A Winter Amid the Ice, and Other Thrilling Stories

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 curè,” said he, “stop a moment, if you please” André Vasling, the mate, apprised Jean Cornbutte of the dreadful event A soft voice said in his ear, “Have good courage, uncle” André 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 curè 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 mediæval roof, like that at Tournay. An old château 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.