Munbar,” replied Yvernès, “take care not to excite our curiosity too much. It is as if you were singing one of those musical phrases which make you long for the key-note.”

“And the result is that they tire your ear,” added Zorn. “Has the moment come when you will consent to tell us the name of this extraordinary town?”

“Not yet, my dear guests,” replied the American, adjusting his gold eyeglasses on his nasal appendage. “Wait until we have finished our walk—let us go on now.”

“Before going on,” said Frascolin, who felt a sort of vague uneasiness mingling with his curiosity, “I have a proposition to make.”

“And what is that?”

“Why not ascend the spire of St. Mary’s church? From there we could see—”

“Oh, no,” said Munbar, shaking his bushy head, “not now, later on.”

“And when?” asked the violoncellist, getting provoked at so many evasions.

“At the end of our excursion, Monsieur Zorn.”

“Then we shall return to this church?”

“No, my friends, our walk will end with a visit to the observatory, the tower of which is a third higher than the spire of St. Mary’s church.”

“But why not take advantage of this opportunity?” asked Frascolin.

“Because it would spoil the effect I have in view.”

And there was no means of extracting any further reply from this enigmatic personage.

The best thing being to submit, the various avenues of this part of the town were conscientiously explored. A visit was paid to the commercial quarters, those of the tailors, boot-makers, hatters, butchers, grocers, bakers, fruiterers, &c. Calistus Munbar, saluted by most of the people he met, returned the salutes with vainglorious satisfaction. He talked incessantly, this exhibitor of wonders, and the rattle of his tongue was like the ringing of a bell on a feast day.

In about two hours the quartette had arrived at the boundary of the town, which was marked by a superb iron railing, adorned with flowers and climbing plants. Beyond was the country, the circular line of which blended with the horizon of the sky.

And here Frascolin noticed something which he did not think it his duty to communicate to his comrades. Everything would doubtless be explained from the summit of the observatory tower. What he noticed was that the sun, instead of being in the south-west at two o’clock, was in the south-east.

This was something to astonish a mind as reflective as that of Frascolin, and he had begun to rack his brains when Calistus Munbar changed the course of his ideas by exclaiming, —

“Gentlemen, the tram starts in a few minutes. Let us be off to the harbour.”

“The harbour?” asked Zorn.

“Yes, it is only about a mile—and that will enable you to admire our park?”

The harbour, if it existed, ought to be a little below or a little above this town on the coast of Lower California. In truth, where could it be if it were not on some point of the coast?

The artistes, rather perplexed, sat down on the seats of an elegant car, in which were several other passengers, all of whom shook hands with Munbar, who seemed to know everybody, and then the dynamos of the train began to drive them along. That which Munbar called a park was the country extending round the city. There were paths running out of sight, and verdant lawns, and painted barriers, straight and zigzagged, known as fences, around preserves, and clumps of trees—oaks, maples, ashes, chestnuts, nettle-trees, elms, cedars—all of them young, but the haunts of a world of birds of a thousand species. It was a regular English garden, with leaping fountains, baskets of flowers then in all the abundance of spring, masses of shrubs of the most diversified species, giant geraniums like those of Monte Carlo, orange trees, lemon trees, olive trees, oleanders, lentisks, aloes, camellias, dahlias, roses of Alexandria with their white flowers, hortensias, white and pink lotuses, South American passion-flowers, rich collections of fuchsias, salvias, begonias, hyacinths, tulips, crocuses, narcissi, anemones, Persian ranunculi, bearded irises, cyclamens, orchids, calceolarias, tree ferns, and also species characteristic of the tropics, such as cannas, palms, date trees, fig trees, eucalypti, mimosas, banana trees, guava trees, calabash trees, cocoanut trees; in a word, all that a connoisseur could ask for in the richest botanic garden.

With his propensity for evoking the memories of ancient poetry, Yvernès thought he was transported to the bucolic landscapes of the romance of Astrea. It is true if sheep were not wanting in these fresh pastures, if ruddy cows grazed between the fences, if deer and other elegant quadrupeds of the forest fauna bounded among the trees, it was the absence of the shepherds of D’Urfé and their charming shepherdesses which they had to regret. As to the Lignon, it was represented by a serpentine river, whose vivifying waters followed the valleys of the landscape.

But at the same time it all seemed artificial.

This provoked the ironical Pinchinat to exclaim, —

“Ah! is that all you have in the shape of a river?”

And Calistus Munbar to reply, —

“Rivers? What is the good of them?”

“To have water, of course.”

“Water! That is to say, a substance generally unhealthy, microbian, and typhoic?”

“Yes, but it can be purified.”

“And why give yourself that trouble when it is easy to make a water pure, hygienic, free from all impurity, and even gaseous or ferruginous, if. you please.”

“You manufacture this water?” asked Frascolin.

“Certainly, and we distribute it hot or cold to the houses as we distribute light, sound, the time, heat, cold, power, the antiseptic agents, electrization by auto-conduction.”

“Allow me,” said Yvernès, “to believe that you also make the rain for watering your lawns and flowers.”

“And so we do, sir,” said the American, making the jewels on his fingers sparkle across the flowing masses of his hand.

“Do you have your rain on tap?” exclaimed Sebastien Zorn.

“Yes, my dear friends, rain which the conduits arranged underground distribute in a way that is regular, controllable, opportune, and practical. Is not that better than waiting for nature’s good pleasure, and submitting to the climate’s caprices, better than complaining against excesses without the power of remedying them, sometimes a too persistent humidity, sometimes too long a drought?”

“I have you there, Mr. Munbar,” declared Frascolin. “That you can produce your rain at will may be all very well, but how do you prevent it falling from the sky?”

“The sky? What has that got to do with it?”

“The sky, or, if you prefer it, the clouds which break, the atmospheric currents with their accompaniment of cyclones, tornadoes, storms, squalls, hurricanes. During the bad season, for example.”

“The bad season?” repeated Calistus Munbar.

“Yes; the winter.”

“The winter? What do you mean by that?”

“We said winter—hail, snow, ice!”  exclaimed Zorn, enraged at the Yankee’s ironical replies.

“We know them not!” was Munbar’s tranquil reply.

The four Parisians looked at one another. Were they in the presence of a madman or a mystificator? In the first case he ought to be shut up; in the second he ought to be taken down.

Meanwhile the tramcar continued its somewhat leisurely journey through these enchanting gardens. To Zorn and his companions it seemed as though beyond the limits of this immense park were pieces of ground, methodically cultivated, displaying their different colours like the patterns of cloth formerly shown at tailors’ doors. These were, no doubt, fields of vegetables, potatoes, cabbages, carrots, turnips, leeks, in fact, everything required for the composition of a perfect pot-au-feu. At the same time, they would have been glad to get out into the open country to discover what this singular region produced in corn, oats, maize, barley, rye, buckwheat, and other cereals.

But here a factory appeared, its iron chimneys rising from its low, rough glass roofs. These chimneys, strengthened by iron stays, resembled those of a steamer under way, of a Great Eastern whose hundred thousand horses were driving her powerful screws, with this difference, that instead of black smoke they were only emitting mere threads which in no way injured the atmosphere.

This factory covered about ten thousand square yards. It was the first industrial establishment the quartette had seen since they had started on their excursion, under the American’s guidance.

“And what is that establishment?” asked Pinchinat.

“It is a factory worked with petroleum,” replied Munbar, looking as though his eyes would perforate his glasses.

“And what does this factory manufacture?”

“Electrical energy, which is distributed through the town, the park, the country, in producing motive force and light. At the same time, it keeps going our telegraphs, telautographs, telephones, telephotes, bells, cooking stoves, machinery, arc lights, incandescent lights, aluminium moons, and submarine cables.”

“Your submarine cables?” observed Frascolin, sharply.

“Yes, those that connect the town with the different points of the American coast.”

“And is it necessary to have a factory of such size for that purpose?”

“I think so, considering what we do with our electrical energy, and also our mental energy!” replied Munbar. “Believe me, gentlemen, it required a pretty strong dose to found this incomparable city without a rival in the world!”

They could hear the dull rumbling of the huge factory, the vigorous belchings of the steam, the clanking of the machines, the thuds on the ground, bearing witness to a mechanical effort greater than any in modern industry. Who could have imagined that such power was necessary to move dynamos or charge accumulators?

The tram passed, and a quarter of a mile further on stopped at the harbour.

The travellers alighted, and their guide, still profuse in his praises of everything, took them along the quays by the warehouses and docks.