In the opportunity to better see the countryside, the Darcys found their deviation from the usual tour route extremely pleasant. Leaving Belle Aire by the southerly roads leading out from Paris, the Darcys found them to be wide and smooth, some with even the convenience of paving in the centre. The latter had the effect of producing a disagreeable clatter of noise, but certainly made the job of the horses much easier, and the journey faster. They passed through the villages of Villejuif and Fromenteau, where the country was become especially delightful. Travelling along the Seine, and passing through pretty villages and by classically stiled broken columns marking the half-leagues along the road, they caught glimpses of fine châteaux amongst the vineyards on the hillsides, interspersed amongst the plantations. They stopt for the night at Essone, a village remarkable for nothing of note. The next day brought them through Chailly and to the dense forest of Fontainebleau, which was superbly lush and fine.

However, the verdant countryside also forced the Darcys to chuse between the unhappy alternatives of opening the carriage blinds to view the surroundings and breathe the fresh, cool forest air—simultaneously being devoured by the swarms of insects which ceaselessly surrounded the carriage—or closing the windows, depriving their senses, but sparing their skin. Elizabeth expressed her concern for poor Mr. Harmon, the under-coachman, and the footmen, all forced to endure the relentless plague of insects, whilst Georgiana replied that the horses were suffering as well, and they had neither great-coats nor livery to protect them. Mr. Darcy agreed, suggesting that they put the windows up, and unfasten them every now and again to see if the time or temperature had any effect on the inconvenience. Adding insult to injury, foregoing any attempt to sleep in the confines of the forest and the cloud of pests, they continued on, passing Fontainebleau, driving on until the light of day and their horses were become exhausted.

As there was no town of any significance on the road before Pont-sur-Yonne—yet another twenty miles distant—the Darcys were compelled to stop for the night at a dirty little village called Moret. The insects being no less numerous or voracious within than without, they collected their things before the first light and left as expeditiously as two large carriages full of people and their belongings could do.

Even at this hour, the women were already washing linen in the river, beating the cloathes with wooden mallets to clean them. They knelt along the stream on the large rocks that formed the shore, spreading their brightly coloured garments on the bank behind to dry in the sun. The costumes of the women working along the stream were otherwise unremarkable, except for being noticeably dirty. The effort spent in the washing seemed all but invisible on the cloathing of the washers.