One of the problems with inventing something is that the time eventually arrives when you have to test your invention out, which usually involves testing it yourself. That’s not so bad when it comes to testing something relatively harmless. Galileo, for instance, used his newly refined telescope design to discover the moons of Jupiter in 1610, while the inventor of the camera, Joseph Nicephore Niepce, tested his invention out by simply snapping a picture of his Burgundy country estate in 1827. But if you’ve invented something potentially more dangerous, then the task is a little different.

In 1903, for instance, a General Electric employee named William Nelson was killed when he crashed a prototype motorized bicycle he had invented. In 1921, a Soviet inventor named Valerian Abakovsky died when a highspeed, airplane-powered railcar he had designed called the Aerowagon derailed on the railway tracks between Moscow and the city of Tula. Additionally, in 1928, a Russian physician named Alexander Bogdanov died when he gave himself a blood transfusion infected with malaria and tuberculosis as part of an ill-fated quest to achieve human rejuvenation.

Another person who tragically succumbed to a creation of their own was an Austrian-born French inventor named Franz Reichelt. What made Reichelt’s invention so remarkable, however, was that he decided to test his design very publicly, before a crowd of spectators, at one of the world’s most famous landmarks.

Reichelt was a tailor by trade, working in Paris in the early 20th century, when aviation was a burgeoning field. He became interested in potentially using his skills cutting fabric and tailoring garments to create a portable working parachute. As luck would have it, in 1911 a Colonel Lalance of the aeronautical “Aero-Club de France” instituted a cash prize of 10,000 francs to anyone who could create a parachute, suitable for the club’s aviators, that did not exceed 25kg (55lbs) in weight. Spurred on by the prize, Reichelt threw himself into his design work. Ultimately, he came up with what he called a “coat parachute,” or “parachute suit”—a wearable, cape-like outfit that (should the need ever arise) could billow out behind its wearer and lower them safely to the ground.

After several months’ work refining his design, in late 1911 Reichelt announced to the Paris press that he had obtained permission from the city authorities to test his design on a mannequin, which he would dress in his parachute and throw from the top of the Eiffel Tower. A date was arranged, and at 8:00 a.m. on February 4, 1912, Reichelt, along with a few supporters, a photographer, and a journalist, climbed the stairs of the Eiffel Tower, hauling his prototype parachute with him.

On the ground, 187ft beneath him, a large crowd of spectators and as many as 30 more journalists had gathered to watch, eager to witness yet another step forward in the history of aviation. Perhaps encouraged by attracting such a large crowd—and perhaps keen to take his place in the history books, at the last minute, Reichelt foolishly decided that rather than throw a mannequin from the Tower, he would take the opportunity to test his parachute himself. The friends and supporters who were with him tried to persuade him not to, but Reichelt was adamant. “I want to try the experiment myself and without trickery,” he explained, “as I intend to prove the worth of my invention.”

At 8:22 a.m., Reichelt stepped out onto the guard rail of the Tower, paused to test the speed and direction of the wind by dropping a loose slip of paper into the air, and, after a final pause, jumped from the Eiffel Tower. It was an immensely brave stunt. It was also his last.

Almost immediately after jumping, Reichelt became tangled in the loose fabric of his parachute. The 300 square feet of silk that should have billowed out behind him, to create a 16ft tall dome, decelerating his fall, failed to do so. Swamped by the folds of cloth, Reichelt hurtled to the ground below. He died instantly, becoming yet another brave yet tragic entry in the often uncompromising history of invention.