He arrived at Langres in the afternoon of a foggy October day, and inquired immediately at the hotel how he could procure a carriage to take him that evening to Vivey.  They found him a driver, but, to his surprise, the man refused to take the journey until the following morning, on account of the dangerous state of the crossroads, where vehicles might stick fast in the mire if they ventured there after nightfall.  Julien vainly endeavored to effect an arrangement with him, and the discussion was prolonged in the courtyard of the hotel.  Just as the man was turning away, another, who had overheard the end of the colloquy, came up to young de Buxieres, and offered to undertake the journey for twenty francs.

“I have a good horse,” said he to Julien; “I know the roads, and will guarantee that we reach Vivey before nightfall.”

The bargain was quickly made; and in half an hour, Julien de Buxieres was rolling over the plain above Langres, in a shaky old cabriolet, the muddy hood of which bobbed over at every turn of the wheel, while the horse kept up a lively trot over the stones.

The clouds were low, and the road lay across bare and stony prairies, the gray expanse of which became lost in the distant mist.  This depressing landscape would have made a disagreeable impression on a less unobserving traveller, but, as we have said, Julien looked only inward, and the phenomena of the exterior world influenced him only unconsciously.  Half closing his eyes, and mechanically affected by the rhythmical tintinnabulation of the little bells, hanging around the horse’s neck, he had resumed his meditations, and considered how he should arrange his life in this, to him, unknown country, which would probably be his own for some time to come.  Nevertheless, when, at the end of the level plain, the road turned off into the wooded region, the unusual aspect of the forest aroused his curiosity.  The tufted woods and lofty trees, in endless succession under the fading light, impressed him by their profound solitude and their religious silence.  His loneliness was in sympathy with the forest, which seemed contemporary with the Sleeping Beauty of the wood, the verdant walls of which were to separate him forever from the world of cities.  Henceforth, he could be himself, could move freely, dress as he wished, or give way to his dreaming, without fearing to encounter the ironical looks of idle and wondering neighbors.  For the first time since his departure from his former home, he experienced a feeling of joy and serenity; the influence of the surroundings, so much in harmony with his wishes, unlocked his tongue, and made him communicative.

He made up his mind to speak to the guide, who was smoking at his side and whipping his horse.

“Are we far from Vivey now?”

“That depends, Monsieur—­as the crow flies, the distance is not very great, and if we could go by the roads, we should be there in one short hour.  Unfortunately, on turning by the Allofroy farm, we shall have to leave the highroad and take the cross path; and then—­my gracious! we shall plunge into the ditch down there, and into perdition.”