The Eternal Adam and other stories (8 page)

We were visibly descending. He did not
perceive it!

‘This kind of "game at balloons",’
he resumed, spreading out before me some of the engravings of his valuable
collection, ‘this game contains the entire history of the aerostatic art. It is
used by elevated minds, and is played with dice and counters, with whatever
stakes you like, to be paid or received according to where the player arrives.’

‘Why,’ said I, ‘you seem to have studied
the science of aerostation profoundly.’

‘Yes, monsieur, yes! From Phaethon, Icarus,
Architas, I have searched for, examined, learnt everything. I could render
immense services to the world in this art, if God granted me life. But that
will not be!’

‘Why?’

‘Because my name is Empedocles, or
Erostratus.’

Meanwhile, the balloon was happily
approaching the earth; but when one is falling, the danger is as great at a
hundred feet as at 5,000.

‘Do you recall the battle of Fleurus?’
resumed my companion, whose face became more and more animated. ‘It was at that
battle that Contello, by order of the Government, organised a company of
balloonists. At the siege of Manbenge General Jourdan derived so much service
from this new method of observation that Contello ascended twice a day with the
general himself. The communications between the aeronaut and his agents who
held the balloon were made by means of small white, red, and yellow flags.
Often the gun and cannon shot were directed upon the balloon when he ascended,
but without result. When General Jourdan was preparing to invest Charleroi,
Contello went into the vicinity, ascended from the plain of Jumet, and continued
his observations for seven or eight hours with General Morlot, and this no
doubt aided in giving us the victory of Fleurus. General Jourdan publicly
acknowledged the help which the aeronautical observations had afforded him.
Well, despite the services rendered on that occasion and during the Belgian
campaign, the year which had seen the beginning of the military career of
balloons saw also its end. The school of Meudon, founded by the Government, was
closed by Buonaparte on his return from Egypt. And now, what can you expect
from the new-born infant? as Franklin said. The infant was born alive; it
should not be stifled!’

The unknown bowed his head in his hands,
and reflected for some moments; then raising his head, he said, —

‘Despite my prohibition, monsieur, you have
opened the valve.’

I dropped the cord.

‘Happily,’ he resumed, ‘we have still 300
pounds of ballast.’

‘What is your purpose?’ said I.

‘Have you ever crossed the seas?’ he asked.

I turned pale.

‘It is unfortunate,’ he went on, ‘that we
are being driven towards the Adriatic. That is only a stream; but higher up we
may find other currents.’

And, without taking any notice of me, he
threw over several bags of sand; then, in a menacing voice, he said, —

‘I let you open the valve because the
expansion of the gas threatened to burst the balloon; but do not do it again!’

Then he went on as follows:—

‘You remember the voyage of Blanchard and
Jeffries from Dover to Calais? It was magnificent! On the 7th of January, 1785,
there being a north-west wind, their balloon was inflated with gas on the Dover
coast. A mistake of equilibrium, just as they were ascending, forced them to
throw out their ballast so that they might not go down again, and they only
kept thirty pounds. It was too little: for, as the wind did not freshen, they
only advanced very slowly towards the French coast. Besides, the permeability
of the tissue served to reduce the inflation little by little, and in an hour
and a half the aeronauts perceived that they were descending.

"What shall we do?" said
Jeffries.

"We are only one quarter of the way
over," replied Blanchard, "and very low down. On rising, we shall
perhaps meet more favourable winds."

"Let us throw out the rest of the
sand."

‘The balloon acquired some ascending force,
but itsoon began to descend again. Towards the middle of the transit the
aeronauts threw over their books and tools. A quarter of an hour after,
Blanchard said to Jeffries: —

"The barometer?"

"It is going up! We are lost, and yet
there is the French coast."

A loud noise was heard.

"Has the balloon burst?" asked
Jeffries.

"No. The loss of the gas has reduced
the inflation of the lower part of the balloon. But we are still descending. We
are lost! Out with everything useless!"

‘Provisions, oars, and rudder were thrown
into the sea. The aeronauts were only one hundred yards high.

"We are going up again," said the
doctor.

"No. It is the spurt caused by the
diminution of the weight, and not a ship in sight, not a bark on the horizon!
To the sea with our clothing!"

The unfortunates stripped themselves, but
the balloon continued to descend.

"Blanchard," said Jeffries,
"you should have made this voyage alone; you consented to take me; I will
sacrifice myself! I am going to throw myself into the water, and the balloon,
relieved of my weight, will mount again."

"No. no! It is frightful!"

The balloon became less and less inflated,
and as it doubled up its concavity pressed the gas against the sides, and
hastened its downward course.

"Adieu, my friend," said the
doctor. "God preserve you!"

He was about to throw himself over, when
Blanchard held him back.

 "There is one more chance," said
he. "We can cut the cords which hold the car, and cling to the net!
Perhaps the balloon will rise. Let us hold ourselves ready. But – the barometer
is going down! The wind is freshening! We are saved!"

‘The aeronauts perceived Calais. Their joy
was delirious. A few moments more, and they had fallen in the forest of Guines.
I do not doubt,’ added the unknown, ‘that, under similar circumstances, you
would have followed Doctor Jeffries’ example!’

The clouds rolled in glittering masses
beneath us. The balloon threw large shadows on this heap of clouds, and was
surrounded as by an aureola. The thunder rumbled below the car. All this was
terrifying.

  ‘Let us descend!’ I cried.

  ‘Descend, when the sun is up there,
waiting for us? Out with more bags!’

And more than fifty pounds of ballast were
cast over.

At a height of 3,500 yards we remained
stationary.

The unknown talked unceasingly. I was in a
state of complete prostration, while he seemed to be in his element.

‘With a good wind, we shall go far,’ he
cried. ‘In the Antilles there are currents of air which have a speed of a
hundred leagues an hour. When Napoleon was crowned, Garnerin sent up a balloon
with coloured lamps, at eleven o’clock at night. The wind was blowing
north-north-west. The next morning, at daybreak, the inhabitants of Rome
greeted its passage over the dome of St Peter’s. We shall go farther and
higher!’

I scarcely heard him. Everything whirled around
me. An opening appeared in the clouds.

‘See that city,’ said the unknown. ‘It is
Spires!’

I leaned over the car and perceived a small
blackish mass. It was Spires. The Rhine, which is so large, seemed an unrolled
ribbon. The sky was a deep blue over our heads. The birds had long abandoned
us, for in that rarefied air they could not have flown. We were alone in space,
and I in presence of this unknown!

‘It is useless for you to know whither I am
leading you,’ he said, as he threw the compass among the clouds. ‘Ah! a fall is
a grand thing! You know that but few victims of ballooning are to be reckoned,
from Pilatre des Rosiers to Lieutenant Gale, and that the accidents have always
been the result of imprudence. Pilatre des Rosiers set out with Romain of
Boulogne, on the 13th of June, 1785. To his gas balloon he had affixed a
Montgolfier apparatus of hot air, so as to dispense, no doubt, with the
necessity of losing gas or throwing out ballast. It was putting a torch under a
powder-barrel. When they had ascended 400 yards, and were taken by opposing
winds, they were driven over the open sea. Pilatre, in order to descend,
essayed to open the valve, but the valve-cord became entangled in the balloon,
and tore it so badly that it became empty in an instant. It fell upon the
Montgolfier apparatus, overturned it, and dragged down the unfortunates, who
were soon shattered to pieces! It is frightful, is it not?’

I could only reply, ‘For pity’s sake, let
us descend!’

The clouds gathered around us on every
side, and dreadful detonations, which reverberated in the cavity of the
balloon, took place beneath us.

‘You provoke me,’ cried the unknown, ‘and
you shall no longer know whether we are rising or falling!’

The barometer went the way of the compass,
accompanied by several more bags of sand. We must have been 5,000 yards high.
Some icicles had already attached themselves to the sides of the car, and a
kind of fine snow seemed to penetrate to my very bones. Meanwhile a frightful
tempest was raging under us, but we were above it.

‘Do not be afraid,’ said the unknown. ‘It
is only the imprudent who are lost. Olivari, who perished at Orléans, rose in a
paper "Montgolfier"; his car, suspended below the chafing-dish, and
ballasted with combustible materials, caught fire; Olivari fell, and was
killed! Mosment rose, at Lille, on a light tray; an oscillation disturbed his
equilibrium; Mosment fell, and was killed! Bittorf, at Mannheim, saw his
balloon catch fire in the air; and he, too, fell, and was killed! Harris rose
in a badly constructed balloon, the valve of which was too large and would not
shut; Harris fell, and was killed! Sadler, deprived of ballast by his long
sojourn in the air, was dragged over the town of Boston and dashed against the
chimneys; Sadler fell, and was killed! Cokling descended with a convex
parachute which he pretended to have perfected; Cokling fell, and was killed!
Well, I love them, these victims of their own imprudence, and I shall die as
they did. Higher! still higher!’

All the phantoms of this necrology passed
before my eyes. The rarefaction of the air and the sun’s rays added to the
expansion of the gas, and the balloon continued to mount. I tried mechanically
to open the valve, but the unknown cut the cord several feet above my head. I
was lost!

‘Did you see Madame Blanchard fall?’ said
he. ‘I saw her, yes, I! I was at Tivoli on the 6th of July, 1819. Madame
Blanchard rose in a small-sized balloon, to avoid the expense of filling, and
she was forced to entirely inflate it. The gas leaked out below, and left a
regular train of hydrogen in its path. She carried with her a sort of
pyrotechnic aureola, suspended below her car by a wire, which she was to set
off in the air. This she had done many times before. On this day she also
carried up a small parachute ballasted by a firework contrivance, that would go
off in a shower of silver. She was to start this contrivance after having
lighted it with a portfire made on purpose. She set out; the night was gloomy.
At the moment of lighting her fireworks she was so imprudent as to pass the
taper under the column of hydrogen which was leaking from the balloon. My eyes
were fixed upon her. Suddenly an unexpected gleam lit up the darkness. I
thought she was preparing a surprise. The light flashed out, suddenly disappeared
and reappeared, and gave the summit of the balloon the shape of an immense jet
of ignited gas. This sinister glow shed itself over the Boulevard and the whole
Montmartre quarter. Then I saw the unhappy woman rise, try twice to close the
appendage of the balloon, so as to put out the fire, then sit down in her car
and try to guide her descent; for she did not fall. The combustion of the gas
lasted for several minutes. The balloon, becoming gradually less, continued to
descend, but it was not a fall. The wind blew from the north-west and drove it
towards Paris. There were then some large gardens just by the house No. 16, Rue
de Provence. Madame Blanchard essayed to fall there without danger: but the
balloon and the car struck on the roof of the house with a light shock.
"Save me!" cried the wretched woman. I got into the street at this
moment. The car slid along the roof, and encountered an iron cramp. At this
concussion, Madame Blanchard was thrown out of her car and precipitated upon
the pavement. She was killed!’

These stories froze me with horror. The
unknown was standing with bare head, dishevelled hair, haggard eyes!

There was no longer any illusion possible.
I at last recognised the horrible truth. I was in the presence of a madman!

He threw out the rest of the ballast, and
we must have now reached a height of at least 9,000 yards. Blood spurted from
my nose and mouth!

‘Who are nobler than the martyrs of
science?’ cried the lunatic. ‘They are canonised by posterity.’

But I no longer heard him. He looked about
him, and, bending down to my ear, muttered, —

‘And have you forgotten Zambecarri’s
catastrophe? Listen. On the 7th of October, 1804, the clouds seemed to lift a
little. On the preceding days, the wind and rain had not ceased; but the
announced ascension of Zambecarri could not be postponed. His enemies were
already bantering him. It was necessary to ascend, to save the science and
himself from becoming a public jest. It was at Boulogne. No one helped him to
inflate his balloon.