The road between Houdan and Faverolles is often impassable in the stony depths of winter. 1867 was no different, and the children of the two villages had decorated it with rows of silent bonhommes des neige.
To walk past them at midnight, after a liberal libation of Pernod is a thing plus troublant. But, as I passed them back the other way, this early fresh snow-fallen morn, one appeared to be resting, reclined upon the frozen bed, as three ice-footed hens pecked at some prize below.