At Martigny, they again departed from their prior route, turning sharply north toward Villeneuve. On this route, they passed over the famous waterfall of Pissevache and the bridge of St. Maurice, a single span over-arching the narrow valley with its ancient castle atop a promontory, and dividing the Vaud from the Valais. The waterfall had been one of the most sublime in Europe until an enterprising miller had built a mill directly beneath the fall, breaking away the picturesque projection of rock so as to unify the course of the stream, to the benefit of his wheel. The mill no longer existed, and the view of the Pissevache, as rendered in the older drawings, shewed a greater fall of water as it ran over the amputated projection; still, it was a very remarkable torrent.

Georgiana now read from her guide-books just to provide some relief for the time that must necessarily pass until their arrival back in London. She read aloud that the torrent of La Salenche fell from more than 700 feet. The spray from the cascade produced an halo of rainbows in the sun, and the noise could be heard for several miles, were the wind in the right direction. St. Maurice had been the Roman Agaunum, the place to which they conveyed their dead from all over the adjacent countryside for interment; the pavement of the church at St. Maurice had been constructed from the sepulchral stones of the ancient graves. The very bridge they were crossing over had been built in the time of the Roman Cæsars. The mountains at that point were as high as 18,000 feet above the sea. Above the town lived a blind hermit who walked the steep slope to the village and back every day. She read everything and anything in an effort to distract all of their thoughts from what lay ahead at the conclusion of what had begun as a trip of pleasure. No-one wanted to be on the road; they were all three desperately wishing to be delivered from the fatigues of the wearisome, joyless return journey, yet dreading each moment that they were come closer to its unalterable, wretched conclusion.

Passing through the valley, the Darcys rolled past Monthey, stopping for the night at Bex, as it was reputed as being one of the very best inns in the world; the Darcys were most agreeably confirmed in that opinion, and Elizabeth and her husband agreed that—under different circumstances—both the inn and its surrounding scenery was worthy of a longer visit. They continued on the next day through Aigle, Le Rhône, and Roche, before reaching Villeneuve.