In the morning, as they were making ready to get into their carriage, they noticed the Paris diligence which had stopt at their inn. Unlike the light, graceful English mail coaches, the French equivalents were unwieldy, heavy machines capable of carrying only nine passengers. This singular equipage was drawn by five horses in an awkward and—as with the coach on the previous day—ugly collection of rope harness, and which, despite the additional horse, could travel no faster than a man’s pace. The postillion wore a ridiculous glazed hat, a fur apron, and jackboots that appeared to have been borrowed from a giant of children’s fables. The Darcy carriages, despite being substantially larger than the diligence and carrying more weight, soon left the crawling, jumbling diligence behind, although the latter carriage had departed at least ten minutes prior to their own. Besides the lumbering diligences, the private carriages of the Belgians and French were queer contrivances, the former being little more than the size of a British pony-coach, making the passengers atop look like Gulliver in Lilliput, and the latter having such tiny front wheels as to appear to be constantly driving into the ground, instead of riding parallel with the roadway. In deference to the fairness of comparison, Georgiana noted that the Belgian equipage was proper and clean, and their drivers, who wore tall hats and greatcoats, regarded the reins as the best method for directing the horses. In contrast, the more interesting attire of the French coachmen, as even those in livery appeared in coats of red, bright blue, or even yellow, caused Mr. Darcy to declare that the entire race were indistinguishable from British footmen, allowing, however, that the footmen were less exceptionally dressed.

South of Calais, the terrain was flat and uninteresting, leading Elizabeth to remark,

“Does this country not remind you of Wiltshire and Sussex, particularly the less-attractive areas? The houses in this part of France are certainly a contrast to the neat, well-kept cottages we passed en route to Dover, and the roads in this section are rutted and in a greater state of disrepair than the English highways, to my eye.”

“I am not complimentary of the state of the road, to be sure,” agreed Mr. Darcy. “The French preference for straight roads, cutting the way through fields and villages without any thought of going around them, not only cuts up the countryside with a most disagreeable result, but makes the road quite dull.”