It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon.
The young owner of a neighboring château ran up, like the peasants, to see what was going on. He offered me his umbrella.
“Oh, I am so thin I cannot get wet! I pass between the drops.”
The word was repeated, and has become almost a proverb.
“What time is there a train?” asked Godard.
“Oh, you have plenty of time!” answered an oily and heavy voice. “You cannot leave before ten o’clock, as the station is a long way from here, and in such weather it will take the young lady two hours to walk there.”
I was confounded, and looked for the young gentleman with the umbrella, which I could have used as a walking stick, as neither Clairin nor Godard had one. But just as I was accusing him of going away and leaving us, he jumped lightly out of a vehicle which I had not heard drive up.
“There!” said he. “There is a carriage for you and these gentlemen, and another for the body of the balloon.”
“Ma foi! You have saved us,” said Clairin, clasping his hand, “for it appears the roads are in a very bad state.”
“Oh,” said the young man, “it would be impossible for the feet of Parisians to walk even half the distance.”