East of Paris

M >> Matilda Betham Edwards >> East of Paris

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In the night a strong wind rose up, but as we had ordered a carriage for
Larchant, and as carriages in these parts are not always to be had, as,
moreover, grown folks no more than children like to defer their
pleasure, off we set, two of the party on cycles forming a body guard.
There seemed no likelihood of rain and in the forest we should not feel
the wind.

For the first mile or two all went well. Far ahead of us our cyclists
bowled gaily along in the forest avenues, all of us being sheltered from
the wind. It was not till we skirted a wide opening that we felt the
full force of the tornado, soon overtaking our blowzed, dishevelled
companions, both on foot and looking miserable enough.

We re-entered the forest, and a little later, emerging from the fragrant
depths of a pine wood, got our first view of Larchant, coming suddenly
upon what looks like a cathedral towering above the plain, at its base a
clustering village, whitewashed brown-roofed houses amid vineyards and
orchards.

[Illustration]

A grandiose view it is, recalling the minaret of Mansourah near Tclemcen
in Algeria, that gigantic monolith apparently carved out of Indian gold
and cleft in two like a pomegranate.

Slowly we wound up towards the village, the wind, or rather hurricane,
gathering in force as we went. It was indeed no easy task to get a
nearer view of the church; more than once we were compelled to beat a
retreat, whilst it seemed really unsafe to linger underneath such a
ruin.

Imagine the tower of St. Jacques in the Rue de Rivoli split in two, the
upright half standing in a bare wind-swept level, and you have some
faint notion of Larchant. On nearer approach such an impression of
grandeur is by no means diminished. This magnificent parish church, in
part a ruin, in part restored, rather grows upon one upon closer
inspection. Reparation, for want of funds, has stopped short at the
absolutely necessary. The body of the church has been so far restored as
to be fit for use, but its crowning glory, the tower, remains a torso.

The front view suggests no such dilapidation. How long will the shell of
that lofty twelfth century tower remain standing? To my mind it hangs
over the low, one-storeyed houses at its feet, a veritable sword of
Damocles, sooner or later sure to fall with crushing force. The porch
shows much beautiful carving, unfortunately defaced, and the interior
some perfect specimens of pure Gothic arches, the whole whitewashed and
bare as a barn.

Larchant in the middle ages was a famous pilgrimage, and in the days of
Charles IX. a halting stage on the road to Italy. It does not seem to
attract many English pilgrims at the present time. Anyhow tea-making
here seems a wholly unknown art. In a fairly clean inn, however, a
good-natured landlady allowed us to make ourselves at home alike in
kitchen and pantry. One of our party unearthed a time-honoured
tea-pot--we had of course taken the precaution of carrying tea with
us--one by one milk and sugar were forthcoming in what may be called
wholesale fashion, milk-jugs and sugar-basins being apparently articles
of superfluity, and in company of a charming old dog and irresistible
kitten, also of some quiet wayfarers, we five-o'clocked merrily enough.

Our business at Larchant was not wholly archaeological. Buffeted as we
were by the hurricane, we managed to pay a visit in search of eggs and
poultry for the table at home.

If peasant and farming life in France certainly from time to time
reminds us of Zola's "La Terre," we are also reminded of an aspect which
the great novelist ignores. As will be seen from the following sketch
sordidness and aspiration oft times, I am almost tempted to say, and
most often, go hand in hand.

We see one generation addicted to an existence so laborious and material
as to have no counterpart in England; under the same roof growing up
another, sharing all the advantages of social and intellectual progress.

Not far from the church we called upon a family of large and wealthy
farmers, owners of the soil they cultivate, millionaires by comparison
with our neighbours at Bourron.

We arrived in the midst of a busy time, a steam corn thresher plying in
the vast farm-yard. The interior of the big, straggling farm-house we
did not see, but two aged women dressed like poor peasants received us
in the kitchen, a dingy, unswept, uninviting place, as are most
farm-house kitchens in France. These old ladies were respectively
mother-in-law and aunt of the farmer, whose wife, the real mistress of
the house, soon came in. This tall, stout, florid, brawny-armed woman
was evidently what French folks call _une maitresse femme_, a first-rate
housewife and manager; a somewhat awe-inspiring person she looked as she
stood before us, arms akimbo, her short coarse serge skirt showing shoes
well acquainted with stable and neat-house, one dirty blue cotton apron
worn over another equally dirty. Now, my hostess, as I have said, wanted
to purchase some poultry for the table, and here comes in the moral of
my story. Vainly the lady begged and begged again for a couple of
chickens. "But we want them for our Parisians," the three farming women
reiterated, one echoing the other. "Our Parisians, our Parisians," the
words were repeated a dozen times. And as was explained to me
afterwards, "our Parisians," for whom the pick of the poultry yard was
being reserved, were the two sons of the rather forbidding-looking
matron before us, young gentlemen being educated in a Paris Lycee, and
both of them destined for the learned professions!

This side of rural life, this ambition, akin to what we see taking quite
another form among ourselves, Zola does not sufficiently realize.
Shocking indeed were the miserliness and materialism of such existences
but for the element of self-denial, this looking ahead for those to
follow after. How differently, for instance, the farm-house and its
group must have appeared, but for the evident pride and hopes centred in
_nos Parisiens_, who knows?--perhaps youths destined to attain the first
rank in official or political callings!

The farther door of the smoke-dried kitchen opened on to the farm-yard,
around which were stables and neat-houses. In the latter the mistress of
the house proudly drew our attention to a beautiful blue cow, grey in
our ignorance we had called it, one of a score or more of superb kine
all now reclining on their haunches before being turned out to pasture.
In front, cocks and hens disported themselves on a dunghill, whilst
beyond, the steam corn thresher was at work, every hand being called
into requisition. No need here for particulars and figures. The
superabundant wealth, so carefully husbanded for the two youths in
Paris, was self-evident.

The tornado, with threatening showers and the sight of a huge tree just
uprooted by the road side, necessitated the shortest possible cut home.
In fair weather a prolongation of our drive would have given us a sight
of some famous rocks of this rocky forest. But we carried home memories
enough for one day.

CHAPTER VII.

RECLOSES.

This ancient village, reached by the forest, is one of the most
picturesque of the many picturesque places hereabouts. Quitting a
stretch of pinewood we traverse flat cultivated land, gradually winding
up towards a long straggling village surmounted by a lofty church tower
of grey stone. On either side of this street are enclosed farm-houses,
the interiors being as pictorial as can be imagined. Untidy as are most
French homesteads, for peasant farmers pay little court to the Graces,
there is always a bit of flower garden. Sometimes this flower garden is
aerial, a bower of roses on the roof sometimes amid the incongruous
surroundings of pig styes or manure heaps. This region is a petunia
land; wherever we go we find a veritable blaze of petunia blossoms, pale
mauve, deepest rose, purple and white massed together without order or
view to effect. In one of the little fortresses--for so these antique
farmhouses may be called--we saw a rustic piazza, pillars and roof of
rude unhewn stone blazing with petunias, no attempt whatever at making
the structure whole, symmetrical or graceful to the eye. It seems as if
these homely though rich farmers, or rather farmers' wives, could not do
without flowers, above the street jutting many aerial gardens, the only
touch of beauty in the work-a-day picture. These interiors would supply
artists with the most captivating subjects. The women, their skins brown
and wrinkled as ripe, shelled walnuts, their head-dress a blue and white
kerchief neatly folded and knotted, the expression of their faces shrewd
and kindly, all contribute to the charm of the scene.

Here as elsewhere the young women and girls affect a little fashion and
finery on Sundays.

We should not know unless we were told that Recloses was one of the
richest villages in these parts. On this Sunday, September 1st, 1901, in
one place a steam thresher was at work, although for the most part folks
seemed to be taking their ease in their holiday garb. Perhaps the
difficulty of procuring the machine accounted for the fact of seeing it
on a Sunday.

One of the farm-yards showed a charming menagerie of poultry and the
prettiest rabbits in the world, all disporting themselves in most
amicable fashion. Here, as elsewhere, when we stopped to admire, the
housewife came out, pleased to interchange a few words with us. The
sight of Recloses is not, however, its long line of little walled-in
farm-houses, but the curious rocky platform at the end of the village,
perforated with holes always full of water, and the stupendous view
thence obtained--an ocean of sombre green unrelieved by a single sail.

Already the vast panorama of forest shows signs of autumn, light touches
of yellow relieving the depths of solemn green. On such a day of varied
cloudland the perspective must be quite different, and perhaps even more
beautiful than under a burning cloudless sky, no soft gradations between
the greens and the blues. The little pools or perforations breaking the
surface of the broad platform, acres of rocks, are, I believe,
unexplained phenomena. In the driest season these openings contain
water, presumably forced upwards from hidden springs. The pools, just
now covered with green slime, curiously spot the grey surface of the
rocks.

If, leaving the world of forest to our right, we continue our journey in
the direction of Chapelle la Reine, we overlook a vast plain the
population of which is very different from that of the smiling fertile
prosperous valley of the Loing. This plain, extending to Etampes and
Pithiviers, might, I am told, possibly have suggested to Zola some
scenes and characters of "La Terre." A French friend of mine, well
acquainted with these parts, tells me that at any rate there, if
anywhere, the great novelist might have found suggestions for such a
work. The soil is arid, the cultivation is primitive in the extreme and
the people are rough and uncouth. The other day an English resident at
Marlotte, when cycling among these villages of the plain inquired his
way of a countryman.

"You are not a Frenchman?" quoth the latter before giving the desired
information.

"No I am not" was the reply.

"You are not an American?"

"No, I am an Englishman."

"Ah!" was the answer, "I smelt you out sure enough" (_Je vous ai bien
senti_). Whereupon he proceeded to put the wayfarer on his right road.

As a rule French peasants are exceedingly courteous to strangers, but
these good people of the plain seldom come in contact with the tourist
world, their country not being sufficiently picturesque even to attract
the cyclist.

The curious thirteenth-century church of Recloses had long been an art
pilgrimage. It contains, or at least should contain, some of the most
wonderful wood carvings in France; figures and groups of figures highly
realistic in the best sense of the word. These sculptures,
unfortunately, we were not able to inspect a second time; exhibited in
the Paris Exhibition they had not yet been replaced.

It is a beautiful drive from Recloses to Bourron by the Croix de Saint
Herem. A little way out of the village we came upon a pretty scene,
people, in family groups, playing croquet under the trees. Dancing also
goes on in summer as in the olden time. It was curious as we drove along
to note the behaviour of my friend's dog: it never for a moment closed
its eyes, and yet there was nothing to look at but avenue after avenue
of trees. What could the little animal find so fascinating in the
somewhat monotonous sight? A friend at home assures me that a pet of her
own enjoyed drives from purely snobbish motives; his great gratification
arising from the sense of superiority over fellow dogs compelled to
trudge on foot. But in these woodland solitudes there was no room for
such a sentiment, not a dog being visible, only now and then a cyclist
flashing by.

There is no more splendid cycling ground in the world than this forest
of Fontainebleau.

Shakespeare says:--

"This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here: no jutty frieze, buttress,
Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made
His pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where they
Most breed and haunt, I have observed the air
Is delicate."

About this time at Bourron the village street was alive with swallows
preparing, I presume, for departure southwards. A beautiful sight it was
to see these winged congregations evidently concerting their future
movements.

Another feature to be mentioned is the number of large handsome moths
frequenting these regions. One beautiful creature as large as a swallow
used to fly into our dining room every evening for warmth; fastening
itself to the wall it would there remain undisturbed until the morning.

I finish these reminiscences of Bourron by the following citation from
Balzac's "Ursule Mirouet":--

"On entering Nemours at five o'clock in the morning, Ursule woke up
feeling quite ashamed of her untidiness, and of encountering Savinien's
look of admiration. During the time that the diligence took to come from
Bouron (_sic_), where it stopped a few minutes, the young man had
observed Ursule. He had noted the candour of her mind, the beauty of her
person, the whiteness of her complexion, the delicacy of her features,
the charm of the voice which had uttered the short and expressive
sentence, in which the poor child said everything, while wishing to say
nothing. In short I do not know what presentiment made him see in Ursule
the woman whom the doctor had depicted, framed in gold, with these magic
words:--'Seven to eight hundred thousand francs!'"

Holiday tourists in these parts cannot do better than put this
love-story in their pockets.

CHAPTER VIII.

NEMOURS.

"Who knows Nemours," wrote Balzac, "knows that nature there is as
beautiful as art," and again he dwells upon the charm of the sleepy
little town memorialized in "Ursule Mirouet."

The delicious valley of Loing indeed fascinated Balzac almost as much as
his beloved Touraine.

As his recently published letters to Madame Hanska have shown us,
several of his greatest novels were written in this neighbourhood,
whilst in the one named above we have a setting as striking as that of
"Eugenie Grandet" or "Beatrix." A ten minutes' railway journey brings us
to Nemours, one of the few French towns, by the way, in which Arthur
Young lost his temper. Here is his own account of the incident:--

"Sleep at Nemours, where we met with an innkeeper who exceeded in
knavery all we had met with, either in France or Italy: for supper, we
had a _soupe maigre_, a partridge and a chicken roasted, a plate of
celery, a small cauliflower, two bottles of poor _vin du Pays_, and a
dessert of two biscuits and four apples: here is the bill:--Potage 1
liv. 10f.--Perdrix 2 liv. 10f.--Poulet 2 liv.--Celeri 1 liv.
4f.--Choufleur 2 liv.--Pain et dessert 2 liv.--Feu et appartement 6
liv.--Total 19 liv. 8f. Against so impudent an extortion we remonstrated
severely but in vain. We then insisted on his signing the bill, which,
after many evasions, he did, _a l'etoile, Foulliare_. But having been
carried to the inn, not as the star, but the _ecu de France_, we
suspected some deceit: and going out to examine the premises, we found
the sign to be really the _ecu_, and learned on enquiry that his own
name was Roux, instead of _Foulliare_: he was not prepared for this
detection, or for the execration we poured on such infamous conduct; but
he ran away in an instant and hid himself till we were gone. In justice
to the world, however, such a fellow ought to be marked out."

I confess I do not myself find such charges excessive. From a very
different motive, Nemours put me as much out of temper as it had done my
great predecessor a hundred years before. Will it be believed that a
town memorialized by the great, perhaps _the_ greatest, French novelist,
could not produce its title of honour, in other words a copy of "Ursule
Mirouet"?

This town of 4,000 and odd souls and chef-lieu of department does not
possess a bookseller's shop. We did indeed see in a stationer's window
one or two penny books, among these an abridged translation of "Uncle
Tom's Cabin." But a friendly wine merchant, who seemed to take my
reproaches very much to heart, assured us that in the municipal library
all Balzac's works were to be found, besides many valuable books dealing
with local history.

Cold comfort this for tourists who want to buy a copy of the Nemours
story! As we stroll about the grass-grown streets, we feel that
railways, telephones and the rest have very little changed Nemours since
Balzac's descriptions, written three-quarters of a century ago.

The sweet and pastoral surroundings of the place are in strong contrast
with the sordid next-of-kin peopling the pages of his romance. Beyond
the fine old church of rich grey stone, you obtain as enchanting a view
as the valley of the Loing can show, a broad, crystal-clear river
winding amid picturesque architecture, richest and most varied foliage,
ash and weeping willow mingling with deeper-hued beech and alder. It is
difficult, almost impossible, to describe the charm of this riverside
scenery. In one passage of his novel, Balzac compares the view to the
scenery of an opera, and in very truth every feature forms a whole so
harmonious as to suggest artistic arrangement.

Nature and accident have effected the happiest possible combination of
wood, water and building stone. Nothing is here to mar the complete
picture. Grandly the cathedral-like church and fine old chateau stand
out to-day against the brilliant sky, soft grey stone and dark brown
making subdued harmonies. Formerly Nemours was surrounded by woods,
hence its name. People are said to attain here a very great age, life
being tranquil and the nature of the people somewhat lethargic.

Amongst the more energetic inhabitants are a lady dentist and her
sister, who between them do a first rate business.

French peasants never dream of indulging in false teeth; such an idea
would never enter the head of even the richest. But an aching tooth
interferes with the labours of the farm, and must be got rid of at any
cost. This young lady _chirurgien et dentiste_, such is the name
figuring on her door plate, is not only most expert in using the
forceps, but is attractive and pretty.

Her charges are two francs for a visit or operation; in partnership with
her is a sister who does the accounts, and as nuns and sisters of
charity unprovided with certificates are no longer allowed to draw
teeth, act as midwives and cut off limbs, country doctors and dentists
of either sex have now a fair chance.

No town in this part of France suffered more during the German invasion.
The municipal authorities had at first decided upon making a bold stand,
thus endeavouring to check the enemy's advance on Paris. Differences of
opinion arose, prudential counsels prevailed, and it was through a
mistaken order that a Prussian detachment was attacked near the town.
The consequences were appalling. The station was burned to the ground,
enormous contributions in money and material were exacted from the town,
some of the authorities were made to travel on the railways with the
invaders, and others were carried off to remote fortresses of
Brandenburg and there kept as prisoners for nine months.

The account of all these incidents, written by a victim, may be
consulted in a volume of the town library.

If people frequently attain the age of a hundred in Nemours, as I was
assured, it is rather due to placid temperament than to intellectual
torpor. The town possesses learned societies, and a member of its
archaeological association has published a book of great local interest
and value, viz:--"Nemours, Temps Geologiques, Temps Prehistoriques,
Temps Historiques, par E. Doigneau, Membre de la Societe Archeologique
de Seine-et-Marne, Ancien Vice President de la section de Fontainebleau,
Paris."

Strange to say, although this neighbourhood has offered a rich field for
prehistoric research, Nemours as yet possesses no museum, I do verily
believe the first French town of any size I have ever found in France
without one at least in embryo. For the cyclist the run from Bourron to
Nemours is delightful, on the hottest day in the year spinning along
broad well-wooded roads, with lovely perspectives from time to time.

CHAPTER IX.

LA CHARITE-SUR-LOIRE.

From Bourron, in September, 1900, I journeyed with a friend to La
Charite, a little town four hours off.

It is ever with feelings of pleasurable anticipation that I approach any
French town for the first time. The number of these, alas! now being
few, I have of late years been compelled to restrain curiosity, leaving
one or two dreamed-of spots for the future, saying with Wordsworth:--

"Should life be dull and spirits low,
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow."

La Charite, picturesque of the picturesque--according to French accounts,
English, we have none--for many years had been a Yarrow to me, a reserve
of delight, held back from sheer Epicureanism.

As, on the 12th of September, the cumbersome old omnibus rattled over
the unpaved streets, both to myself and fellow traveller came a feeling
of disenchantment. We had apparently reached one more of those sleepy
little _chefs-lieux_ familiar to both, places of interest certainly, the
sleepiest having some architectural gem or artistic treasure. But here
was surely no Yarrow!

A few minutes later we discovered our error. Hardly had we reached our
rooms in the more than old-fashioned Hotel du Grand Monarque, than from
a side window, we caught sight of the Loire; so near, indeed, lay the
bright, blue river, that we could almost have thrown pebbles into its
clear depths; quitting the hotel, half a dozen steps, no more were
needed, an enchanting scene burst upon the view.

Most beautiful is the site of La Charite, built terrace-wise, not on the
skirts but on the very hem of the Loire, here no revolutionary torrent,
sweeping away whole villages, leaving only church steeples visible above
the engulfing waters, as I had once seen it at Nantes, but a broad,
smooth, crystal expanse of sky-blue. Over against the handsome stone
bridge to-day having its double in the limpid water, we see a little
islanded hamlet crowned with picturesque church tower; and, placing
ourselves midway between the town and its suburban twin, obtain vast and
lovely perspectives. Westward, gradually purpling as evening wears on,
rises the magnificent height of Sancerre, below, amid low banks bordered
with poplar, flowing the Loire. Eastward, looking towards Nevers, our
eyes rest on the same broad sheet of blue; before us, straight as an
arrow, stretches the French road of a pattern we know so well, an
apparently interminable avenue of plane or poplar trees. The river is
low at this season, and the velvety brown sands recall the sea-shore
when the tide is out. Exquisite, at such an hour are the reflections,
every object having its mirrored self in the transparent waves, the
lights and shadows of twilight making lovely effects.

As is the case with Venice, La Charite should be reached by river, and a
pity it seems that little steamers do not ply between all the principal
towns on the Loire. How enchanting, like the immortal Vert-Vert, of
Gresset's poem, to travel from Nevers to the river's mouth!

If I had headed this paper merely with the words "La Charite," I should
surely be supposed to treat of some charitable institution in France, or
of charity as worked out in the abstract, for this first of Christian
virtues has given the place its name, presumably perpetuating the
charitableness of its abbatial founders. Just upon two thousand years
ago, some pious monks of the order of Cluny settled here, calling their
foundation La Charite. Gradually a town grew around the abbey walls, and
what better name for any than this? So La Charite it was in early feudal
times, and La Charite it remains in our own.

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