



Produced by Alan Winterrowd from a text scanned and made
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A Winter Amid the Ice and Other Thrilling Stories

By Jules Verne

Published by:
The World Publishing House
New Yowk, 1877



Contents


DOCTOR OX'S EXPERIMENT


CHAPTER I.

How it is useless to seek, even on the best maps, for the small
town of Quiquendone

CHAPTER II.

In which the Burgomaster Van Tricasse and the Counsellor
Niklausse consult about the affairs of the town

CHAPTER III.

In which the Commissary Passauf enters as noisily as unexpectedly

CHAPTER IV.

In which Doctor Ox reveals himself as a physiologist of the first
rank, and as an audacious experimentalist

CHAPTER V.

In which the burgomaster and the counsellor pay a visit to Doctor
Ox, and what follows

CHAPTER VI.

In which Frantz Niklausse and Suzel Van Tricasse form certain
projects for the future

CHAPTER VII.

In which the Andantes become Allegros, and the Allegros Vivaces

CHAPTER VIII.

In which the ancient and solemn German waltz becomes a whirlwind

CHAPTER IX.

In which Doctor Ox and Ygene, his assistant, say a few words

CHAPTER X.

In which it will be seen that the epidemic invades the entire
town, and what effect it produces

CHAPTER XI.

In which the Quiquendonians adopt a heroic resolution

CHAPTER XII.

In which Ygene, the assistant, gives a reasonable piece of
advice, which is eagerly rejected by Doctor Ox

CHAPTER XIII.

In which it is once more proved that by taking high ground all
human littlenesses may be overlooked

CHAPTER XIV.

In which matters go so far that the inhabitants of Quiquendone,
the reader, and even the author, demand an immediate denouement

CHAPTER XV.

In which the denouement takes place

CHAPTER XVI.

In which the intelligent reader sees that he has guessed
correctly, despite all the author's precautions

CHAPTER XVII.

In which Doctor Ox's theory is explained




MASTER ZACHARIUS.


CHAPTER I.

A winter night

CHAPTER II.

The pride of science

CHAPTER III.

A strange visit

CHAPTER IV.

The Church of St. Pierre

CHAPTER V.

The hour of death




A DRAMA IN THE AIR




A WINTER AMID THE ICE


CHAPTER I.

The black flag

CHAPTER II.

Jean Cornbutte's project

CHAPTER III.

A ray of hope

CHAPTER IV.

In the passes

CHAPTER V.

Liverpool Island

CHAPTER VI.

The quaking of the ice

CHAPTER VII.

Settling for the winter

CHAPTER VIII.

Plan of the explorations

CHAPTER IX.

The house of snow

CHAPTER X.

Buried alive

CHAPTER XI.

A cloud of smoke

CHAPTER XII.

The return to the ship

CHAPTER XIII.

The two rivals

CHAPTER XIV.

Distress

CHAPTER XV.

The white bears

CHAPTER XVI.

Conclusion




ASCENT OF MONT BLANC




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


She handed her father a pipe

The worthy Madame Brigitte Van Tricasse had now her second
husband

"I have just come from Dr. Ox's"

"It is in the interests of science"

"The workmen, whom we have had to choose in Quiquendone, are not
very expeditious"

The young girl took the line

"Good-bye, Frantz," said Suzel

Fiovaranti had been achieving a brilliant success in "Les
Huguenots"

They hustle each other to get out

It was no longer a waltz

It required two persons to eat a strawberry

"To Virgamen! to Virgamen!"

"A burgomaster's place is in the front rank"

The two friends, arm in arm

The whole army of Quiquendone fell to the earth

He would raise the trap-door constructed in the floor of his
workshop

The young girl prayed

"Thou wilt see that I have discovered the secrets of existence".

"Father, what is the matter?"

Then he resumed, in an ironical tone

From morning till night discontented purchasers besieged the
house

This proud old man remained motionless

"It is there--there!"

"See this man,--he is Time"

He was dead

"Monsieur, I salute you"

"Monsieur!" cried I, in a rage

"He continued his observations for seven or eight hours with
General Morlot"

"The balloon became less and less inflated"

"Zambecarri fell, and was killed!"

The madman disappeared in space

"Monsieur the cure," said he, "stop a moment, if you please"

Andre Vasling, the mate, apprised Jean Cornbutte of the dreadful
event

A soft voice said in his ear, "Have good courage, uncle"

Andre Vasling showed himself more attentive than ever

On the 12th September the sea consisted of one solid plain

They found themselves in a most perilous position, for an
icequake had occurred

Map in hand, he clearly explained their situation

The caravan set out

"Thirty-two degrees below zero!"

Despair and determination were struggling in his rough features
for the mastery

It was Louis Cornbutte

Penellan advanced towards the Norwegians

Marie begged Vasling on her knees to produce the lemons, but he
did not reply

Marie rose with cries of despair, and hurried to the bed of old
Jean Cornbutte

The bear, having descended from the mast, had fallen on the two
men

The old cure received Louis Cornbutte and Marie

View of Mont Blanc from the Brevent

View of Bossons glacier, near the Grands-Mulets

Passage of the Bossons Glacier

Crevasse and bridge

View of the "Seracs"

View of "Seracs"

Passage of the "Junction"

Hut at the Grands-Mulets

View of Mont Blanc from Grands-Mulets

Crossing the plateau

Summit of Mont Blanc

Grands-Mulets:--Party descending from the hut




DOCTOR OX'S EXPERIMENT.





CHAPTER I.

HOW IT IS USELESS TO SEEK, EVEN ON THE BEST MAPS, FOR THE SMALL TOWN
OF QUIQUENDONE.


If you try to find, on any map of Flanders, ancient or modern,
the small town of Quiquendone, probably you will not succeed. Is
Quiquendone, then, one of those towns which have disappeared? No.
A town of the future? By no means. It exists in spite of
geographies, and has done so for some eight or nine hundred
years. It even numbers two thousand three hundred and ninety-three
souls, allowing one soul to each inhabitant. It is situated
thirteen and a half kilometres north-west of Oudenarde, and
fifteen and a quarter kilometres south-east of Bruges, in the
heart of Flanders. The Vaar, a small tributary of the Scheldt,
passes beneath its three bridges, which are still covered with a
quaint mediaeval roof, like that at Tournay. An old chateau is to
be seen there, the first stone of which was laid so long ago as
1197, by Count Baldwin, afterwards Emperor of Constantinople; and
there is a Town Hall, with Gothic windows, crowned by a chaplet
of battlements, and surrounded by a turreted belfry, which rises
three hundred and fifty-seven feet above the soil. Every hour you
may hear there a chime of five octaves, a veritable aerial piano,
the renown of which surpasses that of the famous chimes of
Bruges. Strangers--if any ever come to Quiquendone--do not quit
the curious old town until they have visited its "Stadtholder's
Hall", adorned by a full-length portrait of William of Nassau, by
Brandon; the loft of the Church of Saint Magloire, a masterpiece
of sixteenth century architecture; the cast-iron well in the
spacious Place Saint Ernuph, the admirable ornamentation of which
is attributed to the artist-blacksmith, Quentin Metsys; the tomb
formerly erected to Mary of Burgundy, daughter of Charles the
Bold, who now reposes in the Church of Notre Dame at Bruges; and
so on. The principal industry of Quiquendone is the manufacture
of whipped creams and barley-sugar on a large scale. It has been
governed by the Van Tricasses, from father to son, for several
centuries. And yet Quiquendone is not on the map of Flanders!
Have the geographers forgotten it, or is it an intentional
omission? That I cannot tell; but Quiquendone really exists; with
its narrow streets, its fortified walls, its Spanish-looking
houses, its market, and its burgomaster--so much so, that it has
recently been the theatre of some surprising phenomena, as
extraordinary and incredible as they are true, which are to be
recounted in the present narration.

Surely there is nothing to be said or thought against the
Flemings of Western Flanders. They are a well-to-do folk, wise,
prudent, sociable, with even tempers, hospitable, perhaps a
little heavy in conversation as in mind; but this does not
explain why one of the most interesting towns of their district
has yet to appear on modern maps.

This omission is certainly to be regretted. If only history, or
in default of history the chronicles, or in default of chronicles
the traditions of the country, made mention of Quiquendone! But
no; neither atlases, guides, nor itineraries speak of it. M.
Joanne himself, that energetic hunter after small towns, says not
a word of it. It might be readily conceived that this silence
would injure the commerce, the industries, of the town. But let
us hasten to add that Quiquendone has neither industry nor
commerce, and that it does very well without them. Its barley-sugar
and whipped cream are consumed on the spot; none is exported. In
short, the Quiquendonians have no need of anybody. Their desires are
limited, their existence is a modest one; they are calm, moderate,
phlegmatic--in a word, they are Flemings; such as are still to be
met with sometimes between the Scheldt and the North Sea.




CHAPTER II.

IN WHICH THE BURGOMASTER VAN TRICASSE AND THE COUNSELLOR NIKLAUSSE
CONSULT ABOUT THE AFFAIRS OF THE TOWN.


"You think so?" asked the burgomaster.

"I--think so," replied the counsellor, after some minutes of
silence.

"You see, we must not act hastily," resumed the burgomaster.

"We have been talking over this grave matter for ten years,"
replied the Counsellor Niklausse, "and I confess to you, my
worthy Van Tricasse, that I cannot yet take it upon myself to
come to a decision."

"I quite understand your hesitation," said the burgomaster, who
did not speak until after a good quarter of an hour of reflection,
"I quite understand it, and I fully share it. We shall do wisely to
decide upon nothing without a more careful examination of the
question."

"It is certain," replied Niklausse, "that this post of civil
commissary is useless in so peaceful a town as Quiquendone."

"Our predecessor," said Van Tricasse gravely, "our predecessor
never said, never would have dared to say, that anything is
certain. Every affirmation is subject to awkward qualifications."

The counsellor nodded his head slowly in token of assent; then he
remained silent for nearly half an hour. After this lapse of
time, during which neither the counsellor nor the burgomaster
moved so much as a finger, Niklausse asked Van Tricasse whether
his predecessor--of some twenty years before--had not thought of
suppressing this office of civil commissary, which each year cost
the town of Quiquendone the sum of thirteen hundred and seventy-five
francs and some centimes.

"I believe he did," replied the burgomaster, carrying his hand
with majestic deliberation to his ample brow; "but the worthy man
died without having dared to make up his mind, either as to this
or any other administrative measure. He was a sage. Why should I
not do as he did?"

Counsellor Niklausse was incapable of originating any objection
to the burgomaster's opinion.

"The man who dies," added Van Tricasse solemnly, "without ever
having decided upon anything during his life, has very nearly
attained to perfection."

This said, the burgomaster pressed a bell with the end of his
little finger, which gave forth a muffled sound, which seemed
less a sound than a sigh. Presently some light steps glided
softly across the tile floor. A mouse would not have made less
noise, running over a thick carpet. The door of the room opened,
turning on its well-oiled hinges. A young girl, with long blonde
tresses, made her appearance. It was Suzel Van Tricasse, the
burgomaster's only daughter. She handed her father a pipe, filled
to the brim, and a small copper brazier, spoke not a word, and
disappeared at once, making no more noise at her exit than at her
entrance.

[Illustration: She handed her father a pipe]

The worthy burgomaster lighted his pipe, and was soon hidden in a
cloud of bluish smoke, leaving Counsellor Niklausse plunged in
the most absorbing thought.

The room in which these two notable personages, charged with the
government of Quiquendone, were talking, was a parlour richly
adorned with carvings in dark wood. A lofty fireplace, in which
an oak might have been burned or an ox roasted, occupied the
whole of one of the sides of the room; opposite to it was a
trellised window, the painted glass of which toned down the
brightness of the sunbeams. In an antique frame above the
chimney-piece appeared the portrait of some worthy man,
attributed to Memling, which no doubt represented an ancestor of
the Van Tricasses, whose authentic genealogy dates back to the
fourteenth century, the period when the Flemings and Guy de
Dampierre were engaged in wars with the Emperor Rudolph of
Hapsburgh.

This parlour was the principal apartment of the burgomaster's
house, which was one of the pleasantest in Quiquendone. Built in
the Flemish style, with all the abruptness, quaintness, and
picturesqueness of Pointed architecture, it was considered one of
the most curious monuments of the town. A Carthusian convent, or
a deaf and dumb asylum, was not more silent than this mansion.
Noise had no existence there; people did not walk, but glided
about in it; they did not speak, they murmured. There was not,
however, any lack of women in the house, which, in addition to
the burgomaster Van Tricasse himself, sheltered his wife, Madame
Brigitte Van Tricasse, his daughter, Suzel Van Tricasse, and his
domestic, Lotche Jansheu. We may also mention the burgomaster's
sister, Aunt Hermance, an elderly maiden who still bore the
nickname of Tatanemance, which her niece Suzel had given her when
a child. But in spite of all these elements of discord and noise,
the burgomaster's house was as calm as a desert.

The burgomaster was some fifty years old, neither fat nor lean,
neither short nor tall, neither rubicund nor pale, neither gay
nor sad, neither contented nor discontented, neither energetic
nor dull, neither proud nor humble, neither good nor bad, neither
generous nor miserly, neither courageous nor cowardly, neither
too much nor too little of anything--a man notably moderate in
all respects, whose invariable slowness of motion, slightly
hanging lower jaw, prominent eyebrows, massive forehead, smooth
as a copper plate and without a wrinkle, would at once have
betrayed to a physiognomist that the burgomaster Van Tricasse was
phlegm personified. Never, either from anger or passion, had any
emotion whatever hastened the beating of this man's heart, or
flushed his face; never had his pupils contracted under the
influence of any irritation, however ephemeral. He invariably
wore good clothes, neither too large nor too small, which he
never seemed to wear out. He was shod with large square shoes
with triple soles and silver buckles, which lasted so long that
his shoemaker was in despair. Upon his head he wore a large hat
which dated from the period when Flanders was separated from
Holland, so that this venerable masterpiece was at least forty
years old. But what would you have? It is the passions which wear
out body as well as soul, the clothes as well as the body; and
our worthy burgomaster, apathetic, indolent, indifferent, was
passionate in nothing. He wore nothing out, not even himself, and
he considered himself the very man to administer the affairs of
Quiquendone and its tranquil population.

The town, indeed, was not less calm than the Van Tricasse
mansion. It was in this peaceful dwelling that the burgomaster
reckoned on attaining the utmost limit of human existence, after
having, however, seen the good Madame Brigitte Van Tricasse, his
wife, precede him to the tomb, where, surely, she would not find
a more profound repose than that she had enjoyed on earth for
sixty years.

This demands explanation.

The Van Tricasse family might well call itself the "Jeannot
family." This is why:--

Every one knows that the knife of this typical personage is as
celebrated as its proprietor, and not less incapable of wearing
out, thanks to the double operation, incessantly repeated, of
replacing the handle when it is worn out, and the blade when it
becomes worthless. A precisely similar operation had been going
on from time immemorial in the Van Tricasse family, to which
Nature had lent herself with more than usual complacency. From
1340 it had invariably happened that a Van Tricasse, when left a
widower, had remarried a Van Tricasse younger than himself; who,
becoming in turn a widow, had married again a Van Tricasse
younger than herself; and so on, without a break in the
continuity, from generation to generation. Each died in his or
her turn with mechanical regularity. Thus the worthy Madame
Brigitte Van Tricasse had now her second husband; and, unless she
violated her every duty, would precede her spouse--he being ten
years younger than herself--to the other world, to make room for
a new Madame Van Tricasse. Upon this the burgomaster calmly
counted