At twenty minutes to seven we were about 2,500 yards above the earth, and cold and hunger commenced to make themselves felt.
The dinner was copious—we had foie gras—fresh bread and oranges. The cork of our champagne bottle flew up into the clouds with a pretty, soft noise. We raised our glasses in honor of M. Giffard.
We had talked a great deal. Night began to put on her heavy dark mantle. It became very cold. We were then at 2,600 meters and I had a singing in my ears. My nose began to bleed. I felt very uncomfortable and began to feel drowsy without being able to prevent it. Georges Clairin got anxious and young Godard cried out loudly—to wake me up, no doubt—“Alloa! Alloa! we shall have to go down. Let us throw out the guide rope!” This cry woke me up properly. I wanted to know what was the guide rope. I got up feeling rather stupefied, and in order to rouse me Godard put the guide rope into my hands. It was a strong rope, about 130 meters long, to which were attached at certain distances little iron hooks. Clairin and I let out the rope, laughing, while Godard bending over the side of the car was looking through a field glass.
“Stop!” cried he suddenly. “There are a lot of trees!”
In fact, we were over the wood of Ferrières. But just in front of us there was a little open ground suitable for our descent.
“There is no doubt about it,” cried Godard, “if we miss this plain we shall come down in the black night in the wood of Ferrières, and that would be very dangerous!” Then, turning to me, “Will you,” he said, “open the valve?”
I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison, whistling a mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the aëronaut, and we descended rapidly. Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by the sound of a horn. I trembled. It was Louis Godard, who had pulled out of his pocket, which was a veritable storehouse, a sort of horn, on which he blew with violence. A loud whistle answered our call, and 500 meters below us we saw a man who was shouting his hardest to make us hear. As we were very close to a little station we easily guessed that this man was the station master.
“Where are we?” cried Louis Godard, with his horn.
“At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master. It was impossible to understand.
“Where are we?” thundered Georges Clairin in his most formidable tones.