I only said:  “Can it be possible?” and we moved on.  How my blood throbbed as we cavorted through the blue depths of heaven!  I was far from feeling blue myself, and GODARD said that if anything I was green.  The bearings of the remark did not strike me at the time, as a cannon-ball from the direction of Versailles whirled within twenty feet of the balloon and lifted the right flank (a military expression) of my moustache into your subscriber’s eye, notwithstanding it was waxed with LOUVET’S best, warranted to keep each hair en regle, even in the worst gales.  From that moment I renounced LOUVET.  Following the cannon-shot came a miscellaneous assortment of small projectiles, which had the effect of creating some excitement among the atmospheric animalculae, but failed to disturb the serenity of M. GODARD or myself.  When about ten miles from Blois I detected what I supposed was a large vein of chalk-pits.  It was very white, and apparently motionless.  My companion expressed his surprise at the difficulty I had in distinguishing objects correctly, and seemed to lose patience.

“Bigarre, you no know zat?  It ees ze dirty Proosien linen vashed out, and hoong zere to dry!”

I told him in Arabic that he needn’t get his back up; but he understood me not, and continued playing with the cats which we were transporting to Tours to protect the Commissary stores from the ravages of the rats that the Prussians had despatched to eat up the provisions of the garrison.  Towards night I began to have a queer sensation in the stomach.  It wasn’t like sea-sickness, nor like the feeling produced by swinging.  If a man just recovering from the effects of his first cigar were offered a bowl of hot goose-grease for supper, I suppose he would have felt as I felt.  At the moment a queer twinge took me; I ejaculated:  “Oh!  Lord!”

“Vat ees de matter?” inquired GODARD.  If the man had had any other nationality, I might have talked sense to him; but he was a Frenchman, so I said:—­

“Do you love me?”

“Do I loves you?”

“Yes!” I roared frantically, “do you love me?”

“Begaire I dunno, but I zinks so.”

“Then,” said I, dimly discerning a chance of relief from my suffering, “throw me out as ballast.”

“Oh, horrible! horrible!  Mon Dieu! vat a man!”

I turned my sickly gaze upon him and saw that he was deadly pale, and that the perspiration stood out in great drops upon his forehead.  The explanation was plain enough—­he took me for a maniac.  I would have protested and moved the previous question, but taking a small phial from his pocket he broke off the head and threw the contents in my face.  Ten seconds later I was totally oblivious, and upon recovering found myself in this place, where such strange things are going on that my fingers prick to write them.

DICK TINTO.

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