"Jules Verne. Off on a Comet. WORKS" - читать интересную книгу автора

suffused with a rosy glare. No well-defined fringe of light,
nor arch of luminous rays, betokened a display of aurora borealis,
even had such a phenomenon been possible in these latitudes;
and the most experienced meteorologist would have been puzzled
to explain the cause of this striking illumination on this 31st
of December, the last evening of the passing year.

But Captain Servadac was no meteorologist, and it is to be
doubted whether, since leaving school, he had ever opened his "Course
of Cosmography." Besides, he had other thoughts to occupy his mind.
The prospects of the morrow offered serious matter for consideration.
The captain was actuated by no personal animosity against the count;
though rivals, the two men regarded each other with sincere respect;
they had simply reached a crisis in which one of them was _de trop;_
which of them, fate must decide.

At eight o'clock, Captain Servadac re-entered the gourbi, the single
apartment of which contained his bed, a small writing-table, and some
trunks that served instead of cupboards. The orderly performed his
culinary operations in the adjoining building, which he also used as a
bed-room, and where, extended on what he called his "good oak mattress,"
he would sleep soundly as a dormouse for twelve hours at a stretch.
Ben Zoof had not yet received his orders to retire, and ensconcing
himself in a corner of the gourbi, he endeavored to doze--a task
which the unusual agitation of his master rendered somewhat difficult.
Captain Servadac was evidently in no hurry to betake himself to rest,
but seating himself at his table, with a pair of compasses and a sheet
of tracing-paper, he began to draw, with red and blue crayons,
a variety of colored lines, which could hardly be supposed to have
much connection with a topographical survey. In truth, his character
of staff-officer was now entirely absorbed in that of Gascon poet.
Whether he imagined that the compasses would bestow upon his verses
the measure of a mathematical accuracy, or whether he fancied
that the parti-colored lines would lend variety to his rhythm,
it is impossible to determine; be that as it may, he was devoting
all his energies to the compilation of his rondo, and supremely
difficult he found the task.

"Hang it!" he ejaculated, "whatever induced me to choose this meter?
It is as hard to find rhymes as to rally fugitive in a battle.
But, by all the powers! it shan't be said that a French officer
cannot cope with a piece of poetry. One battalion has fought--
now for the rest!"

Perseverance had its reward. Presently two lines, one red, the other blue,
appeared upon the paper, and the captain murmured:
"Words, mere words, cannot avail,
Telling true heart's tender tale."

"What on earth ails my master?" muttered Ben Zoof; "for the last hour he has