o! More ride not
of that Clermont Escort: of other Escorts, in other Villages, not even
Two may ride; but only all curvet and prance,--impeded by stormbell and
your Village illuminating itself.

And Drouet rides and Clerk Guillaume; and the Country runs.--Goguelat
and Duke Choiseul are plunging through morasses, over cliffs, over
stock and stone, in the shaggy woods of the Clermontais; by tracks;
or trackless, with guides; Hussars tumbling into pitfalls, and lying
'swooned three quarters of an hour,' the rest refusing to march without
them. What an evening-ride from Pont-de-Sommerville; what a thirty
hours, since Choiseul quitted Paris, with Queen's-valet Leonard in the
chaise by him! Black Care sits behind the rider. Thus go they plunging;
rustle the owlet from his branchy nest; champ the sweet-scented
forest-herb, queen-of-the-meadows spilling her spikenard; and frighten
the ear of Night. But hark! towards twelve o'clock, as one guesses, for
the very stars are gone out: sound of the tocsin from Varennes? Checking
bridle, the Hussar Officer listens: "Some fire undoubtedly!"--yet rides
on, with double breathlessness, to verify.

Yes, gallant friends that do your utmost, it is a certain sort of fire:
difficult to quench.--The Korff Berline, fairly ahead of all this riding
Avalanche, reached the little paltry Village of Varennes about eleven
o'clock; hopeful, in spite of that horse-whispering Unknown. Do not all
towns now lie behind us; Verdun avoided, on our right? Within wind
of Bouille himself, in a manner; and the darkest of midsummer nights
favouring us! And so we halt on the hill-top at the South end of the
Village; expecting our relay; which young Bouille, Bouille's own son,
with his Escort of Hussars, was to have ready; for in this Village is no
Post. Distracting to think of: neither horse nor Hussar is here! Ah,
and stout horses, a proper relay belonging to Duke Choiseul, do stand at
hay, but in the Upper Village over the Bridge; and we know not of them.
Hussars likewise do wait, but drinking in the taverns. For indeed it is
six hours beyond the time; young Bouille, silly stripling, thinking
the matter over for this night, has retired to bed. And so our yellow
Couriers, inexperienced, must rove, groping, bungling, through a Village
mostly asleep: Postillions will not, for any money, go on with the tired
horses; not at least without refreshment; not they, let the Valet in
round hat argue as he likes.

Miserable