Mr. Darcy read from the pages of their guide-book, describing the history of the building, its fires, failures, and present state of incompletion. Less admirable were the facts that the Cathedral had not been finished, and—as with much of what they had seen in France—was very dirty. Yet, in spite of the centuries of grime and decay, the strange proportions of the unfinished building, and the ever-present smells, the Cathedral was an enchanting place, even more so when seen through the early rays of the day. There were several peasants who staid at their prayers about the altar, where a guide informed the Darcys that these people were beseeching the patron saint of Beauvais, St. Pierre, for rain. Mr. Darcy asked her if she thought the saint would oblige them, and she looked her astonishment at such a question, and replied, “Bien sûr, Monsieur! C’est pour cela qu’il est notre Saint!”

Elizabeth and Darcy wandered through the abbey and its grounds, marvelling at the majestic sight of the royal tombs and their inscriptions. Buonaparte had repaired and restored the vaults, installing vast bronze gates to secure them, and erecting three enormous altars in the subterranean chapels, dedicated respectively to Clovis, Charlemagne, and the princes of the Capetian dynasty. One of the bronze gates originally placed in front of the vault that had been intended to receive his own family, had been subsequently replaced by a door of black marble. Elizabeth paused by the statue of the Duchess d’Angoulême, who forever knelt before the tomb of Louis XII, remarking to Darcy that she must surely be uncomfortable after all this time. He smilingly agreed and suggested that they stop at a pleasant-looking café they had passed en route, for a rest and some coffee.

Georgiana, meanwhile, whilst innocent in her intentions, was to commit what Lady Catherine would have considered to be an inexpiable breach of propriety for a lady in her position, as her first letter was to Mrs. Annesley at Pemberley:

21st March
Beauvais, France

DEAR MRS. ANNESLEY,

The pace of travel affords much leisure for correspondence, and I expect to surprise you by writing so soon after our departure. I am in hopes of hearing that you are well, and enjoying the relative peace and quiet of Pemberley in the absence of its master and mistresses. I miss Mademoiselle Blanche already, and, if possible, I would have smuggled my beautiful Blanche on board the King George, and am quite sure that she would be happily sitting on my lap as I write this, asking me to express her pity for the poor, thin chats here who wander the streets, crying for food. Please give her many kisses from me—I will send more next time I write to you—and tell her that she is much missed and that I imagine myself telling her about all of the sights we see.