The three left St. Martin early, continuing on to St. Gervais-les-Bains to view the famed cascade; they found the water hot and stinking of sulphur. None of the Darcy party felt sufficiently ill to drink of it. En route, they passed numerous queer waggons called a charabanc in those parts, a sort of dray with numerous forward-facing seats and no cover; the noise and clatter on the stones roused considerable sympathy for the unfortunate occupants who must nearly be shaken to pieces and stone-deaf by the end of the day. Mont Blanc continued to dominate the scenery as the Darcys travelled along the base of the mountain, occasionally hidden by a bend in the road, bursting suddenly back into view with a blinding whiteness in the rays of the sun.

Arriving at Chammouni in the early afternoon, the party decided to rest themselves and their horses for two days. Georgiana had been feeling increasingly unwell, and even Mr. Darcy was in depressed spirits from the effects of the arduous journey. The town was sufficiently commodious to boast of two inns; having chosen the Hôtel de Londres, the family were startled at daybreak the following morning by the unceasing roar of the close-by mill. However, the view commanded by the hôtel was magnificent, including a view of Mont Blanc’s two glaciers, one at each side. As Georgiana’s maid was quite ill the next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy concluded that this was the most hospitable place to rest until all were ready to continue, and fortuitous in offering an healthy diversion in the exploration of such magnificent surroundings. Indeed, immediately following breakfast, Georgiana left the Darcys and other travellers, pleading indisposition.

“Husband,” began Elizabeth that evening after they had left the others, “Georgiana is not such a great walker as we, but does it not strike you that she is declining to accompany us, retiring early, and such-like more frequently since we departed Geneva?”

“Yes, Lizzy, it does. I have been noticing it with concern. I would think she is saddened by the loss of Blanche, but her indisposition seems to increase as we pass the days, and not otherwise, as I would expect.”

“I agree, and cannot fathom why she will recover her spirits—such as when you presented the little mouse, or when you are directing her sketching—only to resume her dejection, and to an ever-increasing degree. I have always believed pleasure an antidote to low spirits, but in this case, it seems entirely otherwise! It would be hard, indeed, were this to be the general case.”

“One fears to do too much, as well as not enough. I wonder if we are aggravating some malaise by pretending to understand her need for solitude, without even the slightest idea of the cause. This is a most wretched conundrum, and one entirely beyond my powers to apprehend. You are better at these puzzles of the mind than I, Lizzy; surely you must have some notion.”