Sarah seized Georges Clairin by the arm. “And you, Georges—will you come into the clouds with me, too?”
“He would be a poor poet who would not follow an angel into her natural element!” answered Clairin, kissing her.
Everyone present was sworn to strict secrecy, and the next morning, at seven o’clock, we trooped out to the space just outside the city gates where Giffard’s balloon was in readiness. He had been there since dawn, making his preparations, and when we arrived everything was ready.
Sarah, as she started to climb into the balloon, turned and saw me crying.
“What is the matter, ma petite Thérèse?” she asked, putting her arms around me. I said that I wanted to go, too.
“There is no room,” said Giffard. “You shall make an ascent with me another time.”
“But I want to go with Sarah!” I wailed.
Everyone laughed, and Gustave Doré, the illustrator, caught me up in his arms. “But, ma chérie,” he remonstrated, “suppose the balloon falls and you are all killed?”
“I would not care, so long as I was with my Sarah!” I replied stoutly.
There was a roar of laughter, and then Sarah was hoisted into the basket by Clairin and Giffard, both of whom mounted after her. There was a shout of “Cast off,” and the next thing I knew the balloon was hundreds of feet above us, the three in the basket shrilling some indistinguishable words of farewell.