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Matilda Betham-Edwards - East of Paris
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
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