Page 19 of The Rake and Lady Julia
"We would have to ascend in a balloon, and then you would have to jump from it," Blanchard argued, as he assisted Montague into the harness of his new-fangled frame-less parachute. "Otherwise, you will go bang."
"Bang is a risk I am willing to take," Robert declared, "Though only from the top of a tree. If you cannot convince me to leap from a balloon, what hope have I to convince my lady love?"
"And how do you suggest you convince her to climb a tree?" the Frenchman grumbled, but Montague was not listening.
He had walked to the trunk of the oak tree and was eyeing up which branch he might jump from. Spotting one, quite near the top, Rob began to climb.
The parachute upon his back was mighty heavy, even though it was only made from silk. As Rob scaled his way through the branches, he felt sweat begin to pump from his body. His white shirt was sticking to his frame and his breath came in puffs and gasps.
At last, he reached the pinnacle of his climb, a bow high enough that it might be useful, but strong enough to hold him standing.
Extending his arms to balance himself, Rob walked to the edge of the branch, as far as it would support him. Nerves filled him, but he recalled the tale of Fausto Veranzio, who, in the sixteenth century, was said to have jumped from the top of St Mark's Basilica, and floated to the piazza below. Which was almost two centuries ago, Rob thought bravely, surely invention had advanced enough by now to aid his flight.
"I'm ready to jump," Rob called down to Blanchard.
"I really don't think this is a good idea," the Frenchman called back, not very supportive, even though Rob had paid him enough coin.
"What do the French know?" Rob muttered to himself, as he arranged the silk chute behind him, so that it would catch the air when he took his dive.
Three. Two. One.
Rob counted down in his head, taking a running leap on the count of one. He closed his eyes as he leapt into the sky, sensing the chute behind him lift.
It was working, he thought, opening his eyes so that he might witness his own miraculous flight. It was really working!
An insistent shredding noise interrupted his celebrations, and Rob's descent came to an abrupt halt. He craned his head to find that the silk chute had become entangled in a branch, leaving him hanging some fifteen feet from the ground.
"My parachute," Blanchard wailed below him.
"My neck," Rob roared back, for it did not take a genius to realise that the torn silk would soon give way.
Three. Two. One.
Rob counted again in his head and braced himself as the chute tore, sending him hurtling to the ground below. Somehow, Rob managed to turn himself, so that the largest part of his body to make contact with the ground was his posterior and not his head.
" Sacré bleu!" Blanchard moaned, as he rushed to inspect the silk chute.
"Oh, I'm fine," Rob groused, as he slowly stood himself up, "Don't worry about me."
The Frenchman paid him no heed, instead he inspected the silk canopy, which was sporting a rather large tear.
"It should be alright," he finally told Rob, "Though I shall bill you for the repairs."
"Yes, yes," Rob sighed, "Send me the bill. Lud. I am such a fool."
"A deaf fool at that," Blanchard agreed, "For I told you this would not work."
"Well, what am I supposed to do now?" Rob frowned, "I left my lady three days ago, promising her that I would teach her how to fly. How am I supposed to face her now?"
Blanchard frowned, as he stroked his neat beard thoughtfully.
"You are courting this girl, non ?" he asked, and Rob nodded in reply. "And, to be clear, your method of courting her has involved abandoning her in favour of jumping out of a tree with me?"
"Er, yes," Rob answered, wondering where the French man was headed.
"You English," Blanchard rolled his eyes, "So unskilled at the art of love."
"That we might be," Robert retorted, hotly, his pride wounded, "But at least we succeed more at war than the French."
