At the French post-houses, the aubergiste would come forth in his dirty apron and greasy hands to welcome the travellers, entirely unlike the English inns, where travellers would be met by the inn keeper, whose wife was usually at the hearth. There was also a marked distinction to the manner of speech of the servants; in England, the servants were quiet and universally reserved, whereas in France, it was considered polite to discourse with the guests, an injunction which the young Frenchwomen (usually the daughters of the inn-keeper) took to heart, conversing most readily and pleasantly with every class of their custom. Their conversation was intelligent and lively, with no hint of either impertinence or immodesty. In person, they were well-looking girls, gaily dressed, clean, and much given to a mirth which in no way impeded their unceasing politeness and attentions to the desires of their guests. When their guests did not need their service, the women would sit in a room next to the kitchen, employed with mending or other needle-work, chatting and laughing in a manner delightful to hear.

It took only a few days on the road for the Darcys to accustom themselves to the pace demanded by travel. The chaise was extremely comfortable, having been carefully designed and equipped for such a journey, and even with allowance for frequent stops along the way, they travelled quickly. By nightfall on the first day, they alighted at Boulogne where they rested at Parkers’s Hôtel d’Angleterre. The town of Boulogne was very pretty, with crumbling, ancient city walls now overgrown by trees and vines. They had passed several elderly peasants walking along the road; to a man, they wore cocked hats and respectable suits of a dark-coloured cloth, very similar, noted Elizabeth, to the Sunday cloathes of the English villagers, so clean and proper was their appearance.

At their inn, the obliging aubergiste endeavored to demonstrate the extent of his desire to accommodate the habits of the English, serving the Darcys his own rendition of an English supper. Instead of the delightful meals they had thus-far enjoyed, this dinner was proved a disagreeable admixture of the worst of the cookery of both nations. All three stared at their bowls of melted butter afloat in rancid oil, which—for some unaccountable reason—was served to them in a teacup. This was followed by extraordinarily tough pieces of meat, which were denominated, by their beaming chef de cuisine, as veal cutlets. Despite being prodigiously hungry, the Darcys managed to eat little other than the bread—which, thankfully, was the true French bread—Mr. Darcy excusing their poor performance to the proprietor as the effects of indisposition due to travelling.