Sophia stood apart with Carlier.  Carlier had indicated a particular spot, under the shelter of the colonnade, where he said it was imperative that they should post themselves.  Having guided Sophia to this spot, and impressed upon her that they were not to move, he seemed to consider that the activity of his role was finished, and spoke no word.  With the very high silk hat which he always wore, and a thin old-fashioned overcoat whose collar was turned up, he made a rather grotesque figure.  Fortunately the night was not very cold, or he might have passively frozen to death on the edge of that feverish group.  Sophia soon ignored him.  She watched the balloon.  An aristocratic old man leaned against the car, watch in hand; at intervals he scowled, or stamped his foot.  An old sailor, tranquilly smoking a pipe, walked round and round the balloon, staring at it; once he climbed up into the rigging, and once he jumped into the car and angrily threw out of it a bag, which some one had placed in it.  But for the most part he was calm.  Other persons of authority hurried about, talking and gesticulating; and a number of workmen waited idly for orders.

“Where is Chirac?” suddenly cried the old man with the watch.

Several voices deferentially answered, and a man ran away into the gloom on an errand.

Then Chirac appeared, nervous, self-conscious, restless.  He was enveloped in a fur coat that Sophia had never seen before, and he carried dangling in his hand a cage containing six pigeons whose whiteness stirred uneasily within it.  The sailor took the cage from him and all the persons of authority gathered round to inspect the wonderful birds upon which, apparently, momentous affairs depended.  When the group separated, the sailor was to be seen bending over the edge of the car to deposit the cage safely.  He then got into the car, still smoking his pipe, and perched himself negligently on the wicker-work.  The man with the watch was conversing with Chirac; Chirac nodded his head frequently in acquiescence, and seemed to be saying all the time:  “Yes, sir!  Perfectly sir!  I understand, sir!  Yes, sir!”

Suddenly Chirac turned to the car and put a question to the sailor, who shook his head.  Whereupon Chirac gave a gesture of submissive despair to the man with the watch.  And in an instant the whole throng was in a ferment.

“The victuals!” cried the man with the watch.  “The victuals, name of God!  Must one be indeed an idiot to forget the victuals!  Name of God—­of God!”

Sophia smiled at the agitation, and at the inefficient management which had never thought of food.  For it appeared that the food had not merely been forgotten; it was a question which had not even been considered.  She could not help despising all that crowd of self-important and fussy males to whom the idea had not occurred that even balloonists must eat.  And she wondered whether everything was done like that.  After a delay that seemed very long, the problem of victuals was solved, chiefly, as far as Sophia could judge, by means of cakes of chocolate and bottles of wine.