I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison whistling a mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the aeronaut, 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 metres 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 through 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.
“At—in—in—ille!” shouted the station-master, with his hand curved round his mouth.
“Where are we?” cried I in my most crystalline accents.
“At—in—in—ille!” answered the station-master and his porters.
It was impossible to get to know anything. We had to lower the balloon. At first we descended rather too quickly, and the wind blew us towards the wood. We had to go up 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 young Godard in a commanding tone. And assisted by Georges Clairin, he threw out into space another rope, to the end of which was fastened a formidable anchor. The rope was 80 metres 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 metres from earth Godard called out to them, “Where are we?”