“Thirty-seven degrees fifteen minutes longitude west of Paris, and 30° 7′ north lat., so we are 300 miles from the Japanese coasts. So to-day, the 8th November, and at mid-day, we commence our exploration under the sea.”
“May God preserve us!” I said.
“Now I must leave you to your studies,” said the captain. “I have told them to proceed north-east about fifty metres down. There are maps on which you can trace the course. The saloon is at your service, but I must ask your permission to retire.”
Captain Nemo saluted me, and withdrew. I remained absorbed in my reflections, which all turned to the commander. Should I never know to what nation this mysterious man belonged, who boasted that he was no longer of any? The hatred he had vowed against the human race, too, I wondered who had provoked that! Was he one of those misunderstood savants, a genius to whom all was bitterness—a modern Galileo—or even one of those scientific men like Commander Maury, whose career had been cut short by political revolutions? I could not then determine. He met me coolly, though he had taken me on board and treated me hospitably while my life was in his hands. But he had not accepted my extended hand, neither had he offered me his own.
For a whole hour I remained plunged in these reflections, seeking to pierce this mystery which interested me so deeply. Then my gaze became fixed upon the large map upon the table, and I placed my finger upon the very spot where the latitude and longitude lately arrived at, intersected.
