We each drew out of our pockets the provisions we had brought, and these provisions were by no means extravagant. At this period Paris was already under rations as far as meat was concerned, and if my memory serves me aright, I think that everyone in Paris had at that time the right to four ounces of beef, whose only connection with that succulent comestible was its name, given it under false pretences and in order to deceive the palates of the Parisians.
But if our repast was modest and meagre, the wine which washed it down was excellent and our appetites were first-rate.... Moreover, the view from the balcony of our dining-room was enough to make us forget the frugality of our repast and transform the simplest menu into a feast. When we had finished eating and drinking we sent a telegram to M. Jules Favre.
A telegram from a balloon? Yes, a real telegram.
You have not forgotten that M. Cassier, Director of the French Pigeon Post, was with me, and that he had brought a score of pigeons with him. One of these graceful birds was charged with a message for M. Jules Favre. I had promised to inform him as well as I could of the events of our journey. The most hazardous part seemed to me to be already accomplished.
This was far from being the case, as will be seen later, but that is what I thought at the moment. We had been crossing the enemy’s lines for a considerable time and our balloon had not ceased moving with very great and noticeable rapidity and without changing its direction. We therefore had reason to suppose that we were not far from those western latitudes where we were to descend. This was the sense of my message. I added a few notes on the regions we had traversed and the different altitudes to which we had attained—for it is interesting to remark that our balloon, without apparent reason, often rose to a height of two thousand yards or more, and afterwards, again without reason, fell to one hundred and fifty yards and less.
When I had finished my note, I rolled up tightly the square of paper on which it had been written and tied it up. M. Cassier concealed the little roll under the pigeon’s wings by skilfully attaching it to the upper part of one of the bird’s legs. And then “Bon voyage for Paris!”
It was curious to see the departure of our messenger. The little bird seemed to share our own uncertainty as to the direction we were taking and did not appear to know its bearings. But its embarrassment did not last as long as ours: once it had left the balloon it flew two or three times round it, always coming back on its traces as if to find out where it was and seeking its route, and sheltering itself near us as long as it felt uncertain. But suddenly it lifted its delicate little head, gave a cry of joy, and flew off like an arrow in a straight line, without deviating or looking to the left or right. It had found its way and was going straight back to its nest in Paris.