“Ah, you should go ballooning!” one cries enthusiastically, “to be ‘en ballon’—so poetic—so fin de siècle! It is a fantaisie charmante!”
In a balloon one forgets the world—one is no longer a part of it—no longer mortal. What romance there is in going up above everything with the woman one loves—comrades in danger—the ropes—the wicker cage—the ceiling of stars above one and Paris below no bigger than a gridiron! Paris! lost for the time from one’s memory. How chic to shoot straight up among the drifting clouds and forget the sordid little world, even the memory of one’s intrigues!
“Enfin seuls,” they say to each other, as the big Frenchman and the chic Parisienne countess peer down over the edge of the basket, sipping a little chartreuse from the same traveling cup; she, with the black hair and white skin, and gowned “en ballon” in a costume by Paillard; he in his peajacket buttoned close under his heavy beard. They seem to brush through and against the clouds! A gentle breath from heaven makes the basket decline a little and the ropes creak against the hardwood clinch blocks. It grows colder, and he wraps her closer in his own coat.
“Courage, my child,” he says; “see, we have gone a great distance; to-morrow before sundown we shall descend in Belgium.”
“Horrible!” cries the Countess; “I do not like those Belgians.”
“Ah! but you shall see, Thérèse, one shall go where one pleases soon; we are patient, we aeronauts; we shall bring credit to La Belle France; we have courage and perseverance; we shall give many dinners and weep over the failures of our brave comrades, to make the dirigible balloon ‘pratique.’ We shall succeed! Then Voilà! our déjeuner in Paris and our dinner where we will.”
Thérèse taps her polished nails against the edge of the wicker cage and hums a little chansonette.
“Je t’aime”—she murmurs.
I did not see this myself, and I do not know the fair Thérèse or the gentleman who buttons his coat under his whiskers; but you should have heard one of these ballooning enthusiasts tell it to me in the Taverne du Panthéon the other night. His only regret seemed to be that he, too, could not have a dirigible balloon and a countess—on ten francs a week!