"But, my dear Abbé," said Flammarion, a little taken aback; "we haven't told you. We're not going now!"
The Abbé grew almost livid. "Come!" he stammered. "What—what's this? Is it a joke? Anyhow, it isn't a good one!"
"I assure you, my dear Abbé, it is no joke, but the simple truth. We can't go, for Godard the aeronaut is ill. Three days ago he had an apoplectic fit—indeed, he very nearly died. What should we have done if the fit had occurred in the balloon? He is better now, but not well enough to make the ascent."
The poor Abbé was thunderstruck. "And I was so counting on the journey!" he said. "I've been telling everybody I know! People have even been sending me provisions for the voyage. Truly, I don't know where we should have put them; but that's beside the question—they came. And now we are not to go! I shall be the laughing-stock of all my acquaintance! It's too bad—too bad!"
All through the breakfast the Abbé remained melancholy, notwithstanding the merry occasion, and the fact that Madame Godard, who was present, assured him that her husband was quite unable to make an ascent in his weakly condition. Till at last, in parting from him, Flammarion cheered him by the assurance that he should go up in a balloon after all, for, in fact, the project was only deferred. And so the Abbé departed hopefully. But who can count on the future? Fate disposed things differently, and poor Abbé P——'s misfortune endured to the end of the matter.
At last the time arrived, a week after the wedding-day. On the eve of the day fixed for the ascent my brother-in-law—Ernest Flammarion, the publisher—came to see us. He also wished to ascend with us; was most eager, in fact. It must be remembered that, at the time I speak of, balloon ascents were much less common than they have since become, and one had very few opportunities of an experience in the air. In the end, my husband promised his brother that he should come, if only the Abbé should be prevented, or should from any cause forego his claim. Ernest quite understood the situation, and waited with much anxiety, but with little hope. "It's not of much use," he said. "The Abbé won't give up his place. I'm afraid the thing's settled!"
The few hours intervening before the time fixed for the start were hours of anxious watching. The weather was perfect, but we were constantly on thorns lest some change should manifest itself.
But what of the Abbé? When the start was determined upon—on the morning of the day when Ernest Flammarion called on us—my husband hurried out to inform the Abbé, but found that he was away from home, at La Varenne Saint-Hilaire, which he always made his summer residence. Still, the Abbé's servant assured Flammarion that he would be back, doubtless in the evening. So a note was written and left on the Abbé's desk, thus:—
"We set out to-morrow at close of day in a balloon; do not miss this celestial appointment, but meet us at about five o'clock at the gas-works of La Villette.—Flammarion."
The eventful day (it was the 28th of August, 1874) dawned brilliantly, and the day fulfilled the promise of the dawn—a delightfully equable temperature, a gentle breeze, and a bright sky. And at five we assembled at the gas-works—our aeronaut and his wife, my brother-in-law, Ernest Flammarion, and ourselves, with a number of friends to see us off.