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!  ‘For five-and-thirty minutes’ by the King’s watch, the Berline is at a dead stand; Round-hat arguing with Churnboots; tired horses slobbering their meal-and-water; yellow Couriers groping, bungling;—­young Bouille asleep, all the while, in the Upper Village, and Choiseul’s fine team standing there at hay.  No help for it; not with a King’s ransom:  the horses deliberately slobber, Round-hat argues, Bouille sleeps.  And mark now, in the thick night, do not two Horsemen, with jaded trot, come clank-clanking; and start with half-pause, if one noticed them, at sight of this dim mass of a Berline, and its dull slobbering and arguing; then prick off faster, into the Village?  It is Drouet, he and Clerk Guillaume!  Still ahead, they two, of the whole riding hurlyburly; unshot, though some brag of having chased them.  Perilous is Drouet’s errand also; but he is an Old-Dragoon, with his wits shaken thoroughly awake.

The Village of Varennes lies dark and slumberous; a most unlevel Village, of inverse saddle-shape, as men write.  It sleeps; the rushing of the River Aire singing lullaby to it.  Nevertheless from the Golden Arms, Bras d’Or Tavern, across that sloping marketplace, there still comes shine of social light; comes voice of rude drovers, or the like, who have not yet taken the stirrup-cup; Boniface Le Blanc, in white apron, serving them:  cheerful to behold.  To this Bras d’Or, Drouet enters, alacrity looking through his eyes:  he nudges Boniface, in all privacy, “Camarade, es tu bon Patriote, Art thou a good Patriot?”—­“Si je suis!” answers Boniface.—­“In that case,” eagerly whispers Drouet—­what whisper is needful, heard of Boniface alone. (Deux Amis, vi. 139-78.)