was to whisk him away, telling her in fatalistic accents that her image had devastated his life, while envious aspirants watched their colloquy!  Yes, it was romantic.  And she was beautiful!  Her beauty was an active reality that went about the world playing tricks in spite of herself.  The thoughts that passed through her mind were the large, splendid thoughts of romance.  And it was Chirac who had aroused them!  A real drama existed, then, triumphing over the accidental absurdities and pettinesses of the situation.  Her final words to Chirac were tender and encouraging.

He hurried back to the balloon, resuming his cap.  He was received with the respect due to one who comes fresh from conquest.  He was sacred.

Sophia rejoined Carlier, who had withdrawn, and began to talk to him with a self-conscious garrulity.  She spoke without reason and scarcely noticed what she was saying.  Already Chirac was snatched out of her life, as other beings, so many of them, had been snatched.  She thought of their first meetings, and of the sympathy which had always united them.  He had lost his simplicity, now, in the self-created crisis of his fate, and had sunk in her esteem.  And she was determined to like him all the more because he had sunk in her esteem.  She wondered whether he really had undertaken this adventure from sentimental disappointment.  She wondered whether, if she had not forgotten to wind her watch one night, they would still have been living quietly under the same roof in the Rue Breda.

The sailor climbed definitely into the car; he had covered himself with a large cloak.  Chirac had got one leg over the side of the car, and eight men were standing by the ropes, when a horse’s hoofs clattered through the guarded entrance to the courtyard, amid an uproar of sudden excitement.  The shiny chest of the horse was flecked with the classic foam.

“A telegram from the Governor of Paris!”

As the orderly, checking his mount, approached the group, even the old man with the watch raised his hat.  The orderly responded, bent down to make an inquiry, which Chirac answered, and then, with another exchange of salutes, the official telegram was handed over to Chirac, and the horse backed away from the crowd.  It was quite thrilling.  Carlier was thrilled.

“He is never too prompt, the Governor.  It is a quality!” said Carlier, with irony.

Chirac entered the car.  And then the old man with the watch drew a black bag from the shadow behind him and entrusted it to Chirac, who accepted it with a profound deference and hid it.  The sailor began to issue commands.  The men at the ropes were bending down now.  Suddenly the balloon rose about a foot and trembled.  The sailor continued to shout.  All the persons of authority gazed motionless at the balloon.  The moment of suspense was eternal.

“Let go all!” cried the sailor, standing up, and clinging to the cordage.  Chirac was seated in the car, a mass of dark fur with a small patch of white in it.  The men at the ropes were a knot of struggling confused figures.