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SKETCHES IN THE GÂTINAIS, BOURBONNAIS, AND CHAMPAGNE
SKETCHES IN THE GÂTINAIS, BOURBONNAIS, AND CHAMPAGNE
CONTENTS INTRODUCTORY. EAST OF PARIS CHAPTER I. — MELUN CHAPTER II. — MORET-SUR-LOING. CHAPTER III. — BOURRON. CHAPTER IV. — BOURRON— continued . CHAPTER V. — BOURRON— continued. CHAPTER VI. — LARCHANT. CHAPTER VII. — RECLOSES. CHAPTER VIII. — NEMOURS. CHAPTER IX. — LA CHARITÉ-SUR-LOIRE. CHAPTER X. — POUGUES. CHAPTER XI. — NEVERS AND MOULINS. CHAPTER XII. — SOUVIGNY AND SENS. CHAPTER XIII. — ARCIS-SUR-AUBE. CHAPTER XIV. — ARCIS-SUR-AUBE—( continued ). CHAPTER XV. — RHEIMS. CHAPTER XVI. — RHEIMS—
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INTRODUCTORY.
INTRODUCTORY.
I here propose to zig-zag with my readers through regions of Eastern France not described in any of my former works. The marvels of French travel, no more than the chefs-d’oeuvre of French literature, are unlimited. Short of saluting the tricolour on Mont Blanc, or of echoing the Marseillaise four hundred and odd feet underground in the cave of Padirac, I think I may fairly say that I have exhausted France as a wonder-horn. But quiet beauties and homely graces have also their seduction, just as
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CHAPTER I. — MELUN
CHAPTER I. — MELUN
Scores upon scores of times had I steamed past Melun in the Dijon express, ever eyeing the place wistfully, ever too hurried, perhaps too lazy, to make a halt. Not until September last did I carry out a long cherished intention. It is unpardonable to pass and re-pass any French town without alighting for at least an hour’s stroll! Melun, capital of the ancient Gatinais, now chef-lieu of the Department of Seine and Marne, well deserves a visit. Pretty as Melun looks from the railway it is prettie
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CHAPTER II. — MORET-SUR-LOING.
CHAPTER II. — MORET-SUR-LOING.
The valley of the Loing abounds in captivating spots, Moret-sur-Loing bearing the palm. Over the ancient town, bird-like broods a majestic church, as out-spread wings its wide expanse of roof, while below by translucent depths and foliage richly varied, stretch quarters old and new, the canal intersecting the river at right angles. Lovely as is the river on which all who choose may spend long summer days, the canal to my thinking is lovelier still. Straight as an arrow it saunters between avenue
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CHAPTER III. — BOURRON.
CHAPTER III. — BOURRON.
Two years ago some Anglo-French friends joyfully announced their acquisition of a delightful little property adjoining Fontainebleau forest. “Come and see for yourself,” they wrote, “we are sure that you will be charmed with our purchase!” A little later I journeyed to Bourron, half an hour from Moret on the Bourbonnais line, on arriving hardly less disconcerted than Mrs. Primrose by the gross of green spectacles. No trim, green verandahed villa, no inviting vine-trellised walk, no luxuriant veg
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CHAPTER IV. — BOURRON—continued.
CHAPTER IV. — BOURRON—continued.
Forty thousand acres of woodland at one’s doors would seem a fact sufficiently suggestive; to particularize the attractions of Bourron after this statement were surely supererogation. Yet, for my own pleasure as much as for the use of my readers, I must jot down one or two especially persistent memories, impressions of solemnity, beauty and repose never to be effaced. Of course it is only the cyclist who can realise such an immensity as the Fontainebleau forest. From end to end these vast sweeps
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CHAPTER V. — BOURRON—continued.
CHAPTER V. — BOURRON—continued.
I will now say something about my numerous acquaintances at Bourron. After three summer holidays spent in this friendly little spot I can boast of a pretty large visiting list, the kind of list requiring no cards or ceremonious procedure. My hostess, a Frenchwoman, and myself used to drop in for a chat with this neighbour and that whenever we passed their way, always being cheerily welcomed and always pressed to stay a little longer. The French peasant is the most laborious, at the same time the
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CHAPTER VI. — LARCHANT.
CHAPTER VI. — LARCHANT.
There is a certain stimulating quality of elasticity and crispness in the French atmosphere which our own does not possess. France, moreover, with its seven climates—for the description of these, see Reclus’ Geography—does undoubtedly offer longer, less broken, spells of hot summer weather than the United Kingdom. But let me for once and for all dispel a widespread illusion. The late Lord Lytton, when Ambassador in Paris, used to say that in the French capital you could procure any climate you p
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CHAPTER VII. — RECLOSES.
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 alw
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CHAPTER VIII. — NEMOURS.
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 Mirouët.” 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
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CHAPTER IX. — LA CHARITÉ-SUR-LOIRE.
CHAPTER IX. — LA CHARITÉ-SUR-LOIRE.
From Bourron, in September, 1900, I journeyed with a friend to La Charité, 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:— La Charité, picturesque of the picturesque—according to French accounts, English, we have none—for many years ha
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CHAPTER X. — POUGUES.
CHAPTER X. — POUGUES.
If an ugly name could kill a place, Pougues must surely have been ruined as a health resort centuries ago. Coming, too, after that soothing, harmoniously named La Charité, could any configuration of letters grate more harshly on the ear? Truth to tell, my travelling companion and myself had a friendly little altercation about Pougues. It seemed impossible to believe pleasant things of a town so labelled. But the reputation of Pougues dates from Hercules and Julius Caesar, both heroes, it is said
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CHAPTER XI. — NEVERS AND MOULINS.
CHAPTER XI. — NEVERS AND MOULINS.
I found the well-remembered Hôtel de France much as I had left it, just upon twenty years before, every whit as quiet, comfortable, and moderate in price, indeed, one of the best provincial hotels of France. The dear old woman then employed as waitress, had, of course, long since gone to her rest, and the landlord and landlady were new to me. But, the traditions of an excellent house were evidently kept up, accommodation, meanwhile, having been greatly enlarged. A place is like a book; if worth
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CHAPTER XII. — SOUVIGNY AND SENS.
CHAPTER XII. — SOUVIGNY AND SENS.
A quarter of an hour by rail, an hour and a quarter by road, from Moulins lies Souvigny, the cradle of the Bourbons, and as interesting and delightful a little excursion as travellers can desire. On a glowing September morning the scenery of the Allier looked its very best. Never as long as I live shall I forget the beauty of that drive. Lightest, loveliest cumuli floated athwart a pure, not too dazzlingly blue sky, before us stretched avenue after avenue of poplar or plane trees, veritable aisl
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CHAPTER XIII. — ARCIS-SUR-AUBE.
CHAPTER XIII. — ARCIS-SUR-AUBE.
Late and tired, I arrived, one September evening, at Arcis-sur-Aube, birthplace and home of the great Danton. I had brought with me letters of introduction to friends’ friends, unaware that at such a moment the sign-manual of the President of the Republic himself would hardly have secured me a night’s lodging. For at this especial moment the little town, from end to end, was in the possession of the military headquarters of that year’s manoeuvres. Every private dwelling showed a notice of the of
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CHAPTER XIV. — ARCIS-SUR-AUBE—(continued).
CHAPTER XIV. — ARCIS-SUR-AUBE—(continued).
But by far the most interesting acquaintance at this most historic little town was the great-nephew of Danton. Middle-aged, unpretentious of aspect, yet with that unmistakable look partly of dignified self-possession, partly of authority, seldom absent from the French official, I looked in vain for any likeness to the portraits of his great kinsman. Yet perhaps in the stalwart figure, manly proportions and bronzed complexion, might be traced some suggestion of the athlete, the strong swimmer, th
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CHAPTER XV. — RHEIMS.
CHAPTER XV. — RHEIMS.
The grandest of all the grand cathedrals in France has been so fully described elsewhere, that I will not attempt to do justice to the subject myself. During one of my numerous visits to Rheims, however, it was my good fortune to enjoy a very rare experience. On the occasion of President Faure’s funeral, the great bourdon or bell, formerly only tolled for the death of monarchs, was now heard for the second time during the Third Republic. Standing under the shadow of that vast minster the sound s
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CHAPTER XVI. — RHEIMS—(continued).
CHAPTER XVI. — RHEIMS—(continued).
Rheims possesses a handsome theatre, the acquaintance of which I was enabled to make under exceptional circumstances. At the risk of appearing slightly egotistical, I will here describe an incident which has other than personal interest. My visit to Damon’s country, the particulars of which were given in a former chapter, had an especial object, viz., the setting of a novel of my own having the great conventionnel for its hero. The story was dramatised by two French collaborators, one of whom wa
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CHAPTER XVII. — SOULAINES AND BAR-SUR-AUBE.
CHAPTER XVII. — SOULAINES AND BAR-SUR-AUBE.
The first of these places mentioned is a Champenois village twelve miles from a railway station. From the windows of my friends’ château I look upon a magnificent deer park, where during the oft-time torrid heat of summer delicious shade is to be found. Far away vast forests bound the horizon, to the north a hot open road leading to Brienne-le-Château, where Napoleon studied as a military cadet; eastward, lies varied scenery between Soulaines and Bar-sur-Aube, there woodland ending and the vine
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CHAPTER XVIII. — ST. JEAN DE LOSNE.
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, per
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CHAPTER XIX. — NANCY.
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 twe
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CHAPTER XX. — IN GERMANISED LORRAINE.
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 château 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 onl
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CHAPTER XXI. — IN GERMANISED ALSACE.
CHAPTER XXI. — IN GERMANISED ALSACE.
Who would quit Alsace without a pilgrimage to Saverne and the country home in which Edmond About wrote his most delightful pages and in which he dispensed such princely hospitality? The author of “Le Fellah “ was forced to forsake his beloved retreat after the events of 1870-1; the experiences of this awful time are given in his volume “Alsace,” and dedicated to his son— pour qu’il se souvienne —in order that he might remember. Here also as under that Lorraine roof I felt myself in France. At th
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