We are now quite near the earth, and Beer exclaims:—­“Look at that!  What is that running over there in the fields?  Isn’t it a dog?” Indeed, something is running along the ground with great speed, and this something seems to jump over ditches, roads, trees with such ease that we could not understand what it might be.  The captain laughed:  “It is the shadow of our balloon.  It will grow as we descend.”

I distinctly hear a great noise of foundries in the distance.  And, according to the polar star, which we have been observing all night, ’and which I have so often watched and consulted from the bridge of my little yacht on the Mediterranean, we are heading straight for Belgium.

Our siren and our two horns are continually calling.  A few cries from some truck driver or belated reveler answer us.  We bellow:  “Where are we?” But the balloon is going so rapidly that the bewildered man has not even time to answer us.  The growing shadow of Le Horla, as large as a child’s ball, is fleeing before us over the fields, roads and woods.  It goes along steadily, preceding us by about a quarter of a mile; and now I am leaning out of the basket, listening to the roaring of the wind in the trees and across the harvest fields.  I say to Captain Jovis:  “How the wind blows!”

He answers:  “No, those are probably waterfalls.”  I insist, sure of my ear that knows the sound of the wind, from hearing it so often whistle through the rigging.  Then Jovis nudges me; he fears to frighten his happy, quiet passengers, for he knows full well that a storm is pursuing us.

At last a man manages to understand us; he answers:  “Nord!” We get the same reply from another.

Suddenly the lights of a town, which seems to be of considerable size, appear before us.  Perhaps it is Lille.  As we approach it, such a wonderful flow of fire appears below us that I think myself transported into some fairyland where precious stones are manufactured for giants.

It seems that it is a brick factory.  Here are others, two, three.  The fusing material bubbles, sparkles, throws out blue, red, yellow, green sparks, reflections from giant diamonds, rubies, emeralds, turquoises, sapphires, topazes.  And near by are great foundries roaring like apocalyptic lions; high chimneys belch forth their clouds of smoke and flame, and we can hear the noise of metal striking against metal.

“Where are we?”

The voice of some joker or of a crazy person answers:  “In a balloon!”

“Where are we?”

“At Lille!”

We were not mistaken.  We are already out of sight of the town, and we see Roubaix to the right, then some well-cultivated, rectangular fields, of different colors according to the crops, some yellow, some gray or brown.  But the clouds are gathering behind us, hiding the moon, whereas toward the east the sky is growing lighter, becoming a clear blue tinged with red.  It is dawn.  It grows rapidly, now showing us all the little details of the earth, the trains, the brooks, the cows, the goats.  And all this passes beneath us with surprising speed.  One hardly has time to notice that other fields, other meadows, other houses have already disappeared.  Cocks are crowing, but the voice of ducks drowns everything.  One might think the world to be peopled, covered with them, they make so much noise.