human words of command with guttural cries that make the monkeys jump.
Bora-Bora thinks he must be dreaming, but by the flash of two pistol-shots, he recognises Saturnin Farandoul! After that, he has but one thought -- to rally his men and re-embark.
[B&W Illustration p. 53: "Bora-Bora croit rêver" = "Bora-Bora thinks he must be dreaming"]
A very lively fusillade erupts from the side of the mountain now, and the pirates who were blockading the mariners beat their own retreat towards the sea. Bora-Bora and thirty of his men who have escaped the carnage make for the boats; fifty more are there, making haste to put the boats into the water. Daylight has come. The sun illuminates the beach, where Bora-Bora's adversaries are now clearly visible. The pirates watch in terror as the mariners of La Belle Léocadie and Farandoul's terrible monkeys hurtle upon them.
"Put to sea!" cries Bora-Bora.
A new prodigy, even more inexplicable! Fifteen fantastic creatures suddenly emerge from the bosom of the sea! The pirates' eyes grow wide in horror...each of these bipeds, clad in a thick pelt, has an absolutely spherical iron head with neither mouth nor nose, within whose face a single vast yellow eye is staring! A sort of pipe emerges from the head, connected to a sack attached to the back.
[B&W Illustration p. 55: "Ces bipèdes ont des têtes de fer" = "These bipeds had iron heads"]
What can these creatures emerging from the waves possibly be? Bora-Bora has no time to ask himself; these fish-men have iron hatchets fixed at the ends of their solid arms, and they are falling upon the pirates, who are still harassed from behind by the monkeys.
"Onward, La Belle Léocadie! Onward, monkeys!" cries Farandoul -- and, with one blow of a club that he wields with the same dexterity as the monkeys, he lays Bora-Bora flat out beside his canoe.
The fight did not last long.
Those whom the monkeys' clubs or the mariners' carbines had been unable to reach have fallen beneath the hatchets of the fantastic creatures who had emerged so conveniently from the bosom of the sea.
We shall make haste to explain these facts to the reader.
The man who popped up providentially in the grotto was none other than the celebrated Captain Nemo, who is so well-known to the readers of Jules Verne -- which is to say, everyone in the world -- that we can dispense with his description. The island where La Belle Léocadie had put in for repairs was none other than the Mysterious Island, and it was in the bowels of its mountain-citadel that the secret port of Captain Nemo's magnificent submarine the Nautilus was hidden. Captain Nemo, having heard Farandoul speak of the Isle of Monkeys, had revealed to him that there was an island a hundred and fifty leagues to the east inhabited solely by numerous tribes of these animals; the description of the island that he gave to Farandoul settled all further doubts.
"Let's go there in my Nautilus," Captain Nemo had added. "Make yourself known, and if you can convince a troop of your old friends to come to the aid of La Belle Léocadie, it will be possible to do battle."
It had all worked out very well. Farandoul had found his family again, his foster-brothers having grown up into magnificently sturdy lads; he had had no trouble recruiting a hundred of his old comrades of the forest, and we have seen how enthusiastically they fell upon the pirates.
As for the fantastic creatures with iron heads, that was a company of divers provided by the crew of the Nautilus. The divers too had done marvellously well!
The different units of the little army, having come together on the beach, were introduced to one another, that formality having been impracticable during the heat of battle. The sailors and the monkeys look at one another with mutual astonishment, but what intrigues the brave monkeys most of all are the men with iron heads: the divers from the Nautilus. Where could these bizarre creatures with round heads, and tails attached thereto, possibly have come from? Were they another new race of men? It overturned all their notions of natural history, which had already been disturbed by the reappearance on their isle of their friend Farandoul, accompanied by beings of a similar kind.
Farandoul was all wrapped up with his family, his foster-father and his five brothers enfolding him in their arms. What joy! What a picture! The other monkeys crowded around them, happy to stare at the little handicapped monkey with whom they had all played when they were young! It was evident that they no longer considered him as having a deplorable infirmity, having seen, by courtesy of the mariners of the Nautilus, that all his race were in the same condition.
[B&W Illustration p. 59: "Quelle joie!" = "What joy!"]
Farandoul and Captain Nemo wanted to celebrate their victory with a huge banquet. As soon as the beach had been cleared it was organised. Forty monkeys went forth in search of coconuts, bananas and other vegetables; the cooks from the Nautilus and La Belle Léocadie roasted some opossums, prepared numerous tortoises -- less heroic than those of the rampart but just as succulent -- with various sauces, and tablecloths were soon set out on planks spread out on the grass.
Farandoul, his brothers and his foster-father took their places at the head table, along with Captain Nemo, Lieutenant Mandibul and the leader of the divers. The monkeys and the mariners were grouped around the other tables. It was noticeable that every movement of the divers was observed with trepidation by the monkeys, who pondered how these creatures with iron heads devoid of any opening were able to eat. When they saw the divers divest themselves of their apparatus before starting to eat, they burst out laughing. The problem was solved -- these unknown bipeds were part of the Farandoulian race!
[B&W Illustration p. 60: "Comment peut-il manger?" = "How can he eat?"]
The meal was most enjoyable. The monkeys, of course, did not want to partake of anything but fruit, but they consented to empty a few bottles of champagne furnished by the excellent Captain Nemo. A few, as might be expected, became a little light-headed -- but on such a great day, who could blame them?
A big conference was held afterwards, in which a solemn vote of thanks was addressed to Captain Nemo. Then it was agreed that the pirates' canoes and barques should be carefully hidden in a creek identified by the good captain. He advised that they should await the result of their legal action before showing themselves in Borneo.
Farandoul, always eager for action, resolved to depart no later than the following day in La Belle Léocadie, along with the biggest of the Malay barques, in order to take the monkeys home.
As the sun rose the next day, the two ships made ready to sail; the moment of farewell drew near. Captain Nemo, who held Farandoul in singularly high esteem, came to shake him by the hand one last time, and Farandoul was obliged to accept six superb Denayrousse diving-suits as a souvenir. They promised to meet up again as often as possible, then went their separate ways, after a dozen muskets had fired a salvo in honour of the generous Captain Nemo.
The voyage was a happy one. The three-master sailed in convoy with the pirates' barque, crewed by two men from La Belle Léocadie and thirty monkeys, who showed every indication of becoming excellent mariners. They reached the Isle of Monkeys in six days, where their arrival -- signalled in advance by lookouts -- caused such a commotion that the entire population, save for the sick, thronged the shore while the long-boats came ashore with the monkeys, proud of their campaign.
We shall not undertake to recount every detail of the warm reception given to La Belle Léocadie, nor of the celebrations that followed. In any case, Farandoul, possessed by an all-consuming restlessness, soon announced his intention to return to sea. The pirates' barque was left to the monkeys, with two men to complete their naval education, and La Belle Léocadie resumed its course through the archipelagoes.
Farandoul was avid to devote himself to serious submarine exploration, in order to profit from the diving-suits so generously donated by Captain Nemo. He, Lieutenant Mandibul and four sailors soon became used to living and moving in the great depths, in the world of gigantic submarine forests inhabited by oceanic monsters. It was there that Saturnin Farandoul developed the instincts of a hunter, which he had not yet had the time to cultivate.
Armed to the teeth, with hatchets in hand and two pistols operated by compressed air in their belts, along with sharp knives, the mariners threw themselves upon the slimy rocks, into caverns inhabited by monsters unknown to man, which only the most deranged imagination could have dreamed up: six-metre-long lobsters, sea-crocodiles, torpedo-squids, crabs with a thousand feet, sea serpents, finned elephants, giant oysters and so on.
[B&W Illustration p. 61: "Explorations sous- marines" = "Submarine explorations"]
They had some terrible fights with these hideous animals. One such encounter was nearly fatal to Lieutenant Mandibul. The mariners had just put to death a fifteen-metre serpent which they had taken by surprise while it was eating a sea-crocodile, whose tail still protruded from its mouth -- but which was still able to defend itself -- when their attention had suddenly been caught by the entry on to the scene of a strange creature. It was a gigantic oyster three metres in diameter, hugely rounded, running at a trot on six slender feet; its half-open shell allowed two round, staring eyes to be seen, in which the greatest ferocity could be read.
"Ventre de phoque!" murmured Lieutenant Mandibul. "If there's a pearl in that oyster, my fortune's made!" And having marched up to the oyster, he seized it by the upper shell and plunged his arm into the slit, with a dagger in his hand.
Horror! The oyster opened much wider, and swallowed Lieutenant Mandibul in a single gulp.
[B&W Illustration p. 63: "Mandibul avalé par une huitre" = "Mandibul swallowed by an oyster"]
Fortunately, Saturnin Farandoul had seen everything; with the four sailors he ran towards the oyster, which had paused and seemed to be savouring poor Mandibul voluptuously. A sort of internal hullaballoo was, however, audible when they put their ears to the shell.
"He's still alive!" Farandoul cried. "To work, my friends!"
Hatchet-blows rained like hailstones upon the shell of the oyster, which defended itself feebly with its feet. The monster soon had to open up slightly, in order to breathe, and a few stifled words emerged from its interior. It was Mandibul shouting: "Help me! I've got the pearl!"
Farandoul attacked the oyster at the hinge, causing the upper shell to jerk spasmodically! They forced it open with their arms, and the interior of the ferocious animal appeared at last. Lieutenant Mandibul, in a sorry state, was quickly lifted clear, while the oyster was finished off with pistol-shots.
Lieutenant Mandibul had secured a pearl as big as his head! In the aftermath of this adventure, though, he had to take to his bed for several days -- which annoyed him greatly.
La Belle Léocadie had returned through the Torres Strait and found herself once again approaching the Sunda islands.
"Ventre de phoque!" Lieutenant Mandibul grumbled,from his sick-bed, "I once dropped a cherished pipe into the water in these parts -- I might well have retrieved it by means of our diving-suits!"
The three-master made its way through the shallow waters around the Sunda Islands, not far from the island of Timor; Saturnin, who had suddenly become fond of solitary submarine excursions, would not consent to leaving this dangerous region. According to the maps, half of the island of Timor belonged to the Dutch, the masters of the archipelago, and the other half to the Portuguese -- which is to say that both nations had a few trading-posts on its shores. In reality, the whole island, land and population alike, belonged to the Rajah, the aged and ferocious Ra-Tafia: an excessively absolute monarch who, in return for a few concessions. permitted the Dutch and the Portuguese to undertake commerce at various points on the coast.
Ra-Tafia, an old white-beard Malay, who had been a great lover of piracy in his youth, now spent his life secluded in his palace with his wives and his bottles of liqueur. His people accused him of favouring the Dutch at the expense of the Portuguese, in recognition of the tribute of curaçao paid by the Batavian government. We shall not allow ourselves to indulge in criticism of such a policy; after all, a monarch may have his preferences, and these are not under his control.
The old rajah Ra-Tafia had but one daughter, the young and beautiful Mysora, a dove hatched in a vulture's nest. Mysora was the daughter of a Frenchwoman carried off by Ra-Tafia during one of his expeditions to the Indian Ocean; Ra-Tafia had still had a heart in those days, and that heart having quickened its beat, the poor little Frenchwoman had been spared, the slave soon becoming the queen of Timor. If we want to meet his daughter Mysora we have only to go down one of the dark footpaths that lead from the palace of Ra-Tafia to the sea-shore; we must, however, beware of letting ourselves be seen by the ferocious Malays who watch over every pathway with spears in their hands.
[B&W Illustration p. 65: "La Fille du Rajah" = "The Rajah's daughter"]
These sentries protect the part of the shore where Mysora and her maids of honour take their daily bath from all indiscreet eyes. Sheer rocks covered with lianas shelter a tranquil little bay, where the young girls frolic on the sand. Such merry games in the clear water! Such bursts of laughter! Such joyful swimming-parties! Mysora is distinguished from the young Malays by the paleness of her skin, her long black hair cascading to her shoulders and chastely covering her.
[B&W Illustration p. 67: "Le bain des Malaises" = "The Malay girls' bath time"]
All of a sudden, a sharp cry raised by the fifteen young girls causes Mysora to lift her head. A fantastic apparition is thrusting up from the foam of the sea: a man-fish with an iron head, who tries to reassure the bathers with benevolent gestures. To no avail -- they all hasten out of the water with cries of terror. They flee into the rocks without even gathering up their clothes. Mysora alone, sitting on a spur of rock that forms a sort of islet, has been unable to flee.
The apparition came closer.
"Fear not, O queen of Timor!" said a voice that we would have recognised as that of our friend Farandoul.
"Who are you?" stammered the beautiful Mysora.
"O Mysora," Farandoul replied, "I am he who burns for you with a love that all the waters of the Ocean are insufficient to extinguish!"
The confused young woman covered her face with her hands.
"O flower of the tropics," Farandoul went on, "I have known you for a week, I see you every day like a Malay siren, playing among the foamy waves of the fortunate Ocean!"
"O, monsieur!" said Mysora, becoming even more confused.
"Be reassured, queen of my soul -- it was only from a distance, while hiding myself beneath the waves, that I dared to lift my eyes towards you! Today, for the first time, I have passed through the girdle of reefs that protect this inlet.... O Mysora! I am the captain of that three-master which you have seen cruising off Timor for eight days. For eight days, my heart has plunged fully-clad into the waters of passion, and that heart, which has never quickened its beat for any other, is ready to lower its colours before you!"
As he spoke these words, Farandoul knelt down and lowered the head of his diving-suit towards her hand, which Mysora allowed him to take. The poor girl understood that her own young heart, full of emotion, had begun to beat in a different way.
[B&W Illustration p. 68: No title]
"O captain," she said, finally, "make haste to depart; my followers, by fleeing, must have raised the alarm among the servants of my father, the terrible Ra-Tafia, rajah of Timor! He will come to kill you before my very eyes."
"So be it! Death will be sweet if the heart of Mysora is averse to me! If I must never see you again, they shall kill me!"
"Don't say that, Captain! See how how troubled and overwrought I am, and take pity on me! Go....and come back when night falls on the shore...."
Shouting could be heard amongst the rocks; the Malays were coming at a run...
Farandoul lifted Mysora's hand passionately to his iron lips, and vanished beneath the waves.
The appearance of a sea-monster totally unknown in the archipelago caused a good deal of talk in Timor; the Malays did not dare to venture out to sea for a fortnight. Many would not even go down to the shore, and Mysora's followers gave up their sea-bathing.
That same evening, however, Mysora was running over the deserted beach; she had seen such determination in the captain that she feared some imprudence on his part. Farandoul was there; he had brought a second diving-suit, which Mysora put on in order to follow the adventurous Farandoul into regions where they would be in no danger of any surprise.
Mysora felt herself subjugated little by little, the poor girl's heart beat until it was overwhelmed by an immense and profound invasion of love. What delectable moments! The hours fled by during this submarine conversation, whose purest poetry refreshed them both. The two young people, sitting one beside the other hand-in-hand, seemed lost in the azure realms of a dream. Time no longer existed while their two souls melted in the ardent light of love. Farandoul had taken the precaution of bringing a pocket telephone so that their conversation, conducted at a depth of seven or eight metres, would not require excessive vocal effort.
[Colour Illustration 8e LIV.: "L'amour au fond de la mer" = "Love on the bottom of the sea"]
In the end, it was necessary for them to separate. Mysora left her diving-suit in a hollow, hidden beneath the hectic vegetation hanging down the cliff. She promised to return in daylight on the following day, and to descend in her diving-suit to the bottom of the bay.
Farandoul had proposed to Mysora that he should ask her father for her hand in marriage; he talked of arriving in great pomp, at the head of his crew, to present his request to Ra-Tafia, but Mysora had put him off the plan. Knowing her father well, she thought that the old rajah, infatuated with the nobility and antiquity of his race -- whose tradition of piracy had been handed down from father to son for fifteen centuries -- would never consent to give his daughter to a simple merchant captain. She knew that, at the mere mention of such a misalliance, Ra-Tafia would leap up from his throne and strike Farandoul's head from his shoulders.
It was therefore necessary, until circumstances were altered, to keep their love secret. As it was impossible for them to see one another on land, they would meet each day to spend long hours in the oceanic depths, far from all terrestrial noise, and anything else that might trouble their poetic chat.
No, we shall not attempt to report everything that they said during those divine hours, when their two hearts beat as one as the lovers flew away to the ethereal realms! That would be the work of a poet -- a poet born and bred to describe, in emotion-laden verse, the sublime modulations of their submarine duet. Only a poet could do justice to the two motionless creatures, so young and so beautiful, quartered on a rock beneath the floating reflections of a vague and indecisive light, in the tremulous green water. Never could the eye of a painter -- if painters had frequented those depths -- have found a more seductive subject! O diver Romeo, O submarine Juliet!
Farandoul's tall frame gained even more stature in the liquid element, and no suited diver had ever displayed more charming contours or a more graciously undulant figure than Mysora's. Schools of fish halted in stupefaction before the pair; enormous tuna and indiscreet rays made circuits of the two young people without distracting them from their ecstasy, even when the dazed fish bumped into the floating tubes which conveyed breathable air to them. Sometimes, whole assemblies would gather round. Farandoul took no precautions against them; knowing from experience that submarine monsters only showed themselves in the greatest depths, he had no fear of encountering one a mere eight metres below the surface.
One day, alas, Mysora wanted to take an excursion in his arms, into the submarine valleys that he traversed every day in order to come to her -- and Farandoul did not have the heart to refuse to satisfy her whim, even though he was fully conscious of the risk.
The two young people had moved without any hindrance to a certain distance from the coast. Farandoul, by means of a little pocket pressure-gauge, had established that they had attained a depth of a hundred and fifty metres, when an unexpected spectacle suddenly presented itself to them.
A terrible battle was raging a short distance away between a small whale and a sea-serpent more than a hundred metres in length. The poor whale had been attacked from behind by the horrible constrictor, whose immense mouth had snatched it by the tail and was striving to swallow it in spite of its desperate resistance. The whale's head and a part of its body were still protruding from that mouth, further ingestion having been halted by the fins. The constrictor, in order to finish the job, was twisting its body in terrible effort while its convulsively-rolling coils were striking the sea-bed with a frightful noise.
It was obvious that the whale must succumb. Mysora, seized by pity, begged Farandoul to hurry to its aid.
"Take your hatchet, my handsome Farandoul," she said, "and slay the monster." And when Farandoul hesitated, she added: "Don't worry about me -- save the whale!"
Farandoul leapt forward. His hatchet in his hand, he fell upon the serpent as if he were on horseback -- and in spite of the reptile's sliminess, he pulled his way to the head, which he struck furiously.
The serpent, who had paid no attention to this new adversary until that moment, thrashed about in a terrifying manner. Without allowing himself to be unseated, Farandoul redoubled his hatchet-blows, so effectively that the monster's skull finally burst asunder with a great crack!
The two jaws opened as wide as possible, while the reptile shuddered convulsively, and the whale freed itself with a sudden effort.
At the same moment -- to Farandoul's great horror, and before he could throw himself forward to prevent it -- the whale advanced with two thrusts of its right fin upon Mysora, who was following the vicissitudes of the combat with interest. Within a second, its immense maw had engulfed the unfortunate young woman.
An appalling darkness of the soul! The monstrous cetacean could offer no better acknowledgement of the sweet girl who had saved it than to swallow its benefactress whole!
[Colour Illustration 10e LIV.: "Mysora avalée" = "Mysora swallowed"]
The monster, doubly delighted to have escaped the serpent at the same time as it had snapped up a fine windfall, hurled itself towards the light in order to enjoy its good fortune in peace.
As it passed him by, the maddened Farandoul grabbed hold of a cord that was still dangling from its mouth, and arrived at the wave-tossed surface at exactly the same time.
What Farandoul had seized was the floating tube which conveyed respirable air to Mysora's diving-suit. His only hope was that it was still attached; he did not want to let go of the last thread upon which Mysora's life might possibly depend.
By an extraordinary stroke of luck, on arriving in daylight Farandoul perceived his ship only a few cables distant. A certain tumult was evident on board, the crew having caught sight of the monster and decided to attack it by way of passing the time. Farandoul waved his arms above his head, and a general cry went up in response -- and, in less time than it takes to say it, the long-boat had put to sea.
Lieutenant Mandibul, harpoon in hand, gestured to the men, urging them to row vigorously. Two minutes later, the long-boat had reached Farandoul -- who seized the harpoon and, throwing with a sure hand, hit the monster's flank.
Lieutenant Mandibul had once been a whaler; he noticed that, contrary to the habit of whales, which usually dived with vertiginous speed and threaded their way into the depths as soon as they were hit, this one was only moving feebly. Evidently, it sensed that it had fallen prey to some profound difficulty.
No crime ever goes unpunished, and Providence the Avenger would doubtless have struck it fatally soon enough, but the whale's hour of punishment had sounded and the crime that could not weigh upon its non-existent conscience was weighing upon its stomach!
In the first moments after swallowing its prey without examination, the whale had perceived its roughness. Trusting to the strength of its constitution, however, it had expected to be quickly rid of the extraordinarily lumpy morsel -- but within its inner tribunal[3], it now began to regret its gourmandising, its stomach being over-full. Moreover, the creature that it had swallowed was flinging itself recklessly about -- and here, adding to its misfortunes, were yet more enemies attacking it, as if it did not have enough to do to counter the enemy within!
Farandoul made a sign which Mandibul understood; another harpoon was thrown, and before the whale could make up its mind, the two cables were made fast to the bow of La Belle Léocadie.
Farandoul had leapt upon the monster; he strove with all his might to hack through its outer tegument with hatchet-blows, in the hope of making a hole by means of which he could go into its body and save Mysora. Meanwhile, the final preparations were made to haul the whale aboard the ship.
Suddenly, the whale recovered its strength. With a single blow of its tail it up-ended the long-boat, which nearly turned turtle, and darted southwards like an arrow. La Belle Léocadie, in tow to the monster, took the same course.
The desperate Farandoul was taken aboard with the sailors from the long-boat. It was all over! Mysora seemed to him to be lost for ever; even though the air-hose was still afloat, it seemed impossible to him that she could stay alive until La Belle Léocadie caught up with the dying whale.
At any rate, he was determined at least to kill the monster. To do that, it was necessary to follow it until its strength was exhausted. The harpoon-cables were firmly-attached and would not break, all the sails were furled -- and La Belle Léocadie, her canvas dry, flew like lightning in the monster's wake.
Sibilantly skimming the crests of the waves, La Belle Léocadie was drawn along at a prodigious velocity; the whale that was towing her was travelling at an incalculable pace, and it was only very approximately that Farandoul estimated her speed at forty leagues an hour. The sailors were scarcely able to move without falling violently on their behinds, unless they lashed themselves to the stays. They were quite out of breath. Chapter V
How would the mad dash end?
The ships that they encountered put on full steam in order to escape the path of the infernal ship, which they took for the Flying Dutchman. A big steamship going from Liverpool to Melbourne, full of terrified passengers, was nearly struck amidships and cut in two following an unwise manoeuvre.
At fifteen hundred hours, Farandoul saw land on the port bow, which he judged to be the coast of Western Australia, near Perth. If the whale did not change direction within a quarter of an hour, they would be at the south magnetic pole[2], bound to be broken on the polar icebergs or the desolate cliffs of the antarctic continent. And Mysora, alas! Could any hope still remain? The whale suddenly veered eastwards. Cape Leeuwin and King George Point were doubled; the whale's speed seemed to be increasing even more. It soon began to make such violent leaps and jerks that Farandoul feared that the cables would snap. Soon afterwards, a violent tempest was added to the perils of the situation; it seemed that the heavens were taking the side of the monster against the defenders of the beautiful Mysora. In the midst of the unleashed elements, the whale's convulsions became even more violent. The monster was blowing hard and suffering.[3] For a moment or two the Australian coast became clearly visible to port; then everything was swallowed up by the blackness of the tempest.
The chase had lasted twenty-three hours when, all at once, at the height of the storm, both cables broke simultaneously. The whale, suddenly set free, redoubled its velocity and its convulsions, leaving La Belle Léocadie dancing on the angry waves as the creature was lost to view.
For a further hour the breathless monster ate up the distance. Whirlpools of foam traced a long wake behind it and every time it vented air from its blowhole immense cascades of water fell upon its head. Every time that huge head emerged from the waves, a sort of bellowing sound was audible. The monster was moaning!
A fisherman named John Bird, who lived in a little maritime cottage in Port Philip, a few leagues from Melbourne, made a fortunate discovery that day. Having not gone to sea because of the storm, he was walking on the beach taking long puffs on his pipe, by way of consolation, when -- to his great surprise -- he saw a gigantic fish coming straight towards him.
He had no time to get out of the way. The whale, its strength giving out, ran blindly aground upon the rocks, hurtling at such a speed that it smashed to earth fifteen metres from the waves. Then, lying on its side, exhausted and motionless, it seemed ready to expire at the feet of the stupefied John Bird.
[B&W Illustration p. 69: "Arrivée de la baleine en Australie" = "Arrival of the whale to Australia"]
A third individual was to appear on the scene. A tall, gaunt and ungainly man, bald and bespectacled, strode up rapidly, waving his arms and an oversized umbrella. A long yellow overcoat floated behind him. The newcomer, careless of his unprotected shoes, bounded through the puddles, splashing himself from top to toe. Thus we introduce to our readers, with their permission, the celebrated scientist Mr. Valentin Croknuff[4], founder-director of the great Melbourne Aquarium, an establishment almost without rival, where all known species of fish swim back and forth in continuously-recycled sea-water. Mr. Croknuff's aquarium lacked nothing but a whale, so his joy may be imagined when, at that very moment on a restocking expedition, he observed from a distance the monster stranded on the sand.
John Bird was just about to finish the creature off, brandishing a harpoon that he had recovered from its flesh, when a violent blow from an umbrella fell upon his head. His pipe fell out of his mouth and broke.
The furious John Bird turned on his assailant to strike back.
"I'll buy your whale -- don't touch it, you imbecile!" cried Mr. Croknuff, the man with the umbrella. John Bird lowered his fist.
"How much?"
"Fifty pounds!"
"Pay up!"
Having received his money, John Bird turned on his heel, saying: "Now take your whale away, if you can!"
That was the difficult part -- but Mr. Croknuff got it done regardless -- and that same evening, all Melbourne was informed, by means of huge posters, that the scientist Mr. Croknuff had finally acquired for his great aquarium the whale of his dreams.
Mr. Valentin Croknuff spent the whole night lavishing much-needed care upon his cherished whale. The unfortunate creature was in a sad state, flapping its fins lamentably.
Mr. Croknuff's great aquarium was situated in a nice part of Melbourne, on a grand avenue called Aquarium Road. A beautiful garden was laid out in front of the building, in whose shade passers-by could often observe the worthy Mr. Croknuff walking for hours with a sick baby seal in his arms, or a sea-lion overtaken by nostalgia.
The aquarium was octagonal in shape, comprising eight immense tanks surrounding a central room -- which Mr. Croknuff, in order to be always in the midst of his pupils, had made into his workroom and his bedroom. In a way, he actually lived in a submarine world, and could watch over the health of his stock as easily by night as in the daytime. He was,in consequence, familiar with all their little habits. He had studied their characters and had made himself master of them all, a good father to his family.. He made them change tanks when they became bored, and alleviated the tedium of long winter evenings by charming them with symphonies played on the piano, performed with the most marvellous verve.
[B&W Illustration p. 71: "La chambre à coucher de M. Croknuff " = "Mr. Croknuff's bedroom"]
It ought to be said that it was entirely for the benefit of his inmates that Mr. Croknuff had learned the piano. Mr. Croknuff, like all sensible men, detested music -- particularly piano music -- but he told himself that music being was a prehistoric invention, a last relic of barbarism which civilization would one day sweep away, that savage art might perhaps still be agreeable to the scarcely-elevated natures of his boarders.
[B&W Illustration p. 75: "Soirée musicale à l'aquarium" = "An evening of music at the aquarium"]
That night, Mr. Croknuff was entirely devoted to his whale; the other fish, glued to the glass, awaited in vain the concert which sent them to sleep every evening.
The whale turned round and round in its aquarium like a mad thing. Mr. Croknuff was desperate to do something to ease its distress. He had scratched away distractedly at his denuded skull for hours, without seeing any means of putting an end to its suffering. Suddenly, the whale made a convulsive movement; its jaws opened very wide and its eyes closed. Mr. Croknuff, believing that it was about to give up the ghost, pounced on his piano -- on which, in order to soothe the poor whale's last moments, he plucked out the despairing chords of Mozart's Requiem, watering the keys with his tears.
When he lifted his head again,however, the whale was not dead -- and it was no longer alone. A bizarre creature was standing by its side!
[Colour Illustration 12e LIV.: "M. Valentin Croknuff, directeur du grand aquarium de Melbourne" = "Mr. Valentine Croknuff, director of the Great Aquarium of Melbourne"]
Mr. Croknuff, rubbing his eyes, realised that the trespasser was a diver dressed in a suit!
Leaping briskly on to the aquarium's platform, Mr. Croknuff slid a ladder into the tank and, without saying a word, signalled to the diver to climb up. Our readers will recognise Mysora -- who had survived being swallowed by the gluttonous monster, thanks to her extra-strong costume.
Mr. Croknuff and Mysora climbed down into the scientist's bedroom. Mr. Croknuff seemed to be furious. Standing before Mysora with his arms folded he began cursing explosively. "Ah! ah! ah! Wretch! So it's you who've been hurting my whale! Do you know, infamous torturer, that I can have you up in court -- you've no right to damage my property!"
Mysora, who did not speak a word of English, understood nothing of this discourse. In any case, the poor girl was at the end of her tether. Without making any response, she fainted, letting herself fall into an armchair.
"Here we go!" Croknuff grumbled. "Look who's ill now! There's a chap who doesn't stand on ceremony! As if I had time to attend to him, when the poor whale he's hurt is suffering so! Let's see now -- come round, my friend. Hang on -- drink this. It's a bottle of sugared water I prepared for a baby seal with the measles....drink up! Quickly! I've got to get back to my whale!" And Mr. Croknuff, his head turned towards his whale, rapped on Mysora's iron helmet with the bottle of sugared water. "Well, drink it, then!" he went on. "Ah -- I get it! It's his diving-suit getting in the way!" Replacing the bottle on his desk, Mr. Croknuff set about unfastening Mysora's diving-suit.
Suddenly, he cried out and let the helmet fall to the ground. Mysora's pretty head had appeared before his eyes, pallid with the emotion of those thirty terrible hours. Her long hair had come undone, and made a magnificent ebony frame for the bleached canvas of her face. Life seemed to be returning; her large eyes opened wide with effort as she tried to get her bearings.
Her gaze fell first upon the glass partition of the huge tank where the whale, finally restored to health, was swimming quite calmly back and forth. Mysora let out a feeble scream at the sight of the monster -- which, bumping its nose against the wall of its prison, fixed its little round eyes upon her. She fainted again.
No scientist had ever experienced an emotion as great as Mr. Croknuff's. His heart beat faster and his spectacles jumped on his nose as his eyes flickered back and forth between the whale and the girl. What blows he rained upon his forehead with his fist! Eventually, having moved an atlas and a stuffed tuna out of the way, he sat down on a low chair beside the young woman and began slapping both her hands gently to bring her round.
A few feeble sighs were his only response. Mr. Croknuff jumped up, satisfied, threw himself upon the bottle of sugared water and tried to force a few drops between the young woman's lips.
"How beautiful she is! How beautiful!" murmured Mr. Croknuff, his attentions becoming more profuse. "What long hair! What little hands! And the nose -- what lovely curvature! What eyes! What eyebrows! What teeth! How beautiful she is! How beautiful! Drink this for me, my girl. Oof! What a woman! There's an adventure -- walking on the sea-bed in a diving-suit, being swallowed by a whale! She loves fish! How beautiful she is! How beautiful! I love them too, and I've always dreamed of a Mrs. Croknuff who would love fish....but I've never found one, and have remained a bachelor. Yes, my girl! That's what you see -- a bachelor! Drink this for me, my girl. I made it for my baby seal; it's very good.... How beautiful she is! How beautiful!!!"
Mr. Croknuff was beside himself. None of his friends would have recognised in this man whose speech and manners were wildly disordered, the illustrious scientist -- author of eight conscientious volumes on the habits of the lobster before dressing, of lengthy and patient studies on the habits of reef-building polyps, and numerous other scientific works -- as he knelt beside Mysora, sighing frantically and bathing the hands of the girl abandoned to his care with tender tears.
It must be acknowledged that although Mr. Croknuff no longer had any hair or teeth, he still had a heart -- and that heart had quickened its beat for the very first time! Mr. Croknuff firmly believed that he had committed himself entirely to pisciculture -- but here was his heart in sudden rebellion, up-ending everything in its way, laying down the law to its former master, Mr. Croknuff's brain.
It was all over! Mr. Croknuff could no longer contain himself.
"Angel!" he said to Mysora -- for he was already thinking of her as an angel, and addressed her thus. "Angel! I love you, and I offer you my hand and my aquarium! Accept them! You love fish; I love them too! I love you; you shall love me; we shall love one another, here! Give me your answer, angel!"
[B&W Illustration p. 77: "-- O ange! dit-il à Mysora" = "'O Angel!' said he to Mysora"]
Mysora, coming round, had opened her eyes; at first she understood nothing of what Mr. Croknuff said, taking him for an aged doctor -- then, confronted by the scientist's fervent pantomime, she began to wonder whether she had miraculously escaped one great peril only to fall into another no less terrible.
Poor Mysora pushed Mr. Croknuff away and stood up, her face pale, her hair in disarray and her expression distraught.
"What do you want from me?" she cried, in Malay. "Do you know that I'm the daughter of the Rajah of Timor, and the bride-to-be of Saturnin Farandoul, captain of La Belle Léocadie. Beware the vengeance of my father, or that -- more terrible still -- of my beloved Farandoul!"
Mr. Croknuff had grasped nothing from this speech except for one thing: Mysora was angry. Mr. Croknuff's rejuvenated heart ached at that sad thought, and its proprietor grovelled desperately at the feet of the incensed young woman. "Pardon me, sweet dove! I would give my whale, and my aquarium with it, no
