This was the only precaution taken in despatching balloons, which were left literally to the mercy of the winds. Our party had not even a compass to indicate the direction we were taking, as if the winds always remained the same and never changed, and as if it were sufficient to know its direction at departure in order also to know where we should arrive.
Our departure was accordingly preceded by a “ballon d’essai,” which was let up in order to explore the air and show the direction of the wind. The direction was a good one, and the wind propitious—obstrictis aliis, praeter Iapiga.—The wind showed itself from the east, and the little pioneer balloon went off gaily, promptly to disappear over the western horizon. Then came a solemn voice: “Messieurs les voyageurs en ballon!” I shall never forget that voice; I can hear it in my ears to-day.
Messieurs les voyageurs, en ballon! A quick, last goodbye to one’s friends, then up the little rope ladder which leads to the basket and a last look back. A last handshake, and here we are, seated in our aerial craft, bound for an unknown destination.
The unknown always contains an element of the fearsome, and without being exactly anxious as regards the physical dangers of our journey, we had a certain feeling of solemnity when the basket left the earth. There were three passengers—M. Cassier, the Director of the French pigeon-post—who had brought a number of his faithful messengers with him; a sailor, who acted as an improvised aeronaut; and myself.
We all made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the little wicker seats which were fitted inside the basket. There were two of these, facing each other, and on each there was room for two persons. Piled up at our feet at the bottom of the basket were the sacks of depêches and letters, and the ballast. The anchor was firmly fastened to the side of the basket, fastened even too firmly, and altogether too heavy to be of use in case of accidents.
The whole thing might have weighed about a ton. As soon as we were seated, the balloon began to tack about. Our departure was not effected without difficulty. The balloon had to be guided so as to leave it a free passage, in order that in its ascent it should not encounter and demolish the roofs of the houses surrounding the open space of the Gare d’Orleans. This was not an easy operation; it required time and a certain amount of skill on the part of those who were holding on to the balloon and watching its ascent, and who were only supposed to let it entirely free when the basket had passed the tops of the houses. These complicated manœuvres were long and gave us time to look around us and think....
Suddenly we heard the sacramental words, “Let go.” The moment had arrived.
All hands simultaneously let go of the ropes and quickly cut the moorings. The balloon was free, and mounted swiftly, turning round its axis, great and majestic as an eagle in flight. “Bon voyage, bold travellers, bon voyage!” shouted the crowd, and everybody waved their hands, handkerchiefs, and hats. There were even flags floating gaily in the breeze. It was a touching thing to see all these arms held out to us, and sending us a last goodbye from the beloved earth which we were leaving.
It was a very short moment and passed like a flash. The balloon turned on itself with dizzy swiftness. It went up, and up, and up, always turning.
The Gare d’Orleans, the streets of Paris with their houses, the monuments, the last lines of the city, the circle of fortifications, the countryside with its fortresses, all appeared and disappeared with maddening rapidity. The eye no longer saw and the intelligence ceased in stupefaction, paralysed by this mad, gigantic dance, without purpose and without end.