Old-Dragoon Drouet.
In this manner, however, has the Day bent downwards. Wearied
mortals are creeping home from their field-labour; the
village-artisan eats with relish his supper of herbs, or has
strolled forth to the village-street for a sweet mouthful of air
and human news. Still summer-eventide everywhere! The great Sun
hangs flaming on the utmost North-West; for it is his longest day
this year. The hill-tops rejoicing will ere long be at their
ruddiest, and blush Good-night. The thrush, in green dells, on
long-shadowed leafy spray, pours gushing his glad serenade, to
the babble of brooks grown audibler; silence is stealing over the
Earth. Your dusty Mill of Valmy, as all other mills and
drudgeries, may furl its canvass, and cease swashing and
circling. The swenkt grinders in this Treadmill of an Earth have
ground out another Day; and lounge there, as we say, in
village-groups; movable, or ranked on social stone-seats;[384]
their children, mischievous imps, sporting about their feet.
Unnotable hum of sweet human gossip rises from this Village of
Sainte-Menehould, as from all other villages. Gossip mostly
sweet, unnotable; for the very Dragoons are French and gallant;
nor as yet has the Paris-and-Verdun Diligence, with its leathern
bag, rumbled in, to terrify the minds of men.
One figure nevertheless we do note at the last door of the
Village: that figure in loose-flowing nightgown, of Jean Baptiste
Drouet, Master of the Post here. An acrid choleric man, rather
dangerous-looking; still in the prime of life, though he has
served, in his time as a Condé Dragoon. This day from an early
hour, Drouet got his choler stirred, and has been kept fretting.
Hussar Goguelat in the morning saw good, by way of thrift, to
bargain with his own Innkeeper, not with Drouet regular _Maître
de Poste_, about some gig-horse for the sending back of his gig;
which thing Drouet perceiving came over in red ire, menacing the
Inn-keeper, and would not be appeased. Wholly an unsatisfactory
day. For Drouet is an acrid Patriot too, was at the Paris Feast
of Pikes: and what do these Bouillé Soldiers mean? Hussars, with
their gig, and a vengeance to it!—have hardly been thrust out,
when Dandoins and his fresh Dragoons arrive from Clermont, and
stroll. For what purpose? Choleric Drouet steps out and steps in,
with long-flowing nightgown; looking abroad, with that sharpness
of faculty which stirred choler gives to man.
On the other hand, mark Captain Dandoins on the street of that
same Village; sauntering with a face of indifference, a heart
eaten of black care! For no Korff Berline makes its appearance.
The great Sun flames broader towards setting: one’s heart
flutters on the verge of dread unutterabilities.
By Heaven! Here is the yellow Bodyguard Courier; spurring fast,
in the ruddy evening light! Steady, O Dandoins, stand with
inscrutable indifferent face; though the yellow blockhead spurs
past the Post-house; inquires to find it; and stirs the Village,
all delighted with his fine livery.—Lumbering along with its
mountains of bandboxes, and Chaise behind, the Korff Berline
rolls in; huge Acapulco-ship with its Cockboat, having got thus
far. The eyes of the Villagers look enlightened, as such eyes do
when a coach-transit, which is an event, occurs for them.
Strolling Dragoons respectfully, so fine are the yellow liveries,
bring hand to helmet; and a lady in gipsy-hat responds with a
grace peculiar to her.[385] Dandoins stands with folded arms, and
what look of indifference and disdainful garrison-air a man can,
while the heart is like leaping out of him. Curled disdainful
moustachio; careless glance,—which however surveys the
Village-groups, and does not like them. With his eye he bespeaks
the yellow Courier. Be quick, be quick! Thick-headed Yellow
cannot understand the eye; comes up mumbling, to ask in words:
seen of the Village!
Nor is Post-master Drouet unobservant, all this while; but steps
out and steps in, with his long-flowing nightgown, in the level
sunlight; prying into several things. When a man’s faculties, at
the right time, are sharpened by choler, it may lead to much.
That Lady in slouched gypsy-hat, though sitting back in the
Carriage, does she not resemble some one we have seen, some
time;—at the Feast of Pikes, or elsewhere? And this _Grosse-Tête_
in round hat and peruke, which, looking rearward, pokes itself
out from time to time, methinks there are features in it—? Quick,
Sieur Guillaume, Clerk of the _Directoire_, bring me a new
Assignat! Drouet scans the new Assignat; compares the Paper-money
Picture with the Gross-Head in round hat there: by Day and Night!
you might say the one was an attempted Engraving of the other.
And this march of Troops; this sauntering and whispering,—I see
it!
Drouet Post-master of this Village, hot Patriot, Old Dragoon of
Condé, consider, therefore, what thou wilt do. And fast: for
behold the new Berline, expeditiously yoked, cracks whipcord, and
rolls away!—Drouet dare not, on the spur of the instant, clutch
the bridles in his own two hands; Dandoins, with broadsword,
might hew you off. Our poor Nationals, not one of them here, have
three hundred fusils but then no powder; besides one is not sure,
only morally-certain. Drouet, as an adroit Old-Dragoon of Condé
does what is advisablest: privily bespeaks Clerk Guillaume,
Old-Dragoon of Condé he too; privily, while Clerk Guillaume is
saddling two of the fleetest horses, slips over to the Townhall
to whisper a word; then mounts with Clerk Guillaume; and the two
bound eastward in pursuit, to _see_ what can be done.
They bound eastward, in sharp trot; their moral-certainty
permeating the Village, from the Townhall outwards, in busy
whispers. Alas! Captain Dandoins orders his Dragoons to mount;
but they, complaining of long fast, demand bread-and-cheese
first;—before which brief repast can be eaten, the whole Village
is permeated; not whispering now, but blustering and shrieking!
National Volunteers, in hurried muster, shriek for gunpowder;
Dragoons halt between Patriotism and Rule of the Service, between
bread and cheese and fixed bayonets: Dandoins hands secretly his
Pocket-book, with its secret despatches, to the rigorous
Quartermaster: the very Ostlers have stable-forks and flails. The
rigorous Quartermaster, half-saddled, cuts out his way with the
sword’s edge, amid levelled bayonets, amid Patriot vociferations,
adjurations, flail-strokes; and rides frantic;[386]—few or even
none following him; the rest, so sweetly constrained consenting
to stay there.
And thus the new Berline rolls; and Drouet and Guillaume gallop
after it, and Dandoins’s Troopers or Trooper gallops after them;
and Sainte-Menehould, with some leagues of the King’s Highway, is
in explosion;—and your Military thunder-chain has gone off in a
self-destructive manner; one may fear with the frightfullest
issues!