“At—in—in—ille,” shouted the station master with his hand curved round his mouth.
“Where are we?” called I in my most crystalline accents.
“At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master—and his porters.
It was impossible to find out anything. We had to lower the balloon. At first we descended rather too quickly and the wind blew us toward the wood. We had to mount again. But ten minutes later we opened the valve again and made a fresh descent. The balloon was then to the right of the station, and far from the amiable station master.
“Throw out the anchor!” cried in a commanding tone young Godard. And helped by Georges Clairin he threw out into space another rope, to the end of which was fastened a formidable anchor. The rope was 80 meters long.
Down below us a crowd of children of all ages had been running ever since we stopped above the station. When we got to about 300 yards from the earth, Godard called out to them: “Where are we?”
“At Vachère!”
None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless.
“Alloa! You down below there—take hold of the guide rope,” cried the aëronaut, “and mind you don’t pull too hard!” Five vigorous men seized hold of the rope. We were 130 meters from the ground, and the spectacle became interesting. The night began to blot out everything. I raised my head to see the sky, but I remained with my mouth open with astonishment. I saw only the lower end of our balloon, which was overhanging its base all loose and baggy. It was very ugly.
We anchored gently, without the little dragging which I hoped would happen, and without the little drama which I had half expected.