Off on a Comet Book 1 Chapter 1

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Off on a Comet by Jules Verne. Book 1 Chapter 1 A Challenge.
Nothing, Sir, can induce me to surrender my claim. I am sorry, Count, but in such a matter your views cannot modify mine. But allow me to point out that my seniority unquestionably gives me a prior right. Mere seniority, I assert, in an affair of this kind, cannot possibly entitle you to any prior claim whatever. Then, Captain, no alternative is left, but for me to compel you to yield at the sword's point. As you please, Count, but neither sword nor pistol can force me to forego my pretensions. Here is my card. And mine. This rapid altercation was thus brought to an end by the formal interchange of the names of the disputants. On one card was inscribed, Captain Hector Servadac, Staff Officer, Mostagenham. On the other was the title, Count Wassily Timascheff, on board the schooner Dobrina.
It did not take long to arrange that second should be appointed, who would meet in Mostagenham at two o'clock that day, and the Captain and the Count were on the point of parting from each other with a salute of punctuality as courtesy. When Timascheff, as if struck by a sudden thought, said abruptly, Perhaps it would be better, Captain, not to allow the real cause of this to transpire. Far better, replied Servadac. It is undesirable in every way for any names to be mentioned. In that case, however, continued the Count, it will be necessary to assign inonstensible pretext of some kind. Shall we allege a musical dispute? A contention in which I feel bound to defend Wagner, while you were the zealous champion of Rossini? I am quite content, answered Servadac, with a smile and with another low bow they parted.
The scene, as here depicted, took place upon the extremity of a little cape on the Algerian coast, between Mostaganim and Tennis, about two miles from the mouth of the Shalef. The headland rose more than 60 feet above the sea level, and the azure waves of the Mediterranean, as they softly kissed the strand, were tinged with the reddish hue of the ferrous rocks that formed its base. It was the 31st of December. The noontide sun, which usually illuminated the various projections of the coast with the dazzling brightness, was hidden by a dense mass of cloud, and the fog, which, for some uncountable cause, had hung for the last two months over nearly every region in the world, causing serious interruption to traffic between continent and continent, spread its dreary veil across land and sea.
After taking leave of the staff officer, Count Wassily Timascheff wended his way down a small creek, and took his seat in the stern of a light four oar that had been awaiting his return. This was immediately pushed off from shore, and was soon alongside a pleasure yacht that was lying to not many cable lengths away.
At a sign from Servadac, an orderly, who had been standing at a respectful distance, led forward in a magnificent Arabian horse. The captain vaulted into the saddle, and followed by his attendant, well-mounted as himself, started off towards Mostaganim. It was half past twelve when the two riders crossed the bridge that had been recently erected over the Shelf, and a quarter of an hour later, their steeds, flecked with foam, dashed through the Mascara Gate, which was one of five entrances that opened the embattled wall that circled the town.
At that date, Mostaganim contained about fifteen thousand inhabitants, three thousand of whom were French. Besides being one of the principal district towns of the province of Oran, it was also a military station. Mostaganim rejoiced in a well-sheltered harbor, which enabled her to utilize all the rich products of the Minna and the Lower Shelf. It was the existence of Sogoda Harbor amidst the exposed cliffs of this coast that had induced the owner of the Dobryna to winter in these parts, and for two months the Russian standard had been seen floating from her yard, whilst on her masthead was hoisted the pennant of the French Yacht Club with the distinctive letters MCWT, the initials of Count Timascheff.
Having entered the town, Captain Servadac made his way towards Matmore, the military quarter, and was not long in finding two friends on whom he might rely, a Major of the Second Fossiliers, and a Captain of the Eighth Artillery. The two officers listened gravely enough to Servadac's request that they would act as his second in an affair of honor, but could not resist a smile on hearing that the dispute between him and the Count had originated in a musical discussion. Surely, they suggested, the matter might be easily arranged, a few slight concessions on each side, and all might be amicably adjusted, but no representations of their part were of any avail. Hector Servadac was inflexible.