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Matilda Betham-Edwards - East of Paris
True enough, twelve months later, I found a wonderful transformation. That a substantial dwelling now
occupied the site of the dismantled bakery was no matter for surprise, the change out of doors seemed
magical. Nothing could have looked more unpromising than that stretch of field, a mere bit of waste,
your feet sinking into the sand as if you were crossing the desert. Now, the longed-for tonnelle or
vine-covered way offered shade, petunias made a splendid show, choice roses scented the air, whilst the
fruit and vegetables would have done credit to a market-gardener. Peaches and grapes ripened on the
wall, big turnips and tomatoes brilliant as vermilion took care of themselves. It was not only a case of the
wilderness made to blossom as the rose, but of the horn of plenty filled to overflowing, prize flowers,
fruit and vegetables everywhere. For the soil hereabouts, if indeed soil it can be called, and the climate of
Bourron, possess very rare and specific qualities. On this light, dry sand, or dust covering a substratum of
rock, vegetation springs up all but unbidden, and when once above ground literally takes care of itself.
As to climate, its excellence may be summed up in the epithet, anti-asthmatic. Although we are on the
very hem of forty thousand acres of forest, the atmosphere is one of extraordinary dryness. Rain may fall
in torrents throughout an entire day. The sandy soil is so thorough an absorbent that next morning the air
will be as dry as usual.
This house reminded me of a tiny side door opening into some vast cathedral. We cross the threshold and
find ourselves at once in the forest, in close proximity moreover to its least-known but not least majestic
sites. We may turn either to right or left, gradually climbing a densely wooded headland. The first ascent
lands us in an hour on the Redoute de Bourron, the second, occupying only half the time, on a spur of the
forest offering a less famous but hardly less magnificent perspective, nothing to mar the picture as a
whole, sunny plain, winding river and scattered townlings looking much as they must have done to
Balzac when passing through three-quarters of a century ago.
This eastern verge of the Fontainebleau forest is of especial beauty; the frowning headlands seem set
there as sentinels jealously guarding its integrity, on the watch against human encroachments, defying
time and change and cataclysmal upheaval. Boldly stands out each wooded crag, the one confronting the
rising, the other the sinking sun, behind both massed the world of forest, spread before them as a carpet,
peaceful rural scenes.
I must now describe a spot, the name of which will probably be new to all excepting close students of
Balzac. The great novelist loved the valley of the Loing almost as fondly as his native Touraine; and if
these pastoral scenes did not inspire a chef d'oeuvre, they have thereby immensely gained in
interest. "Ursule Mirouet," of which I shall have more to say further on, is not to be compared to such
masterpieces as "Eugenie Grandet." But a leading incident of "Ursule Mirouet" occurs at Bourron - a
sufficient reason for recalling the story here.
The beauty of our village, like the beauty of French women, to quote Michelet, "is made up of little
nothings." There are a hundred and one pretty things to see but very few to describe. Who could wish it
otherwise? Little nothings of an engaging kind better agree with us as daily fare than the seven wonders
of the world. With forty thousand acres of forest at our doors we do not want M. Mattel's newly
discovered underground river within reach as well.
From our garden we yet look upon scenes not of every day. Those sweeps of bluish-green foliage
strikingly contrasted with the brilliant vine remind us that we are in France, and in a region with most
others having its specialities. Asparagus, not literally but figuratively, nourishes the entire population of
Bourron. Everyone here is a market gardener on his own account, and the cultivation of asparagus for the
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