I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison, whistling a mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the aëronaut, and we descended rapidly. Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by the sound of a horn. I trembled. It was Louis Godard, who had pulled out of his pocket, which was a veritable storehouse, a sort of horn, on which he blew with violence. A loud whistle answered our call, and 500 meters below us we saw a man who was shouting his hardest to make us hear. As we were very close to a little station we easily guessed that this man was the station master. “Where are we?” cried Louis Godard, with his horn. “At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master. It was impossible to understand. “Where are we?” thundered Georges Clairin in his most formidable tones. “At—in—in—ille,” shouted the station master with his hand curved round his mouth. “Where are we?” called I in my most crystalline accents. “At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master—and his porters. It was impossible to find out anything. We had to lower the balloon. At first we descended rather too quickly and the wind blew us toward the wood. We had to mount again. But ten minutes later we opened the valve again and made a fresh descent. The balloon was then to the right of the station, and far from the amiable station master. “Throw out the anchor!” cried in a commanding tone young Godard. And helped by Georges Clairin he threw out into space another rope, to the end of which was fastened a formidable anchor. The rope was 80 meters long. Down below us a crowd of children of all ages had been running ever since we stopped above the station. When we got to about 300 yards from the earth, Godard called out to them: “Where are we?” “At Vachère!” None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless. “Alloa! You down below there—take hold of the guide rope,” cried the aëronaut, “and mind you don’t pull too hard!” Five vigorous men seized hold of the rope. We were 130 meters from the ground, and the spectacle became interesting. The night began to blot out everything. I raised my head to see the sky, but I remained with my mouth open with astonishment. I saw only the lower end of our balloon, which was overhanging its base all loose and baggy. It was very ugly. We anchored gently, without the little dragging which I hoped would happen, and without the little drama which I had half expected. It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon. The young owner of a neighboring _château_ ran up, like the peasants, to see what was going on. He offered me his umbrella. “Oh, I am so thin I cannot get wet! I pass between the drops.” The word was repeated, and has become almost a proverb. “What time is there a train?” asked Godard. “Oh, you have plenty of time!” answered an oily and heavy voice. “You cannot leave before ten o’clock, as the station is a long way from here, and in such weather it will take the young lady two hours to walk there.”