East of Paris

M >> Matilda Betham Edwards >> East of Paris

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How the acquisition of the already celebrated Diamond Necklace was
first thought of, how, by the aid of willing tools, she matured and
carried out her deep-laid and diabolical scheme, reads like an
adventure from the "Arabian Nights." The personification of the Queen
by a little dressmaker who happened to resemble her, the forgery of
the Royal signature, the final attainment of the diamonds, all seemed
so easy to this consummate trickster that it is small wonder she
became intoxicated with success and blind to consequences. No sooner
was the necklace in her possession than, of course, as fast as
possible it was turned, not into money, but into money's worth. Houses
and lands, equipages and furniture, costly apparel, and delicacies for
the table were purchased, not with louis d'or, but with diamonds.

We read of her triumphant entry into the little town of Bar-sur-Aube,
cradle of the Saint Remy-Valois family, in a berline with white
trappings and the Valois armorials, before and behind the carriage,
which was drawn by "four English horses with short tails," rode
lacqueys, whilst on the footboard ready to open the door stood a
negro, "covered, from head to foot with silver." Still more dazzling
was the dress of Madame la Comtesse, richest brocade trimmed with
rubies and emeralds. As to the Count, not content with having rings on
every finger he wore four gold watch chains! Besides holding open
house when at home, the pair had a table always spread with dainties
for those who chose to partake in their hosts' absence. Among the toys
paid for in diamonds was an automatic bird that warbled and flapped
its wings. This was intended for the amusement of visitors.

The carnival proved of short duration. It was on the 1st of February,
1783, that the diamond necklace was handed over to Madame de la Motte,
Rohan receiving in return the forged signature of "Marie-Antoinette de
France." On August of the same year, in the midst of a banquet given
at Bar-sur-Aube, a visitor arrived with startling news. "The Prince
Cardinal de Rohan, Grand Almoner of France, was on the Festival of
Assumption, arrested in pontifical robes, charged with having
purchased a diamond necklace in the name of the Queen."

The charm of these little French towns and rustic spots lies in their
remoteness, the feeling they give us of being so entirely aloof from
familiar surroundings. In many a small Breton or Norman town we hear
little else but English speech, and in the one general shop of tiny
villages see _The New York Herald_ on sale. But from the time of
leaving Nemours to that of reaching the farthest point mentioned in
these sketches we encounter no English or American tourists. This
essentially foreign atmosphere is not less agreeable than conducive to
instruction. We are thus thrown into direct contact with the country
people and are enabled to realise French modes of life and thought.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ST. JEAN DE LOSNE.

Within the last twenty-five years so many new lines of railway have
been opened in France that there is no longer any inducement--I am
inclined to say excuse--for keeping to the main road. Yet, strangely
enough, English tourists mostly ignore such opportunities. For one
fellow-countryman we meet on the route described here, hundreds are
encountered on the time-honoured roads running straight from Paris to
Switzerland. Quit Dijon by any other way and the English-speaking
world is lost sight of, perhaps more completely than anywhere else on
the civilised globe. Again and again it has happened to myself to be
regarded in rural France as a kind of curiosity, the first subject of
Queen Victoria ever met with; again and again I have spent days, nay
weeks, on French soil, the sole reminder of my native land being the
daily paper posted in London. It is now many years since I first
visited St. Jean de Losne, in company of a French acquaintance, a
notary, both of us being bound to a country-house on the Saone. At
that time the railway did not connect it with Dijon, and in brilliant
September weather we jogged along by diligence, a pleasant five hours'
journey enough. My companion, a native of the Cote d'Or, seemed to
know everyone we passed on the way, whenever we stopped to change
horses getting out for a gossip with this friend and that he had taken
the precaution to provide himself with a huge loaf of bread, from
which he hacked off morsels for us both from time to time. As we had
started at seven o'clock in the morning, and got no dejeuner till past
noon, the doles were acceptable. The fellow-traveller of that first
journey--alas! With how many friends of the wine country!--has long
since gone to his rest. The second time I set forth alone, taking my
seat in the slow--the very slow--train running alongside the Canal de
Bourgogne. On the central platforms of the Dijon railway station,
crowds of English and American tourists were hurrying to their trains,
bound respectively for Paris and Geneva. No sooner was I fairly off,
my fellow travellers being two or three country-folks, than the
conventionalities of travel had vanished. Surroundings as well as
scenery became entirely French.

The Burgundian character is very affable, and although people may
wonder what can be your errand in remote regions, they never show
their curiosity after disagreeable fashion. They are delighted to
discover that interest in France--artistic, economic, or industrial--
has led you thither, and will afford any assistance or information in
their power. They seem to regard the wayfaring Britisher as whimsical,
that is all.

A train that crawls has this advantage, we can see everything by the
way, villages, crops, and methods of cultivation. The landscape soon
changes. The familiar characteristics of the wine country disappear.
Instead of vine-clad hills, nurseries of young plants grafted on
American stocks, and vineyard after vineyard in rich maturity, we now
see hop gardens, colza fields, and wide pastures. Here and there we
obtain a glimpse of some walled-in farmhouse, recalling the granges of
our own Isle of Wight.

Alongside the railway runs the canal, that important waterway
connecting the Seine with the Saone; but the Saone itself, Mr.
Hamerton's favourite river, is not seen till we reach our destination.

The little town of St. Jean de Losne, although unknown to English
readers, is one of the most historic of France. No other, indeed,
boasts of more honourable renown. As Jeanne d'Arc had done just two
centuries before, St. Jean de Losne saved the country in 1636. When
the Imperial forces under Galas attempted the occupation of Burgundy,
the dauntless townsfolk long held the enemy at bay and compelled final
retreat. After generations profited by this heroism. Until the great
year of 1789, the town, by royal edict, enjoyed complete immunity from
taxation. On the outbreak of the Revolution, with true patriotic
spirit, the citizens surrendered those privileges, of their own free
will sharing the public burdens.

The first sight that meets the eye on entering St. Jean de Losne is
the monument erected in commemoration of the siege. "Better late than
never," is a proverb applicable to public as well as private affairs
of conscience.

A little farther, and we reach the church of St. Jean. It contains a
magnificent pulpit, carved from a single block of rich red marble, the
niches ornamented with charming statuettes of the apostles. Close by
is the Hotel de Ville, in which are some interesting historic relics.
As I passed through the courtyard, I saw an odd sight. One might have
fancied that a second Imperial army threatened a siege, and that the
townsfolk were laying in stores. The pavement was piled with bread and
meat, whilst butchers and bakers were busily engaged in dividing these
into portions, authorities, municipal, military and police, looking
on.

I learned that these rations were for the regiments quartered in the
town during the autumn manoeuvres. Every day such distributions take
place; in country places the troops have recourse to the peasants,
very often being treated as guests. A young friend, serving his three
years, told me that nowhere had he found country folk more hospitable
than in the Cote d'Or. No sooner did the soldiers make their
appearance in a village, than forth came the inhabitants to welcome
them, officers being carried off to chateaux, men by twos and threes
to the home of cure or small owner. "Not a peasant," he said, "but
would bring up a bottle of good wine from his cellar, and often after
dinner we would get up a dance out of doors. On the saddle sometimes
from two in the morning till twelve at noon, the kind reception and
the jollity of the evening made up for the hardship and fatigue. We
have just had several days of bad weather, and had to sleep on straw
in barns and outhouses, wherever indeed shelter was to be had. Not one
of us ever lost heart or temper; we remained gay as larks all the
time."

An hour's railway journey from St. Jean de Losne takes the traveller
to Lons-le-Saulnier, beautifully situated at the foot of the Jura
range on the threshold of wild and romantic scenery.

A decade had not robbed this little town of its old-world look
familiar to me, but meantime a new Lons-le-Saulnier had sprung up.
Since my first visit a handsome bathing establishment has been built,
with casino, concert-room, and all the other essentials of an inland
watering-place. The waters are especially recommended for skin
affections, gout, and rheumatism. Formerly the mineral springs of
Lons, as the townsfolk lazily call the place, were chiefly frequented
by residents and near neighbours. Improved accommodation, increased
accessibility, cheapened travel and additional attractions, have
changed matters. The season opening in May, and lasting till the end
of October, is now patronised by hundreds of visitors from all parts
of eastern France. These health resorts are much more sociable than
our own. Folks drop alike social, political, and religious differences
for the time being, and cultivate the art of being agreeable as only
French people can. Excursions, picnics, and pleasure parties are
arranged; in the evening the young folks dance whilst their elders
play a rubber of whist, chat, look on, or make marriages. Many a
wedding is arranged during the _Saison des Bains_, nor can such unions
be called _mariages de convenance_, as in holiday-time intercourse is
comparatively unrestricted. Grown-up or growing-up sons and daughters
then meet as those on English or American soil.

Lons-le-Saulnier possesses little of interest except its Museum, rich
in modern sculpture, and its quaint arcades, recalling the period of
Spanish rule in Franche Comte. The excursions lying within easy reach
are numerous and delightful. Foremost of these is a visit to the
marvellous rock-shut valley of Baume-les-Messieurs, so called to
distinguish it from Baume-les-Dames near Besancon. The descent is
made on foot, and at first sight appears not only perilous but
impracticable, the zigzag path being cut in almost perpendicular
shelves of rock. This mountain staircase, or the "Echelle des Baumes,"
is not to be recommended to those afflicted with giddiness. Little
sunshine reaches the heart of the gorge, yet below the turf is
brilliant, a veritable islet of green threaded by a tiny river. The
natural walls shutting us in have a majestic aspect, but playful and
musical is the Seille as it ripples at our feet. Travellers of an
adventuresome turn can explore the stalactite caverns and other
marvels around; not the least of these is a tiny lake, the depth of
which has never been sounded. For half-a-mile the valley winds towards
the straggling village of Baume, and there the marvels abruptly end.

Nothing finer in the way of scenery is to be found throughout eastern
France. In the ancient Abbey Church are two masterpieces, a retable in
carved wood and a tomb ornamented with exquisite statuettes.

CHAPTER XIX.

NANCY.

It is a pleasant six hours' journey from Dijon via Chalindrey to
Nancy. We pass the little village of Gemeaux, in which amongst French
friends I have spent so many happy days.

From the railway we catch sight of the monticule crowned by an
obelisk; surmounting the vine-clad slopes, we also obtain a glimpse of
its "Ormes de Sully," or group of magnificent elms, one of many in
France supposed to have been planted by the great Sully. Since my
first acquaintance with this neighbourhood, more than twenty years
ago, the aspect of the country hereabouts has in no small degree
changed. Hop gardens in many spots have replaced vineyards, owing to
the devastation of the phylloxera. It was in the last years of the
third Empire that the inhabitants of Roquemaure on the Rhone found
their vines mysteriously withering.

A little later the left bank was attacked, and about the same time the
famous brandy producing region of Cognac in the Charente showed
similar symptoms. The cause of the mischief, the terrible Phylloxera
devastatrix, was brought to light in 1868. This tiny insect is hardly
visible to the naked eye, yet so formed by Nature as to be a wholesale
engine of destruction, its phenomenal productiveness being no less
fatal than its equally phenomenal powers of locomotion. One of these
tiny parasites alone propagates at the rate of millions of eggs in a
season, a thousand alone sufficing to destroy two acres and a half of
vineyard. As formidable as this terrible fertility is the speed of the
insect's wings or rather sails according extraordinary ease of
movement. A gust of wind, a mere breath of air, and like a grain of
dust or a tuft of thistledown, this germ of destruction is borne
whither chance directs, to the certain ruin of any vineyard on which
it lights. The havoc spread with terrible rapidity. From every vine-
growing region of France arose cries of consternation. Within the
space of a few years hundreds of thousands of acres were hopelessly
blighted. In 1878 the invader was first noticed at Meursault in
Burgundy; a few days later it appeared in the Botanical Gardens of
Dijon. The cost of replanting vineyards with American stocks is so
heavy, viz.: twenty pounds per hectare, that even many rich vintagers
have preferred to cultivate other crops. Some owners have sold their
lands outright.

On quitting Is-sur-Tille we enter the so-called Plat de Langres, or
richly cultivated plains stretching between that town and Toul, in the
Department of the Meurthe and Moselle.

With the almost sudden change of landscape--woods, winding rivers, and
hayfields in which peasants are getting in their autumn crop,
literally mauve-tinted from the profusion of autumn crocuses--we
encounter sharp contrasts, the events of 1870-1 changing the French
frontier, necessitating the transformation we now behold--once quiet,
old-world towns now wearing the aspect of a vast camp, everywhere to
be seen military defences on a wholly inconceivable scale. It is
comforting to hear from the lips of those who should know, that at the
present time war is impossible, the engines of warfare being so
tremendous that the result of a conflict would be simply annihilation
on both sides. After ten years' absence, and in spite of radical
changes, the elegant, exquisitely kept town of Nancy appears little
altered to me. The ancient capital of Lorraine is now one of the
largest garrisons on the eastern frontier, but the military aspect is
not too obtrusive. Except for the perpetual roll of the heavy
artillery waggons and perpetual sight of the red pantalon, we are apt
to forget the present position of Nancy from a strategic point of
view.

Other changes are pleasanter to dwell on. The Facultes, or schools of
medicine, science, and law, removed hither from Strasburg after the
annexation, have immensely increased the intellectual status of Nancy,
whilst from the commercial and industrial side the advance has been no
less. Its population has doubled since the events of 1870-1, and is
constantly increasing. Why so few English travellers visit this dainty
and attractive little capital is not easy to explain. More interesting
even than the artistic and historic collections of Nancy is the
celebrated School of Forestry. Formerly a few young Englishmen were
out-students of this school, but since the study had been made
accessible at home the foreign element at the time of my visit,
consisted of a few Roumanians, sent by their Government. The Ecole
Forestiere, courteously shown to visitors, was founded sixty years ago
and is conducted on almost a military system. Only twenty-four
students are received annually, and these must have passed severe
examinations either at the Ecole Agronomique of Paris, or at the Ecole
Polytechnique. The staff consists of a director and six professors,
all paid by the State. Two or three years form the curriculum and
successful students are sure of obtaining good Government
appointments. Forestry being a most important service, every branch of
natural science connected with the preservation of forests, and
afforesting is taught, the school collections forming a most
interesting and wholly unique museum. Here we see, exquisitely
arranged as books on library shelves, specimens of wood of all
countries, whilst elsewhere sections from the tiniest to the gigantic
stems of America. Very instructive, too, are the models of those
regions in France already afforested, and of those undergoing the
process; we also see the system by means of which the soil is so
consolidated as to render plantation possible, namely, the arresting
of mountain torrents by dams and barrages. In the Dauphine, and French
Alps generally, many denuded tracks are in course of transformation,
the expense being partly borne by the State and partly by the
communes. It is impossible to over-estimate the importance of such
works, alike from a climatic, economic, and hygienic point of view.
The extensive eucalyptus plantations in Algeria, teach us the value of
afforesting, vast tracks having been thereby rendered healthful and
cultivable.

A strikingly beautiful city, sad of aspect withal, is this ancient
capital of Lorraine, ever wearing half mourning, as it seems, for the
loss of its sister Alsace.

Unforgettable is the glimpse of the Place Stanislas, with its bronze
gates, fountains, and statue, worthy of a great capital; of the
beautiful figure of Duke Antonio of Lorraine on horseback, under an
archway of flamboyant Gothic; of the Ducal Palace and its airy
colonnade; lastly, of the picturesque old city gate, the Porte de la
Crafie, one of the most striking monuments of the kind in France.

All these things may be glanced at in an hour, but in order to enjoy
Nancy thoroughly, a day or two should be devoted to it, and creature
comforts are to be had in the hotels.

In the Ducal Palace are shown the rich tapestries found in the tent of
Charles le Temeraire after his defeat before Nancy, and other relics
of that Haroun-al-Raschid of his epoch, who bivouacked off gold and
silver plate, and wore on the battle-field diamonds worth half a
million. The cenotaphs of the Dukes of Lorraine are in a little church
outside the town--the _chapelle ronde_, as the splendid little
mausoleum is designated, its imposing monuments of black marble and
richly-decorated octagonal dome, making up a solemn and beautiful
whole. Graceful and beautiful also are the monuments in the church
itself, and those of another church, des Cordeliers, close to the
Ducal Palace.

Nancy is especially rich in monumental sculpture, but it is in the
cathedral that we are enchanted by the marble statues of the four
doctors of the church--St. Augustine, St. Gregoire, St. Leon, and St.
Jerome. These are the work of Nicholas Drouin, a native of the town,
and formerly ornamented a tomb in the church of the Cordeliers just
mentioned. The physiognomy, expression, and pose of St. Augustine are
well worthy of a sculptor's closest study, but it is rather as a whole
than in detail that this exquisite statue delights the ordinary
observer.

All four sculptures are noble works of art; the beautiful, dignified
figure of St. Augustine somehow takes strongest hold of the
imagination. We would fain return to it again and again, as indeed we
would fain return to all else we have seen in the fascinating city of
Nancy.

From Nancy, by way of Epinal, we may easily reach the heart of the
Vosges.

CHAPTER XX.

IN GERMANISED LORRAINE.

At the railway station of Nancy, I was met by a French family party,
my hosts to be in a chateau on the other side of the French frontier.

We had jogged on pleasantly enough for about half an hour, when the
gentlemen of the party, with (to me) perplexing smiles, briskly folded
their newspapers and consigned them, not to their pockets or rugs, but
to their ladies, by whom the journals were secreted in underskirts.

"We are approaching the frontier," said Madame to me.

I afterwards learned that only one or two French newspapers are
allowed to circulate in the annexed provinces, the _Temps_ and others,
the names of which I forget; for the first and second offence of
smuggling prohibited newspapers, the offender is subjected to a
reprimand, the third offence is punished by a fine, the fourth
involves imprisonment. Now, as all of us know who have lived in
France, the _Figaro_ is a veritable necessity to the better-off
classes in France, the _Times_ to John Bull not more so. Similarly, to
the peasant and the artisan, the _Petit Journal_ takes the place of
the half-penny newspaper in England. This deprivation is cruelly felt,
and is part of the system introduced by William II.

Custom-house dues are at all times vexatious, but on the French-
Prussian frontier they are so arranged as to provoke patriotic
feeling. It may seem a foolish fancy for French folks, German subjects
of the Kaiser, to prefer French soap and stationery, yet what more
natural than the purchase of such things when within easy reach? Thus,
on alighting at the frontier, not only were trunks and baskets turned
out, we were all eyed from head to foot suspiciously. My hosts'
newspapers were not unearthed, certainly; perhaps their rank and
position counted for something. But one country girl had to pay duty
on a shilling box of writing paper, another was mulcted to half the
value of a bottle of scent, and so on. There was something really
pathetic in the forced display of these trifles, the purchasers being
working people and peasants. All French goods and productions are
exorbitantly taxed. Thus a lady must pay three or four shillings duty
on a bonnet perhaps costing twenty in France. On a cask of wine, the
duty often exceeds the price of its contents, and, according to an
inexorable law of human nature, the more inaccessible are these
patriotic luxuries, so the more persistently will they be coveted and
indulged in.

Custom House officials on the Prussian side have no easy time of it,
ladies especially giving them no little trouble. The duty on a new
dress sent or brought from France across the frontier is ten francs;
and we were told an amusing story of a French lady, who thought to
neatly circumvent the douane. She was going from Nancy to Strasburg to
a wedding, and in the ladies' waiting-room on the French side changed
her dress, putting on the new, a rich costume bought for the ceremony.
The officials got wind of the matter. The dress was seized and finally
redeemed after damages of a thousand francs!

Persons in indifferent circumstances, however patriotic they may be,
can subsist upon German beer, soap, and writing paper. The blood tax,
upon which I shall say something further on, is a wholly different
matter.

A short drive brought us to a noble chateau, inside a beautifully
wooded park, the iron gateway showing armorial bearings. Indoors there
was nothing to remind me that I had exchanged Republican France for
autocratic Prussia. Guests, servants, speech, usages, books, were
French, or, in the case of the three latter, English. Every member of
the family spoke English, afternoon tea was served as at home, and the
latest Tauchnitz volumes lay on the table.

Difficult indeed it seemed to realise that I had crossed the frontier,
that though within easy reach, almost in sight of it, the miss, alas!
Was as good as a mile.

Alsace-Lorraine, I may here mention, is a verbal annexation dating
from 1871. Whilst Alsace was German until its conquest by Louis XIV.,
Lorraine, the country of Jeanne d'Arc, had been in part French and
French-speaking for centuries. Alsace under French _regime_ retained
alike Protestantism and Teutonic speech. We can easily understand that
the changes of 1871 should come much harder to the Catholic Lorrainers
than to their Protestant Alsatian neighbours.

Bitterness of feeling does not seem to me to diminish with time. On
the occasion of my third visit to Germanised France, I found things
much the same, the clinging to France ineradicable as ever, nothing
like the faintest sign of reconciliation with Imperial rule.

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