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Matilda Betham-Edwards - East of Paris
French towns Moret is linked with English history. Its fine old church was consecrated by Thomas
a-Becket in 1166. Three hundred years later the town was taken by Henry V., and re-taken by Charles
VII. a decade after. Not long since five hundred skulls supposed to have been those of English prisoners
were unearthed here; as they were all found massed together, the theory is that the entire number had
surrendered and been summarily decapitated, methods of warfare that have apparently found advocates
in our own day.
Most visitors to Paris will have had pointed out to them the so-called "Maison Francois Premier" on the
Cour La Reine. This richly ornate and graceful specimen of Renaissance architecture formerly stood at
Moret, and bit by bit was removed to the capital in 1820. A spiral stone staircase and several fragments
of heraldic sculpture were left behind. Badly placed as the house was here, it seems a thousand pities that
Moret should have thus been robbed of an architectural gem Paris could well have spared.
My first stay at Moret three years ago lasted several weeks. I had joined friends occupying a pretty little
furnished house belonging to the officiating Mayor. We lived after simplest fashion but to our hearts'
content. One of those indescribably obliging women of all work, came every day to cook, clean and wait
on us. Most of our meals were taken among our flower beds and raspberry bushes. The only drawback to
enjoyment may at first sight appear unworthy of mention, but it was not so. We had no latchkey. Now as
every-one of all work knows, they are constantly popping in and out of doors, one moment they are off to
market, the next to warm up their husbands' soup, and so on and so on. As for ourselves, were we not at
Moret on purpose to be perpetually running about also? Thus it happened that somebody or other was
always being locked out or locked in; either Monsieur finding the household abroad had pocketed the key
and instead of returning in ten minutes' time had lighted upon a subject he must absolutely sketch then
and there; or Madame could not get through her shopping as expeditiously as she had hoped; or their
guest returned from her walk long before she was due; what with one miscalculation and another, now
one of us had to knock at a neighbour's door, now another effected an entrance by means of a ladder, and
now the key would be wholly missing and for the time being we were roofless, as if burnt out of house
and home. Sometimes we were locked in, sometimes we were locked out, a current "Open Sesame" we
never had.
But no "regrettable incidents" marred a delightful holiday. Imbroglios such as these only leave memories
to smile at, and add zest to recollection.
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 vegetable
garden or brilliant flower beds greeted my eyes; instead, dilapidated walls, abutting on these a peasant's
cottage, and in front an acre or two of bare dusty field! My friends had indeed become the owners of a
dismantled bakery and its appurtenances, to the uninitiated as unpromising a domain as could well be
imagined. But I discovered that the purchasers were wiser in their generation than myself. Noticing my
crestfallen look they had said: -
"Only wait till next year, and you will see what a bargain we have made. You will find us admirably
housed and feasting on peaches and grapes."
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