He went a short distance on the highway, then finding, to the right, a road that led to Cormeilles, he took it, but soon struck into a path that wound through the woods.

He was sorry to leave a spot that spoke vividly to his heart, and even more so to his imagination.

He seated himself on the turf, in the midst of a grove of oaks; around him stretched a blooming heath.
Through an opening in the grove, he could see Saint-Germain, its forests, and the Seine glittering in the sunshine, with the two bridges of Maisons Lafitte spanning it with their arches.

Through another opening he caught a glimpse, to his left, of the proud bastions of Mont-Valerien, and, in the distance, Paris, the Arc de l'Etoile, the gilt dome of the Invalides, and the smoke of the factories rising slowly in the air, then by turns remaining stiff and motionless, or being swept away by the wind.
The place was retired, solitary, very still.

No sound was to be heard save the singing of a lark, and at intervals the melancholy cry of a peacock.