s!' remonstrated all of us;
`and suppose we are driven into the sea?' The balloon went driving on
still. `We cannot descend here,' said Jules Godard; `we are over
water.' Two or three of us looked over the edge of the car, and
affirmed that we were not over water, but trees. `It is water,' Jules
Godard persisted. Every one now looked out attentively; and, as the
balloon descended a little, we saw plainly that there was no water, but
without being able to say positively whether there were trees or not.
At the moment when Jules Godard thought he saw water, Nadar exclaimed,
`I see a railway.' It turned out that what Nadar took for a railway was
a canal running towards the Scheldt, which we had passed over a few
minutes before. Hurrah for balloons! They are the things to travel in;
rivers, mountains, custom-houses,--all are passed without let or
hindrance. But every medal has its reverse; and, if we were delighted
at having safely got over the Scheldt, we by no means relished the
prospect of going on to the Zuyder Zee. `Shall we go down?' asked Louis
Godard. There was a moment's pause. We consulted together. Suddenly I
uttered a cry of joy; the position of the needle of my compass indicated
that the balloon had made a half turn to the right, and was now going
due east. The aspect of the stars confirmed this assertion. Forward!
was now the cry. We threw out a little ballast, mounted higher, and
started with renewed vigour with our backs turned to the depreciated
Zuyder Zee. It was now three in the morning, and none of us had slept.
Just as we began to try to sleep a little, my diabolical compass showed
that the balloon was turning back again. `Where are you going to take
us to?' cried out Yon to the immense mass of canvas which was
oscillating above our heads. Louis Godard again proposed to descend;
but we said, `No! forward! forward!' Two hours sped away without our
being able to tell where we were. At five o'clock day broke, and broad
daylight came on with marvellous rapidity. It is true that we were at a
height of 980 metres. Novel-writers and others have so much abused
descriptions of sunrise, on mountains and on the ocean, that I shall say
little about this one, although it is not a common thing to see the
horizon on fire below the clouds. The finest Venetian paintings could
alone give an idea of the luxuriant tones of the heaven that we saw.
Such dazzling magnificence led me to wonder that there i