At length, Georgiana was able to acknowledge her restlessness and ascribe its origin as her impatience to reach Paris. Returning to her habitual course of musings, it was soon clear that she was grown fretful over her anticipation in meeting Colonel Fitzwilliam. Such agitation was unreasonable, she told herself; the Colonel had agreed to join them in Geneva. Hope, like many human conceptions, is bound less by the powers of the mind than the aspirations of the heart; a true comprehension of the subject would reveal that Georgiana had, since their arrival at Dover, never despaired of seeing Colonel Fitzwilliam around every corner, on every passing horse, at every post-inn, surprising them with his appearance days sooner than planned. The muted sentiments of her heart were now grown transiently optimistic of his forming a new species of affection for herself—away from Pemberley, away from the scenes of her childhood, Colonel Fitzwilliam would view her differently—not as brother or tutor, but with a new regard: the eyes of a lover. Paris, the city of endless charms and bewitching beauty, must have the intended effect, if such were possible anywhere. Her Utopia, however ardently desired, must be subdued; there was no reason, other than her own imagination, to cause such a perturbation of spirits. It was foolish—unreasonable. However, her fancy would obtrude, and an inexpressible need to be alone would not be overcome; Georgiana was forced to concede to her disquiet and ask if she might spend the morning with her correspondence, whilst Mr. and Mrs. Darcy went to church. Aware that Georgiana’s spirits seemed unaccountably low, although without any understanding as to why, the couple could see no reason to disoblige her and, early the following morning, set off by themselves to attend the Romish services at the abbey, there being no Protestant church in that town.

“This fine tracery reminds me much of the Abbey at Bath,” said Mr. Darcy to his wife, as they walked along the aisles of the church, following the service. “However, here there are almost entire walls of glass; this construction must be even later than that at Bath.”

“It is exquisite. From the outside, it appears almost light enough to float upwards to Heaven, with only the delicate buttresses to anchor it to our own Earth,” Elizabeth replied. “I am no connoisseur, but I could look at these tapestries for some time, and still, I believe, find new details to admire. The choir is incomparable, yet, I do not believe I have seen anything more beautiful than the windows. With the light shining through them, they appear more likely by the hand of God, than any hand of man.”