The bones of S. Francis of Sales lie in the church of S. Francois in Annecy, and I made a pilgrimage in search of them through very unpleasant streets.  After a time, the Italian west front of the church appeared; but the main door led into a demonstrative bakery, and the door of the north aisle was obscured by oleanders and a striped awning, and over it appeared the legend, ‘Entree de l’Hotel.’  As a man politely explained, they had built S. Francis another church, and utilised the old one.  The town itself seemed to be of the squalid style of antiquity—­old, no doubt, but very dirty.  It is pervaded by streams, which crop up among the houses, and flow through dark alleys and vaulted passages, rarely coming into daylight, and suggesting all manner of dark crimes.  The red-legged French kettledrums are, if possible, more insolent here than in other places, and it is evident that the dogs are not yet reconciled to the annexation, for the guard swept through the streets amid a perfect tornado of howls from the negligent scavengers of the place.  For my own part, I was not pleased with the change of rule, when I found that since Annecy has become French, the vin d’Asti has become dear, as being now a foreign wine.

The diligence for Bonneville was to leave Annecy at half-past four in the morning; so I told them to call me at four, intending to breakfast somewhere on the way.  But of course, when four o’clock came, I had to call myself, and in a quarter of an hour a knock at the door announced half-past four.  I pounced upon the man, and remonstrated with him, but he assured me it did not matter; and when I reminded him that the diligence was to leave at half-past four, he observed philosophically that it was quite true, and I had better make haste, for the poste was very punctual.  At the door of the bureau a loaded diligence stood, marked Annecy—­Aix, and I asked had the Bonneville diligence gone?  It did not go till six, the clerk told me; but I reminded him he had said half-past four when I asked him last night.  Half-past four?—­true, here was the carriage standing at the door.  But that was for Aix, not Bonneville, I pointed out to him.  Pardon—­it was marked Aix, but was in fact meant for Bonneville.

The diligence reached the end of the by-road leading to Villaz in about half an hour, and all the fever of Geneva and Annecy seemed to fly away before the freshness of this green little lane, with clematis in full flower pervading the hedges, and huge clusters of young nuts peeping out, and promising later delights to fortunate passers-by.  But, alas! the little lane soon came to an end, and as I faced the fields of corn up the mountain-side, the hot thunderous air came rolling down in palpable billows, and oppressive clouds took possession of the surrounding hills.  Three-quarters of an hour brought me to Villaz, a close collection of houses on the hill-side, with arched stone gateways leading into the farmyards,—­a