The next morning was lovely.  I went to my maid’s room, just across the corridor to see the motors start.  All our rooms looked out on the park, and on the other side of the corridor was a succession of small rooms giving on the court-yard, which were always kept for the maids and valets of the guests.  It was an excellent arrangement, for in some of the big chateaux, where the servants were at the top of the house, or far off in another wing, communications were difficult.  There were two carriages and a sort of tapissiere following with guns, servants, and cartridges.  I had a message from Mme. A. asking if I had slept well, and sending me the paper; and a visit from Comtesse de B. who, I think, was rather anxious about my garments.  She had told me the night before that the ploughed fields were something awful, and hoped I had brought short skirts and thick boots.  I think the sight of my short Scotch homespun skirt and high boots reassured her.  We started about 11.30 in an open carriage with plenty of furs and wraps.  It wasn’t really very cold—­just a nice nip in the air, and no wind.  We drove straight into the woods from the park.  There is a beautiful green alley which faces one just going out of the gate, but it was too steep to mount in a carriage.  The woods are very extensive, the roads not too bad—­considering the season, extremely well kept.  Every now and then through an opening in the trees we had a pretty view over the plains.  As we got near the pavilion we heard shots not very far off—­evidently the shooters were getting hungry and coming our way.  It was a pretty rustic scene as we arrived.  The pavilion, a log house, standing in a clearing, alleys branching off in every direction, a horse and cart which had brought the provisions from the chateau tied to one of the trees.  It was shut in on three sides, wide open in front, a bright fire burning and a most appetizing table spread.  Just outside another big fire was burning, the cook waiting for the first sportsman to appear to begin his classic dishes, omelette au lard and ragoat de mouton.  I was rather hungry and asked for a piece of the pain de menage they had for the traqueurs (beaters).  I like the brown country bread so much better than the little rolls and crisp loaves most people ask for in France.  Besides our own breakfast there was an enormous pot on the fire with what looked like an excellent substantial soup for the men.  In a few minutes the party arrived; first the shooters, each man carrying his gun; then the game cart, which looked very well garnished, an army of beaters bringing up the rear.  They made quite a picturesque group, all dressed in white.  There have been so many accidents in some of the big shoots, people imprudently firing at something moving in the bushes, which proved to be a man and not a roebuck, that M. A. dresses all his men in white.  The gentlemen were very cheerful, said they had had capital sport, and were quite ready for their breakfast.  We didn’t linger very long at table, as the days were shortening fast, and we wanted to follow some of the battues.  The beaters had their breakfast while we were having ours—­were all seated on the ground around a big kettle of soup, with huge hunks of brown bread on their tin plates.