Read Online The Eternal Adam and other stories by Jules Vernes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jules Vernes
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know whether we are rising or falling!’
The barometer went the way of the compass,
accompanied by several more bags of sand. We must have been 5,000 yards high.
Some icicles had already attached themselves to the sides of the car, and a
kind of fine snow seemed to penetrate to my very bones. Meanwhile a frightful
tempest was raging under us, but we were above it.
‘Do not be afraid,’ said the unknown. ‘It
is only the imprudent who are lost. Olivari, who perished at Orléans, rose in a
paper "Montgolfier"; his car, suspended below the chafing-dish, and
ballasted with combustible materials, caught fire; Olivari fell, and was
killed! Mosment rose, at Lille, on a light tray; an oscillation disturbed his
equilibrium; Mosment fell, and was killed! Bittorf, at Mannheim, saw his
balloon catch fire in the air; and he, too, fell, and was killed! Harris rose
in a badly constructed balloon, the valve of which was too large and would not
shut; Harris fell, and was killed! Sadler, deprived of ballast by his long
sojourn in the air, was dragged over the town of Boston and dashed against the
chimneys; Sadler fell, and was killed! Cokling descended with a convex
parachute which he pretended to have perfected; Cokling fell, and was killed!
Well, I love them, these victims of their own imprudence, and I shall die as
they did. Higher! still higher!’
All the phantoms of this necrology passed
before my eyes. The rarefaction of the air and the sun’s rays added to the
expansion of the gas, and the balloon continued to mount. I tried mechanically
to open the valve, but the unknown cut the cord several feet above my head. I
was lost!
‘Did you see Madame Blanchard fall?’ said
he. ‘I saw her, yes, I! I was at Tivoli on the 6th of July, 1819. Madame
Blanchard rose in a small-sized balloon, to avoid the expense of filling, and
she was forced to entirely inflate it. The gas leaked out below, and left a
regular train of hydrogen in its path. She carried with her a sort of
pyrotechnic aureola, suspended below her car by a wire, which she was to set
off in the air. This she had done many times before. On this day she also
carried up a small parachute ballasted by a firework contrivance, that would go
off in a shower of silver. She was to start this contrivance after having
lighted it with a portfire made on purpose. She set out; the night was gloomy.
At the moment of lighting her fireworks she was so imprudent as to pass the
taper under the column of hydrogen which was leaking from the balloon. My eyes
were fixed upon her. Suddenly an unexpected gleam lit up the darkness. I
thought she was preparing a surprise. The light flashed out, suddenly disappeared
and reappeared, and gave the summit of the balloon the shape of an immense jet
of ignited gas. This sinister glow shed itself over the Boulevard and the whole
Montmartre quarter. Then I saw the unhappy woman rise, try twice to close the
appendage of the balloon, so as to 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 recognised the horrible truth. I was in the presence of a madman!
He threw out the rest of the ballast, and
we
The barometer went the way of the compass,
accompanied by several more bags of sand. We must have been 5,000 yards high.
Some icicles had already attached themselves to the sides of the car, and a
kind of fine snow seemed to penetrate to my very bones. Meanwhile a frightful
tempest was raging under us, but we were above it.
‘Do not be afraid,’ said the unknown. ‘It
is only the imprudent who are lost. Olivari, who perished at Orléans, rose in a
paper "Montgolfier"; his car, suspended below the chafing-dish, and
ballasted with combustible materials, caught fire; Olivari fell, and was
killed! Mosment rose, at Lille, on a light tray; an oscillation disturbed his
equilibrium; Mosment fell, and was killed! Bittorf, at Mannheim, saw his
balloon catch fire in the air; and he, too, fell, and was killed! Harris rose
in a badly constructed balloon, the valve of which was too large and would not
shut; Harris fell, and was killed! Sadler, deprived of ballast by his long
sojourn in the air, was dragged over the town of Boston and dashed against the
chimneys; Sadler fell, and was killed! Cokling descended with a convex
parachute which he pretended to have perfected; Cokling fell, and was killed!
Well, I love them, these victims of their own imprudence, and I shall die as
they did. Higher! still higher!’
All the phantoms of this necrology passed
before my eyes. The rarefaction of the air and the sun’s rays added to the
expansion of the gas, and the balloon continued to mount. I tried mechanically
to open the valve, but the unknown cut the cord several feet above my head. I
was lost!
‘Did you see Madame Blanchard fall?’ said
he. ‘I saw her, yes, I! I was at Tivoli on the 6th of July, 1819. Madame
Blanchard rose in a small-sized balloon, to avoid the expense of filling, and
she was forced to entirely inflate it. The gas leaked out below, and left a
regular train of hydrogen in its path. She carried with her a sort of
pyrotechnic aureola, suspended below her car by a wire, which she was to set
off in the air. This she had done many times before. On this day she also
carried up a small parachute ballasted by a firework contrivance, that would go
off in a shower of silver. She was to start this contrivance after having
lighted it with a portfire made on purpose. She set out; the night was gloomy.
At the moment of lighting her fireworks she was so imprudent as to pass the
taper under the column of hydrogen which was leaking from the balloon. My eyes
were fixed upon her. Suddenly an unexpected gleam lit up the darkness. I
thought she was preparing a surprise. The light flashed out, suddenly disappeared
and reappeared, and gave the summit of the balloon the shape of an immense jet
of ignited gas. This sinister glow shed itself over the Boulevard and the whole
Montmartre quarter. Then I saw the unhappy woman rise, try twice to close the
appendage of the balloon, so as to 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 recognised the horrible truth. I was in the presence of a madman!
He threw out the rest of the ballast, and
we
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