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 recognized
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 nine thousand yards. Blood spurted
from my nose and mouth!

"Who are nobler than the martyrs of science?" cried the lunatic.
"They are canonized 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.

"He rose at midnight, accompanied by Andreoli and Grossetti. The
balloon mounted slowly, for it had been perforated by the rain,
and the gas was leaking out. The three intrepid aeronauts could
only observe the state of the barometer by aid of a dark lantern.
Zambecarri had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. Grossetti was
also fasting.

"'My friends,' said Zambecarri, 'I am overcome by cold, and
exhausted. I am dying.'

"He fell inanimate in the gallery. It was the same with
Grossetti. Andreoli alone remained conscious. After long efforts,
he succeeded in reviving Zambecarri.

"'What news? Whither are we going? How is the wind? What time is
it?'

"'It is two o'clock.'