The lovers of Jules Verne here find their author spinning a tale in a lighter vein. It seems to us that our favorite author has deliberately drawn out the story in order to make the denouement, if you have not guessed it by that time, more striking. There is, of course, excellent science in this story, and if any one should go to the trouble of repeating Dr. Ox’s experiment on the vast scale shown here, the results would probably be just as depicted by our famous author.
It is a charming tale, and Verne chose, for good reason, a small town in Flanders, because the Dutch and Flemish people are notorious for their supposed sleepiness.
CHAPTER I.
How It Is Useless to Seek, Even On the Best Maps, For the Small Town of Quiquendone
f 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 kilometers northwest of Oudenarde, and fifteen and a quarter kilometers southeast of Bruges, in the heart of Flanders. The Vaar, a small tributary of the Scheldt, passes beneath its three bridges, each of which is still covered with a quaint medieaval roof, like that at Tournay. An old chateau is to be seen there, the first stone of which was laid as 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 surmounted 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 surpases that of the famous chimes of Bruges. Strangers—if ever any come to Quiquendone—do not quit the curious old town until they have visited its "Stadholder’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 Matsys; 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 phenomena as incredible as they are true, which are to be recounted in the present narration.
The Placid Flemings of Flanders
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 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 Counselor Niklausse Consult About the Affairs of the Town.
"You think so?" asked the burgomaster.
"I—think so," replied the counselor, 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 Counselor 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 counselor 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 counselor 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.
