"That is all very well, friend Michel," said he, "but will you
inform us where these chickens came from which have mixed
themselves up in our concert?"
"Those chickens?"
"Yes."
Indeed, half a dozen chickens and a fine cock were walking
about, flapping their wings and chattering.
"Ah, the awkward things!" exclaimed Michel. "The oxygen has
made them revolt."
"But what do you want to do with these chickens?" asked Barbicane.
"To acclimatize them in the moon, by Jove!"
"Then why did you hide them?"
"A joke, my worthy president, a simple joke, which has proved a
miserable failure. I wanted to set them free on the lunar
continent, without saying anything. Oh, what would have been
your amazement on seeing these earthly-winged animals pecking in
your lunar fields!"
"You rascal, you unmitigated rascal," replied Barbicane, "you do
not want oxygen to mount to the head. You are always what we
were under the influence of the gas; you are always foolish!"
"Ah, who says that we were not wise then?" replied Michel Ardan.
After this philosophical reflection, the three friends set about
restoring the order of the projectile. Chickens and cock were
reinstated in their coop. But while proceeding with this
operation, Barbicane and his two companions had a most desired
perception of a new phenomenon. From the moment of leaving the
earth, their own weight, that of the projectile, and the objects
it enclosed, had been subject to an increasing diminution. If they
could not prove this loss of the projectile, a moment would arrive
when it would be sensibly felt upon themselves and the utensils
and instruments they used.
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