On reaching Vitry, I made my terms for dinner with the landlady of the principal inn—­who was literally as sharp as a razor.  However, we had a comfortable room, a good plain dinner, with an excellent bottle of Vin de Beaune, for three francs each.  “Could Monsieur refuse this trifling payment?” He could not.  Before dinner I strolled to the principal church—­ which is indeed a structure of a most noble appearance—­like that of St. Sulpice in form, and perhaps of a little more than half its size.  It is the largest parish church which I have yet seen; but it is comparatively modern.  It was Sunday; and a pleasing spectacle presented itself on entering.  A numerous group of young women, dressed almost entirely in white, with white caps and veils, were singing a sort of evening hymn—­ which I understood to be called the Chaplet of the Virgin.  Their voices, unaccompanied by instrumental music, sounded sweetly from the loftiness of the roof; and every singer seemed to be touched with the deepest sense of devotion.  They sang in an attitude with the body leaning forward, and the head gently inclined.  The silence of the place—­its distance from the metropolis—­the grey aspect of the heavens—­and the advanced hour of the day ... all contributed to produce in our minds very pleasing and yet serious sensations.  I shall not easily forget the hymn called THE CHAPLET OF THE VIRGIN, as it was sung in the church of Vitry.

After leaving this place we successively changed horses at Longchamp and at St. Dizier.  To our great comfort, it began to threaten rain.  While the horses were being changed at the former place, I sat down upon a rough piece of stone, in the high road, by the side of a well dressed paysanne, and asked her if she remembered the retreat of Bonaparte in the campaign of 1814—­and whether he had passed there?  She said she remembered it well.  Bonaparte was on horseback, a little in advance of his troops—­and ambled gently, within six paces of where we were sitting.  His head was rather inclined, and he appeared to be very thoughtful. St. Dizier was the memorable place upon which Bonaparte made a rapid retrograde march, in order to get into the rear of the allied troops, and thus possess himself of their supplies.  But this desperate movement, you know, cost him his capital, and eventually his empire.  St. Dizier is rather a large place, and the houses are almost uniformly white.  Night and rain came on together as we halted to change horses.  But we were resolved upon another stage—­to Saudrupt:  and were now about entering the department of LORRAINE.