“At Vachère!”
None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless.
“Hullo! you fellows down there, take hold of the rope that’s dragging,” cried the aeronaut, “and mind you don’t pull too hard!” Five vigorous men seized hold of the rope. We were 130 metres from the ground, and the sight was becoming interesting. Darkness 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 had hoped would happen, and without the little drama which I had half expected.
It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon.
The young owner of a neighbouring 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 saying was repeated and had a great success.
“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 Madame two hours to walk there.”