The Trip of le Horla Page #3

"The Trip of le Horla" by Guy de Maupassant is a short story that explores themes of existential dread, madness, and the supernatural. Narrated from the perspective of a man grappling with a mysterious and malevolent force, the story delves into the psychological turmoil and eerie experiences that blur the lines between reality and hallucination. Maupassant's signature style captures the protagonist's descent into paranoia, as he confronts the haunting presence of the Horla, a spectral entity that embodies his fears and insecurities. The tale serves as a reflection on the duality of the human psyche and the struggles against unseen influences.

								

can see nothing more beautiful at night!”

Nothing indeed can give one an idea of the wonderful brightness of these
spots of light which are not fire, which do not look like reflections,
which appear quickly here or there and immediately go out again. These
shining lights appear on the winding rivers at every turn, but one
hardly has time to see them as the balloon passes as quickly as the
wind.

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.

The early rising peasants are waving their arms and crying to us: “Let
yourselves drop!” But we go along steadily, neither rising nor falling,
leaning over the edge of the basket and watching the world fleeing under
our feet.

Jovis sights another city far off in the distance. It approaches;
everywhere are old church spires. They are delightful, seen thus from
above. Where are we? Is this Courtrai? Is it Ghent?

We are already very near it, and we see that it is surrounded by water
and crossed in every direction by canals. One might think it a Venice
of the north. Just as we are passing so near to a church tower that our
long guy-rope almost touches it, the chimes begin to ring three o'clock.
The sweet, clear sounds rise to us from this frail roof which we have
almost touched in our wandering course. It is a charming greeting, a
friendly welcome from Holland. We answer with our siren, whose raucous
voice echoes throughout the streets.

It was Bruges. But we have hardly lost sight of it when my neighbor,
Paul Bessand, asks me: “Don't you see something over there, to the
right, in front of us? It looks like a river.”

And, indeed, far ahead of us stretches a bright highway, in the light
of the dawning day. Yes, it looks like a river, an immense river full of
islands.

“Get ready for the descent,” cried the captain. He makes M. Mallet
leave his net and return to the basket; then we pack the barometers
and everything that could be injured by possible shocks. M. Bessand
exclaims: “Look at the masts over there to the left! We are at the sea!”

Fogs had hidden it from us until then. The sea was everywhere, to the
left and opposite us, while to our right the Scheldt, which had joined
the Moselle, extended as far as the sea, its mouths vaster than a lake.

It was necessary to descend within a minute or two. The rope to the
escape-valve, which had been religiously enclosed in a little white bag
and placed in sight of all so that no one would touch it, is unrolled,
and M. Mallet holds it in his hand while Captain Jovis looks for a
favorable landing.

Behind us the thunder was rumbling and not a single bird followed our
mad flight.

“Pull!” cried Jovis.

We were passing over a canal. The basket trembled and tipped over
slightly. The guy-rope touched the tall trees on both banks. But our
speed is so great that the long rope now trailing does not seem to slow
down, and we pass with frightful rapidity over a large farm, from which
the bewildered chickens, pigeons and ducks fly away, while the cows,
cats and dogs run, terrified, toward the house.

Just one-half bag of ballast is left. Jovis throws it overboard, and Le
Horla flies lightly across the roof.

The captain once more cries: “The escape-valve!”

M. Mallet reaches for the rope and hangs to it, and we drop like an
arrow. With a slash of a knife the cord which retains the anchor is cut,
and we drag this grapple behind us, through a field of beets. Here are
the trees.

“Take care! Hold fast! Look out for your heads!”

We pass over them. Then a strong shock shakes us. The anchor has taken
hold.

“Look out! Take a good hold! Raise yourselves by your wrists. We are
going to touch ground.”

The basket does indeed strike the earth. Then it flies up again. Once
more it falls and bounds upward again, and at last it settles on the
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