vered with dust and very thirsty;
Marie wears a long dust-colored ulster, and he a wind-proof coat and
high boots. Meanwhile, the locomotive-like affair at the curbstone is
working itself into a boiling rage, until finally the brave chauffeur
and his chic companion prepare to depart. Marie adjusts her white lace
veil, with its goggles, and the chauffeur puts on his own mask as he
climbs in; a roar--a snort, a cloud of blue gas, and they are gone!

There are other enthusiasts--those who go up in balloons!

"Ah, you should go ballooning!" one cries enthusiastically, "to be 'en
ballon'--so poetic--so fin de siecle! It is a fantaisie charmante!"

In a balloon one forgets the world--one is no longer a part of it--no
longer mortal. What romance there is in going up above everything with
the woman one loves--comrades in danger--the ropes--the wicker cage--the
ceiling of stars above one and Paris below no bigger than a gridiron!
Paris! lost for the time from one's memory. How chic to shoot straight
up among the drifting clouds and forget the sordid little world, even
the memory of one's intrigues!

"Enfin seuls," they say to each other, as the big Frenchman and the chic
Parisienne countess peer down over the edge of the basket, sipping a
little chartreuse from the same traveling cup; she, with the black hair
and white skin, and gowned "en ballon" in a costume by Paillard; he in
his peajacket buttoned close under his heavy beard. They seem to brush
through and against the clouds! A gentle breath from heaven makes the
basket decline a little and the ropes creak against the hardwood clinch
blocks. It grows colder, and he wraps her closer in his own coat.

"Courage, my child," he says; "see, we have gone a great distance;
to-morrow before sundown we shall descend in Belgium."

"Horrible!" cries the Countess; "I do not like those Belgians."

"Ah! but you shall see, Therese, one shall go where one pleases soon; we
are patient, we aeronauts; we shall bring credit to La Belle France; we
have courage and perseverance; we shall give many dinners and weep over
the failures of our brave comrades, to make the dirigible balloon
'pratique.' We shall succeed! Then Voila! our dejeuner in Paris and our
dinner where we will."

Therese taps her polished nails against the edge of the wicker cage and
hums a little chansonette.

"Je t'aime"--she murmurs.

* * * * *

I did not see this myself, and I do not know the f