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Matilda Betham-Edwards - East of Paris
in the choice of holiday resorts a veritable embarras de richesses. And many of the spots here
described will, I have no doubt, be as new to my readers as they have been to myself - Larchant
with its noble tower rising from the plain, recalling the still nobler ruin of Tclemcen on the borders of the
Sahara - Recloses with its pictorial interiors and grand promontory overlooking a panorama of
forest, sombre purplish green ocean unflecked by a single sail - Moret with its twin water-ways,
one hardly knows which of the two being the more attractive - Nemours, favourite haunt of
Balzac, memoralized in "Ursule Mirouet" - La Charite, from whose old-world dwellings you may
throw pebbles into the broad blue Loire - Pougues, the prettiest place with the ugliest name,
frequented by Mme. de Sevigne and valetudinarians of the Valois race generations before her time -
Souvigny, cradle of the Bourbons, now one vast congeries of abbatial ruins - Arcis-sur-Aube,
the sweet riverside home of Danton - its near neighbour, Bar-sur-Aube, connected with a bitterer
enemy of Marie Antoinette than the great revolutionary himself, the infamous machinator of the
Diamond Necklace. These are a few of the sweet nooks and corners to which of late years I have returned
again and again, ever finding "harbour and good company." And these journeys, I should rather say
visits, East of Paris led me once more to that sad yearning France beyond the frontier, to homes as
French, to hearts as devoted to the motherland as when I first visited the annexed provinces twenty years
ago!
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 prettier still on nearer approach. The Seine
here makes a loop, twice curling round the town with loving embrace, its walls and old world houses
to-day mirrored in the crystal-clear river. Like every other French town, small or great, Melun possesses
its outer ring of shady walks, boulevards lying beyond the river-side quarters. The place has a busy,
prosperous, almost metropolitan look, after the village just left. [Footnote: For symmetry's sake I begin
these records at Melun, although I halted at the place on my way from my third sojourn at Bourron.] The
big, bustling Hotel du Grand Monarque too, with its brisk, obliging landlady, invited a stay. Dr. Johnson,
perhaps the wittiest if the completest John Bull who ever lived, was not far wrong when he glorified the
inn. "Nothing contrived by man," he said, "has produced so much happiness (relaxation were surely the
better word?) as a good tavern." Do we not all, to quote Falstaff, "take our ease at our inn," under its roof
throwing off daily cares, assuming a holiday mood?
A survey of the yard awoke another train of reflections. It really seems as if the invention of the motor
car were bringing back ante-railway days for the tourist and the travelling world, recalling family coach
and post-chaise. The place was crowded with motor cars of all shapes and sizes, some of these were
plain, shabby gigs and carts of commercial travellers, others, landaus, waggonettes and victorias of rich
folks seeing the world in their own carriage as their ancestors had done generations before; one turn-out
suggested royalty or a Rothschild, I was about to say, rather I should name a Chicago store-keeper, since
American millionaires are the Haroun-el-Raschids of the twentieth century. This last was a sumptuously
fitted up carriage having a seat behind for servants, accommodating eight persons in all. There was also a
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