which stretched away to the "sapinette" at the top of the lawn without
a speck or flaw. There was no trace of path or road, or little low
shrubs, and even the branches of the big lime-trees were heavy with
snow. It was a bright, beautiful day--blue sky and a not too pale
winter sun. Not a vehicle of any kind had ventured out. In the middle
of the road were footprints deep in the snow where evidently the
keepers and some workmen had passed. Nothing and no one had arrived
from outside, neither postman, butcher, nor baker. The chef was in a
wild state; but I assured him we could get on with eggs and game, of
which there was always a provision for one day at any rate.

About eleven, Pauline and I started out. We thought we would go as far
as the lodge and see what was going on on the highroad. We put on
thick boots, gaiters and very short skirts, and had imagined we could
walk in the footsteps of the keepers; but, of course, we couldn't take
their long stride, and we floundered about in the snow. In some places
where it had drifted we went in over our knees.

There was nothing visible on the road--not a creature, absolute
stillness; a line of footprints in the middle where some labourer had
passed, and the long stretch of white fields, broken by lines of black
poplars running straight away to the forest.

While we were standing at the gate talking to old Antoine, who was all
muffled up with a woollen comforter tied over his cap, and socks over
his shoes, we saw a small moving object in the distance. As it came
nearer we made out it was the postman, also so muffled up as to be
hardly recognizable. He too had woollen socks over his shoes, and said
the going was something awful, the "Montagne de Marolles" a sheet of
ice; he had fallen twice, in spite of his socks and pointed stick. He