As the carriage stopped on the bridge over the Cise, white sails came
out here and there from among the islands in the Loire to add new
grace to the perfect view. The subtle scent of the willows by the
water's edge was mingled with the damp odor of the breeze from the
river. The monotonous chant of a goat-herd added a plaintive note to
the sound of birds' songs in a chorus which never ends; the cries of
the boatmen brought tidings of distant busy life. Here was Touraine in
all its glory, and the very height of the splendor of spring. Here was
the one peaceful district in France in those troublous days; for it
was so unlikely that a foreign army should trouble its quiet that
Touraine might be said to defy invasion.

As soon as the caleche stopped, a head covered with a foraging cap was
put out of the window, and soon afterwards an impatient military man
flung open the carriage door and sprang down into the road to pick a
quarrel with the postilion, but the skill with which the Tourangeau
was repairing the trace restored Colonel d'Aiglemont's equanimity. He
went back to the carriage, stretched himself to relieve his benumbed
muscles, yawned, looked about him, and finally laid a hand on the arm
of a young woman warmly wrapped up in a furred pelisse.

"Come, Julie," he said hoarsely, "just wake up and take a look at this
country. It is magnificent."

Julie put her head out of the window. She wore a traveling cap of
sable fur. Nothing could be seen of her but her face, for the whole of
her person was completely concealed by the folds of her fur pelisse.
The young girl who tripped to the review at the Tuileries with light
footsteps and joy and gladness in her heart was scarcely recognizable
in Julie d'Aiglemont. Her face, delicate as ever, had lost the