The sailor climbed definitely into the car; he had covered himself with a large cloak.
Chirac had got one leg over the side of the car, and eight men were standing by the ropes, when a horse's hoofs clattered through the guarded entrance to the courtyard, amid an uproar of sudden excitement. The shiny chest of the horse was flecked with the classic foam.
"A telegram from the Governor of Paris!"
As the orderly, checking his mount, approached the group, even the old man with the watch raised his hat.
The orderly responded, bent down to make an inquiry, which Chirac answered, and then, with another exchange of salutes, the official telegram was handed over to Chirac, and the horse backed away from the crowd.
It was quite thrilling.
Carlier was thrilled.
"He is never too prompt, the Governor.
It is a quality!" said Carlier, with irony.
Chirac entered the car.
And then the old man with the watch drew a black bag from the shadow behind him and entrusted it to Chirac, who accepted it with a profound deference and hid it.
The sailor began to issue commands.
The men at the ropes were bending down now.
Suddenly the balloon rose about a foot and trembled.
The sailor continued to shout.
All the persons of authority gazed motionless at the balloon.
The moment of suspense was eternal.
"Let go all!" cried the sailor, standing up, and clinging to the cordage.
Chirac was seated in the car, a mass of dark fur with a small patch of white in it.
The men at the ropes were a knot of struggling confused figures.
One side of the car tilted up, and the sailor was nearly pitched out.
Three men at the other side had failed to free the ropes.
"Let go, corpses!" the sailor yelled at them.
The balloon jumped, as if it were drawn by some terrific impulse from the skies.
"Adieu!" called Chirac, pulling his cap off and waving it.
"Adieu!"
"Bon voyage!
Bon voyage!" the little crowd cheered. And then, "Vive la France!"
Throats tightened, including Sophia's.
But the top of the balloon had leaned over, destroying its pear- shape, and the whole mass swerved violently towards the wall of the station, the car swinging under it like a toy, and an anchor under the car.
There was a cry of alarm.
Then the great ball leaped again, and swept over the high glass roof, escaping by inches the spouting.
The cheers expired instantly. ... The balloon was gone.
It was spirited away as if by some furious and mighty power that had grown impatient in waiting for it.
There remained for a few seconds on the collective retina of the spectators a vision of the inclined car swinging near the roof like the tail of a kite.
And then nothing!
Blankness!
Blackness!
Already the balloon was lost to sight in the vast stormy ocean of the night, a plaything of the winds.
The spectators became once more aware of the dull booming of the cannonade.
The balloon was already perhaps flying unseen amid the wrack over those guns.
Sophia involuntarily caught her breath.
A chill sense of loneliness, of purposelessness, numbed her being.
Nobody ever saw Chirac or the old sailor again.
The sea must have swallowed them.
Of the sixty-five balloons that left Paris during the siege, two were not heard of. This was the first of the two.
Chirac had, at any rate, not magnified the peril, though his intention was undoubtedly to magnify it.
III
This was the end of Sophia's romantic adventures in France.
Soon afterwards the Germans entered Paris, by mutual agreement, and made a point of seeing the Louvre, and departed, amid the silence of a city.