Our departure from Paris was fixed for the 28th of October, at nine in the morning.

It was a beautifully fresh and clear day. The sky was cloudless and the sun sent its fairest rays over the earth, while an icy wind swept the calm and deserted streets of the capital. In spite of the early hour there were already many people standing round the balloon, which was being inflated. Two or three hundred of the curious had come to watch our departure.

When I arrived the balloon was filling slowly and pompously. It was already beginning to leave the ground, little by little and majestically, like a giant rising out of the earth.

Its formidable mass was soon entirely upright, and balanced and shifted as if impatient to take flight.

Now it has mounted and floats in the wind over its little “nacelle” or car, the latter still firmly attached to the ground to allow its cargo to be loaded.

The car was packed with five or six mail-bags full of correspondence and depÊches—thousands of little letters, on the fine paper invented during the Siege of Paris for the needs of a new correspondence service through the clouds—rare and impatiently expected messages which distributed to France outside the solace of a written line and a living signal from the beloved ones shut up within the ramparts.

When all was loaded, it was the passengers’ turn. Before going up it was necessary to know the direction of the wind. As all the east of France was already invested, balloons could only leave with some chance of safety if the wind blew towards the west.

This was the only precaution taken in despatching balloons, which were left literally to the mercy of the winds. Our party had not even a compass to indicate the direction we were taking, as if the winds always remained the same and never changed, and as if it were sufficient to know its direction at departure in order also to know where we should arrive.

Our departure was accordingly preceded by a “ballon d’essai,” which was let up in order to explore the air and show the direction of the wind. The direction was a good one, and the wind propitious—obstrictis aliis, praeter Iapiga.—The wind showed itself from the east, and the little pioneer balloon went off gaily, promptly to disappear over the western horizon. Then came a solemn voice: “Messieurs les voyageurs en ballon!” I shall never forget that voice; I can hear it in my ears to-day.

Messieurs les voyageurs, en ballon! A quick, last goodbye to one’s friends, then up the little rope ladder which leads to the basket and a last look back. A last handshake, and here we are, seated in our aerial craft, bound for an unknown destination.

The unknown always contains an element of the fearsome, and without being exactly anxious as regards the physical dangers of our journey, we had a certain feeling of solemnity when the basket left the earth. There were three passengers—M. Cassier, the Director of the French pigeon-post—who had brought a number of his faithful messengers with him; a sailor, who acted as an improvised aeronaut; and myself.

We all made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the little wicker seats which were fitted inside the basket. There were two of these, facing each other, and on each there was room for two persons. Piled up at our feet at the bottom of the basket were the sacks of depÊches and letters, and the ballast. The anchor was firmly fastened to the side of the basket, fastened even too firmly, and altogether too heavy to be of use in case of accidents.

The whole thing might have weighed about a ton. As soon as we were seated, the balloon began to tack about. Our departure was not effected without difficulty. The balloon had to be guided so as to leave it a free passage, in order that in its ascent it should not encounter and demolish the roofs of the houses surrounding the open space of the Gare d’Orleans. This was not an easy operation; it required time and a certain amount of skill on the part of those who were holding on to the balloon and watching its ascent, and who were only supposed to let it entirely free when the basket had passed the tops of the houses. These complicated manoeuvres were long and gave us time to look around us and think....

Suddenly we heard the sacramental words, “Let go.” The moment had arrived.

All hands simultaneously let go of the ropes and quickly cut the moorings. The balloon was free, and mounted swiftly, turning round its axis, great and majestic as an eagle in flight. “Bon voyage, bold travellers, bon voyage!” shouted the crowd, and everybody waved their hands, handkerchiefs, and hats. There were even flags floating gaily in the breeze. It was a touching thing to see all these arms held out to us, and sending us a last goodbye from the beloved earth which we were leaving. It was a very short moment and passed like a flash. The balloon turned on itself with dizzy swiftness. It went up, and up, and up, always turning.

The Gare d’Orleans, the streets of Paris with their houses, the monuments, the last lines of the city, the circle of fortifications, the countryside with its fortresses, all appeared and disappeared with maddening rapidity. The eye no longer saw and the intelligence ceased in stupefaction, paralysed by this mad, gigantic dance, without purpose and without end.

Where were we and where were we going? What was the meaning of this continual turning? When would we stop and what would be the end of this phenomenal journey?

The sun was radiant and the shadows were deep and clearly defined. The wind whipped and hastened the spinning of our balloon. Contrasts followed each other with such prodigious swiftness that it became impossible to follow them. Sight and mind slid over this marvellous ocean as if in a dream, no longer distinguishing shape or time or space. Where were we? We did not know; one half-minute of the balloon’s free course was enough to make us feel completely lost. If the balloon had only proceeded in a straight line in the same way as any other known craft, we should not have lost the bearing of our starting-point, in spite of the swiftness of our progress; but the balloon twisted ceaselessly and with terrible rapidity about its own axis. After a few revolutions that were quicker than lightning, it was impossible to recognise the direction in which we were going or to know our position.

Whither were we going? Left, right, south or north—it was impossible to say.

A compass might have told us. But, as I have already said, our balloon had no compass, a thing so necessary to every navigator. Our only instrument was a little barometric scale which registered the height at which the balloon was travelling. In addition the unfortunate sailor, who was our improvised aeronaut and who was to direct our expedition, had as much knowledge of the art of aerial navigation as an inhabitant of the moon has of the mysteries of the Indian Brahmans. This will give you an exact idea of the manner in which our journey was undertaken. Our expedition went off, in a doubly true sense, at the mercy of chance and the wind.