The day of our departure was very fine, tending rather to heat.  In a little half hour we cleared the barrier of St. Martin, and found ourselves on the broad, open, route royale—­bordered by poplars and limes.  To the right, was the pretty village of Belleville: to the left, at the distance of some six or eight English miles, we observed Montmorenci, St. Germain en Laye, and, considerably nearer, St. Denis.  All these places, together with Versailles, I had previously visited—­Montmorenci and St. Denis twice—­ and intended to have given you an account of them; but you could have received from me scarcely any thing more than what the pages of the commonest tour would have supplied you with.  We first changed horses at Bondy, the forest of which was once very extensive and much celebrated.  You now behold little more than a formal avenue of trees.  The Castle of Raincy, situated in this forest, is to the right, well-wooded—­and the property of the Duke of Orleans. Ville-Parisis was the next prettiest spot, in our route to Claye, where we again changed horses.  The whole route, from Ville-Parisis to Meaux, was exceedingly pleasing and even picturesque.  At Meaux we dined, and have reason to remember the extravagant charges of the woman who kept the inn.  The heat of the day was now becoming rather intense.  While our veal-cutlet was preparing, we visited the church; which had frequently, and most picturesquely, peeped out upon us during our route.  It is a large, cathedral-like looking church, without transepts, Only one tower (in the west front), is built—­with the evident intention of raising another in the same aspect.  They were repairing the west front, which is somewhat elaborately ornamented; but so intensely hot was the sun—­on our coming out to examine it—­that we were obliged to retreat into the interior, which seemed to contain the atmosphere of a different climate.  A tall, well-dressed, elderly priest, in company with a middle-aged lady, were ascending the front steps to attend divine service.  Hot as it was, the priest saluted us, and stood a half minute without his black cap—­with the piercing rays of the sun upon a bald head.  The bell tolled softly, and there was a quiet calm about the whole which almost invited, us to postpone our attack upon the dinner we had ordered.

Ten francs for a miserable cutlet—­and a yet more wretchedly-prepared fricandeau—­with half boiled artichokes, and a bottle of undrinkable vin ordinaire—­was a charge sufficiently monstrous to have excited the well known warmth of expostulation of an English traveller—­but it was really too hot to talk aloud!  The landlady pocketed my money, and I pocketed the affront which so shameful a charge may be considered as having put upon me.  We now rolled leisurely on towards La Ferte-sous-Jouarre: about five French-leagues from Meaux—­not without stopping to change horses at St. Jean, &c.  The heat would