Was it a gaily decorated circus tent that
blossomed in a Russian field that Autumn of 1792?
You would be forgiven for thinking so, but as
the purple taffeta began to fill with hot air from a carefully tended fire, and
the buttoned cloth began to strain against the paper lining, its true purpose
was gradually revealed.
Two men, one finely dressed in silks, his
grey hair worn long and standing tall in the balloon's gondola; the other, a
man of similar age but of a lower order, on the ground, reading from a
notebook.
'One axe for collecting kindling, or
sacrificing the gondola, should you find yourself in a desert region. One black
chest containing petards and pigeons, should you find yourself in a state of distress.'
'Is the second craft ready?'
'It is, my Count.'
As the list was read, The Count leaned over,
patting the named item, or opening it to check its contents.
'Food and water for man and fowl for ten days,
linen for necessities. Furs against the expected cold,' he continued. 'A pair
of pistols, with powder and shot. For hunting, self defence, etc. Tinderbox, in
case the fire should go out.'
The list went on until, at last—
'It is time!' shouted Count Nikolai. 'The
horses?'
'Ready!'
'The geese?'
'Fed and wanting to be on their way as much
as yourself, Count.'
'Then we shall not disappoint them.'
'Shall I count backwards?'
The count paused for a moment in his
preparations. 'Why would I possibly want you to do that?'
'I thought in the absence of the usual
dignitaries, speeches and brass bands, there should be at least some ceremony
involved in the launch of your great enterprise.'
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