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Holidays in Eastern France

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HOLIDAYS

In

EASTERN FRANCE.

By

M. BETHAM-EDWARDS.


[Illustration: CHÂTEAU OF MONTBÉLIARD]

[Illustration: ORNANS--VALLEY OF THE LOUE (The Country of the Painter
Courbet.)]




PREFACE.


"Travelling in France without hotels, or guide-books," might, with very
little exaggeration, be chosen as a title to this volume, which is,
indeed, the record of one visit after another among charming French
people, and in delightful places, out of the ordinary track of the
tourist. Alike in the valley of the Marne--amongst French Protestants at
Montbéliard--at Besançon amid the beautiful scenery of the Doubs--at
Lons-le-Saunier, from whence so many interesting excursions were made
into the Jura--in the very heart of the Jura highlands--at Champagnole,
Morez, and St. Claude, it was my good fortune to see everything under
unique and most favourable auspices, to be no tourist indeed, but a
guest, welcomed at every stage, and pioneered from place to place by
educated ladies and gentlemen delighted to do the honours of their
native place. Thus it came about that I saw, not only places, but
people, and not only one class, but all, peasant and proprietor,
Protestant and Catholic, the _bourgeoisie_ of the towns, the
mountaineers of the highlands, the schoolmaster, the pastor, the curé.
Wherever I went, moreover, I felt that I was breaking new ground, the
most interesting country I visited being wholly unfamiliar to the
general run of tourists, for instance, the charming pastoral scenery of
Seine and Marne, the picturesque valleys of the Doubs and the Loue, and
the environs of Montbéliard and Besançon, the grand mountain fastnesses,
close-shut valleys, or _combes_, the solitary lakes, cascades, and
torrent rivers of the Jura.

Many of the most striking spots described in these pages are not even
mentioned in Murray, whilst the difficulty of communication renders them
comparatively unknown to the French themselves, only a few artists
having as yet found them out. Ornans--Courbet's birth and favourite
abiding place, in the valley of the Loue--is one of these. St.
Hippolyte, near Montbéliard, is another, and a dozen more might be named
equally beautiful, and, as yet, equally unknown. New lines of railway,
however, are to be opened within the next few years in several
directions, and thus the delightful scenery of Franche-Comté will, ere
long, be rendered accessible to all. For the benefit of those travellers
who are undaunted by difficulties, and prefer to go off the beaten track
even at the risk of encountering discomforts, I have reprinted, with
many additions, the following notes of visits and travel in the most
interesting part of Eastern France, which, in part, originally appeared
in "Frazer's Magazine," 1878.

In a former work, "Western France," I treated of a part of France which
was ultra-Catholic; in this one I was chiefly among the more Protestant
districts of the whole country, and it may be interesting to many to
compare the two.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I. The Valley of the Marne

CHAPTER II. Noisiel: the City of Chocolate

CHAPTER III. Provins and Troyes

CHAPTER IV. Among French Protestants at Montbéliard

CHAPTER V. St. Hippolyte, Morteau, and the Swiss Borderland

CHAPTER VI. Besançon and its Environs

CHAPTER VII. Ornans, Courbet's Country, and the Valley of the Loue

CHAPTER VIII. Salins, Arbois, and the Wine Country of the Jura

CHAPTER IX. Lons-le-Saunier

CHAPTER X. Champagnole and Morez

CHAPTER XI. St. Claude: the Bishopric in the Mountains

CHAPTER XII. Nantua and the Church of Brou

APPENDIX.

Itineraries.--Outlines of Franc-Comtois History. Notes on the Geology of
the Jura

Index




HOLIDAYS IN EASTERN FRANCE.




CHAPTER I.

THE VALLEY OF THE MARNE.


How delicious to escape from the fever heat and turmoil of Paris during
the Exhibition to the green banks and sheltered ways of the gently
undulating Marne! With what delight we wake up in the morning to the
noise, if noise it can be called, of the mower's scythe, the rustle of
acacia leaves, and the notes of the stock-dove, looking back as upon a
nightmare to the horn of the tramway conductor, and the perpetual grind
of the stone-mason's saw. Yes! to quit Paris at a time of tropic heat,
and nestle down in some country resort is, indeed, like exchanging
Dante's lower circle for Paradise. The heat has followed us here, but
with a screen of luxuriant foliage ever between us and the burning blue
sky, and with a breeze rippling the leaves always, no one need complain.

With the cocks and the hens, and the birds and the bees, we are all up
and stirring betimes; there are dozens of cool nooks and corners if we
like to spend the morning out of doors, and do not feel enterprising
enough to set out on an exploring expedition by diligence or rail. After
the midday meal everyone takes a siesta, as a matter of course, waking
up between four and five o'clock for a ramble; wherever we go we find
lovely prospects. Quiet little rivers and canals winding in between
lofty lines of poplars, undulating pastures and amber cornfields,
picturesque villages crowned by a church spire here and there, wide
sweeps of highly cultivated land interspersed with rich woods,
vineyards, orchards and gardens--all these make up the scenery
familiarized to us by some of the most characteristic of French
painters.

Just such tranquil rural pictures have been portrayed over and over
again by Millet, Corot, Daubigny, and in this very simplicity often lies
their charm. No costume or grandiose outline is here as in Brittany, no
picturesque poverty, no poetic archaisms; all is rustic and pastoral,
but with the rusticity and pastoralness of every day.

We are in the midst of one of the wealthiest and best cultivated regions
of France moreover, and, when we penetrate below the surface, we find
that in manner and customs, as well as dress and outward appearance, the
peasant and agricultural population, generally, differ no little from
their remote country-people, the Bretons. In this famous cheese-making
country, the "Fromage de Brie" being the speciality of these rich dairy
farms, there is no superstition, hardly a trace of poverty, and little
that can be called poetic. The people are wealthy, laborious, and
progressive. The farmers' wives, however hard they may work at home,
wear the smartest of Parisian bonnets and gowns when paying visits. I
was going to say when at church, but nobody does go here!

It is a significant fact that in the fairly well to do educated
district, where newspapers are read by the poorest, where well-being is
the rule, poverty the exception, the church is empty on Sunday, and the
priest's authority is _nil_. The priests may preach against abstinence
from church in the pulpits, and may lecture their congregation in
private, no effect is thereby produced. Church-going has become out of
date among the manufacturers of Brie cheese. They amuse themselves on
Sundays by taking walks with their children, the _pater-familias_ bathes
in the river, the ladies put on their gala dresses and pay visits, but
they omit their devotions.

Some of these tenant-farmers, many of the farms being hired on lease,
possessors of small farms hiring more land, are very rich, and one of
our neighbours whose wealth had been made by the manufacture of Brie
cheese lately gave his daughter a 100,000 francs, £40,000, as a dowry.
The wedding breakfast took place at the Grand Hotel, Paris, and a
hundred guests were invited to partake of a sumptuous collation. But in
spite of fine clothes and large dowries, farmers' wives and daughters
still attend to the dairies, and, when they cease to do so, doubtless
farming in Seine et Marne will no longer be the prosperous business we
find it. It is delightful to witness the wide-spread well-being of this
highly-farmed region.

"There is no poverty here," my host tells me, "and this is why life is
so pleasant."

True enough, wherever you go, you find well-dressed, contented-looking
people, no rags, no squalor, no pinched want. Poverty is an accident of
rare occurrence, and not a normal condition, everyone being able to get
plenty of work and good pay. The habitual look of content written upon
every face is very striking. It seems as if in this land of Goshen, life
were no burden, but matter of satisfaction only, if not of thankfulness.
Class distinction can hardly be said to exist; there are employers and
employed, masters and servants, of course, but the line of demarcation
is lightly drawn, and we find an easy familiarity wholly free from
impoliteness, much less vulgarity, existing between them.

That automatic demureness characterizing English servants in the
presence of their employers, is wholly unknown here. There are
households with us where the servants might all be mutes for any signs
of animation they give, but here they take part in what is going on, and
exchange a word and a smile with every member of the household, never
dreaming that it should be otherwise. One is struck too here by the good
looks, intelligence, and trim appearance of the children, who, it is
plain, are well cared for. The houses have vines and sweet peas on the
wall, flowers in the window, and altogether a look of comfort and ease
found nowhere in Western France. The Breton villages are composed of
mere hovels, where pigs, cows, and poultry live in close proximity to
their owners, a dung-hill stands before every front door, and, to get
indoors and out, you have always to cross a pool of liquid manure. Here
order and cleanliness prevail, with a diffusion of well-being, hardly, I
should say, to be matched out of America.

Travellers who visit France again and again, as much out of sympathy
with its people's institutions as from a desire to see its monuments and
outward features, will find ample to reward them in Seine et Marne. On
every side we have evidence of the tremendous natural resources and
indefatigable laboriousness of the people. There is one point here, as
elsewhere in France, which strikes an agriculturist with astonishment,
and that is the abundance of trees standing amid cornfields and
miscellaneous crops, also the interminable plantation of poplars that
can be seen on every side, apparently without any object. But the truth
is, the planting of apple and pear trees in fields is no extravagance,
rather an economy, the fruit they produce exceeding in value the corn
they damage, whilst the puzzling line of poplars growing beside canals
and rivers is the work of the Government, every spare bit of ground
belonging to the State being planted with them for the sake of the
timber. The crops are splendid partly owing to the soil, and partly to
the advanced system of agriculture. You may see exposed for sale, in
little towns, the newest American agricultural implements, whilst the
great diversity of products speaks volumes for the enterprise of the
farmers.

As you stroll along, now climbing, now descending this pleasantly
undulated country, you may see growing in less than an acre, a patch of
potatoes here, a vineyard there, on one side a bit of wheat, oats, rye,
and barley, with fruit-trees casting abundant shadow over all; on the
other Indian corn, clover and mangel-wurzel in the green state, recently
planted for autumn fodder; further on a poppy field, three weeks ago in
full flower, now having full pods ready for gathering--the opium poppy
being cultivated for commerce here--all these and many more are found
close together, and near them many a lovely little glen, copse, and
ravine, recalling Scotland and Wales, while the open hill-sides show
broad belts of pasture, corn and vineyard. You may walk for miles
through what seems one vast orchard, only, instead of turf, rich crops
are growing under the trees. This is indeed the orchard of France, on
which we English folk largely depend for our summer fruits. A few days
ago the black-currant trees were being stripped for the benefit of
Parisian lovers of _cassis_, a liqueur in high repute.

We encounter on our walks carts laden with plums packed in baskets and
barrels on their way to Covent Garden. Later on, it will be the peach
and apricot crops that are gathered for exportation. Later still,
apples, walnuts, and pears; the village not far from our own sends fruit
to the Paris markets valued at 1,000,000 francs annually, and the entire
valley of the Marne is unequalled throughout France for fruitfulness and
abundance. But the traveller must settle down in some delicious retreat
in the valley of the Marne to realize the interest and charm of such a
country as this. And he must above all things be a fairly good
pedestrian, for, though a land of Goshen flowing with milk and honey, it
is not a land of luxuries, and carriages, good, bad, or indifferent, are
difficult to be got. A countless succession of delightful prospects is
offered to the persevering explorer, who, each day, strikes out in an
entirely different direction. I have always been of opinion that the
best way to see a country is to make a halt in some good central point
for weeks at a time, and from thence "excursionize." By these means,
much fatigue is avoided, and the two chief drawbacks to the pleasure of
travel, namely, hotels and perpetual railway travel, are avoided as much
as possible.

Seine et Marne, if not one of the most picturesque regions in France,
abounds in those quiet charms that grow upon the sympathetic traveller.
It is not a land of marvels and pictorial attractions like Brittany.
There is no costume, no legendary romance, no stone array of Carnac to
entice the stranger, but, on the other hand, the lover of nature, in her
more subdued aspects, and the archaeologist also, will find ample to repay
them. It is not my intention to give a history of the ancient cities and
towns visited during my stay, or, indeed, to offer an itinerary, or any
other kind of information so amply provided for us in English and foreign
Handbooks. My object is merely to relate my own experiences in this and
other Eastern regions of France, for, if these are not worth having, no
réchauffé_ of facts, gleaned here and there, can be so; and I also intend
only to quote other authors when they are inaccessible to the general
reader.

With regard, therefore, to the history of the _département_ of Seine et
Marne, constructed, in 1790, from the province of Brie, also from the
Ile de France, and the so called Gâtinois Français, I will say a few
words. Although it only boasts of two important historical monuments,
namely, the Cathedral of Meaux and the Château of Fontainebleau;
scattered about the country are noteworthy remains of different epochs,
Celtic, Roman, Merovingian, mediaeval; none, perhaps, of paramount
importance, but all interesting to the archaeologist and the artist.
Such remains as those of the Merovingian crypt at Jouarre, and the
various monuments of Provins, well repay the traveller who visits these
places on purpose, whilst, as he zig-zags here and there, he will find
many a village church of quaint exterior and rich Gothic decoration
within. Fontainebleau, being generally included in a visit to Paris, I
do not attempt to describe, but prefer to lead the traveller a little
off the ordinary track, on which, indeed, he wants no guide but Murray
and Joanne.

My rallying point was a pleasant country-house at Couilly, offering easy
opportunity of studying agriculture and rural life, as well as of making
excursions by road and rail. Couilly itself is charming. The canal,
winding its way between thick lines of poplar trees towards Meaux, you
may follow in the hottest day of summer without fatigue. The river,
narrow and sleepy, yet so picturesquely curling amid green slopes and
tangled woods, is another delightful stroll; then there are broad,
richly wooded hills rising above these, and shady side-paths leading
from hill to valley, with alternating vineyards, orchards, pastures, and
cornfields on either side. Couilly lies in the heart of the
cheese-making country, part of the ancient province of Brie from which
this famous cheese is named.

The Comté of Brie became part of the French kingdom on the occasion of
the marriage of Jeanne of Navarre with Philip-le-Bel in 1361, and is as
prosperous as it is picturesque. It also possesses historic interest.
Within a stone's throw of our garden wall once stood a famous convent of
Bernardines, called Pont-aux-Dames. Here Madame du Barry, the favourite
of Louis XV., was exiled after his death; on the outbreak of the
Revolution, she flew to England, having first concealed, somewhere in
the Abbey grounds, a valuable case of diamonds. The Revolution went on
its way, and Madame du Barry might have ended her unworthy career in
peace had not a sudden fit of cupidity induced her to return to Couilly
when the Terror was at its acmé, in quest of her diamonds. The Committee
of Public Safety got hold of Madame du Barry, and she mounted the
guillotine in company of her betters, showing a pusillanimity that
befitted such a career. What became of the diamonds, history does not
say. The Abbey of Pont-aux-Dames has long since been turned to other
purposes, but the beautiful old-fashioned garden still remains as it
was.

Couilly, like most of the ancient villages in Seine et Marne, possesses
a church of an early period, though unequal in interest to those of its
neighbours. It is also full of reminiscences of the last Franco-German
war. My friend's house was occupied by the German commander and his
staff, who, however, committed no depredations beyond carrying off the
bed-quilts and blankets, a pardonable offence considering the excessive
cold of that terrible winter.

Not far off, on a high hill, is a farm-house, known as the Maison
Blanche, in which Jules Favre gave utterance to the memorable words:
"Not an inch of our territory--not a stone of our fortresses," when in
conference with Bismarck and Moltke in 1870. It is said that a peasant
who showed them the way meditated assassinating all three, and was only
prevented by the fear of his village being made the scene of vengeance.
Already, German tourists are finding their way back to these country
resorts, and the sound of the German tongue is no longer unbearable to
French ears. It is to be hoped that this outward reconciliation of the
two nationalities may mean something deeper, and that the good feeling
may increase.

The diligence passes our garden gate early in the morning, and in an
hour and a half takes us to Meaux, former capital of the province of La
Brie, bishopric of the famous Bossuet, and one of the early strongholds
of the Reformation. The neighbouring country, _pays Meldois_ as it is
called, is one vast fruit and vegetable garden, bringing in enormous
returns. From our vantage ground, for, of course, we get outside the
vehicle, we survey the shifting landscape, wood and valley and plain,
soon seeing the city with its imposing Cathedral, flashing like marble,
high above the winding river and fields of green and gold on either
side. I know nothing that gives the mind an idea of fertility and wealth
more than this scene, and it is no wonder that the Prussians, in 1871,
here levied a heavy toll; their sojourn at Meaux having cost the
inhabitants not less than a million and a half of francs. All now is
peace and prosperity, and here, as in the neighbouring towns, rags,
want, and beggary are not found. The evident well-being of all classes
is delightful to behold.

Meaux, with its shady boulevards and pleasant public gardens, must be an
agreeable place to live in, nor would intellectual resources be wanting.
We strolled into the spacious town library, open, of course, to all
strangers, and could wish for no better occupation than to con the
curious old books and the manuscripts that it contains. One incident
amused me greatly. The employé, having shown me the busts adorning the
walls of the principal rooms, took me into a side closet, where,
ignominiously put out of sight, were the busts of Charles the Tenth and
Louis-Philippe.

"But," said our informant, "we have more busts in the garret. The
Emperor Napoleon III., the Empress and the Prince Imperial!"

Naturally enough, on the proclamation of the Republic, these busts were
considered at least supererogatory, and it is to be hoped they will stay
where they are. The Evêché, or Bishop's Palace, is the principal sight
at Meaux. It is full of historic associations, besides being very
curious in itself. Here have slept many noteworthy personages, Louis
XVI. and Marie Antoinette when on their return from Varennes, June 24th,
1791, Napoleon in 1814, Charles X. in 1828, later, General Moltke in
1870, who said upon that occasion,

"In three days, or a week at most, we shall be in Paris;" not counting
on the possibilities of a siege.

The room occupied by the unfortunate Louis XVI and his little son, still
bears the name of "La Chambre du Roi," and cannot be entered without
sadness. The gardens, designed by Le Nôtre, are magnificent and very
quaint, as quaint and characteristic, perhaps, as any of the same
period; a broad, open, sunny flower-garden below, above terraced walks
so shaded with closely-planted plane trees that the sun can hardly
penetrate them on this July day. These green walks, where the
nightingale and the oriole were singing, were otherwise as quiet as the
Evêché itself; but the acmé of quiet and solitude was only to be found
in the avenue of yews, called Bossuet's Walk. Here it is said the great
orator used to pace backwards and forwards when composing his famous
discourses, like another celebrated French writer, Balzac, wholly
secluding himself from the world whilst thus occupied. A little
garden-house in which he ate and slept leads out of this delightful
walk, a cloister of greenery, the high square-cut walls of yew shutting
out everything but the sky. What would some of us give for such a
retreat as this! an ideal of perfect tranquillity and isolation from the
outer world that might have satisfied the soul of Schopenhauer himself.

But the good things of life are not equally divided. The present Bishop,
an octogenarian, who has long been quite blind, would perhaps prefer to
hear more echoes from without. It happened that in one party was a
little child of six, who, with the inquisitiveness of childhood,
followed the servant in-doors, whilst the rest waited at the door for
permission to visit the palace. "I hear the footsteps of a child" said
the old man, and bidding his young visitor approach, he gave him
sugar-plums, kisses, and finally his blessing. Very likely the innocent
prattling of the child was as welcome to the old man as the sweetmeats
to the little one on his knee.

The terraces of the Episcopal garden cross the ancient walls of the
city, and underneath the boulevards afford a promenade almost as
pleasant. It must be admitted that much more pains are taken in France
to embellish provincial towns with shady walks and promenades than in
England. The tiniest little town in Seine et Marne has its promenades,
that is to say, an open green space and avenues with benches for the
convenience of passers-by. We cannot, certainly, sit out of doors as
much as our French neighbours in consequence of our more changeable
climate, but might not pleasant public squares and gardens, with bands
playing gratuitously on certain evenings in the week in country towns,
entice customers from the public-house? The traveller is shown the
handsome private residences of rich Meldois, where in the second week of
September, 1870, were lodged the Emperor of Germany, the Prince
Frederick Charles, and Prince Bismarck. Meaux, if one of the most
prosperous, is also one of the most liberal of French cities, and has
been renowned for its charity from early times. In the thirteenth
century there were no fewer than sixty Hôtels-Dieu, as well as hospitals
for lepers in the diocese, and at the present day it is true to its
ancient traditions, being abundantly supplied with hospitals, &c.

Half-an-hour from Meaux by railway is the pretty little town of La
Ferté-sous-Jouarre, coquettishly perched on the Marne, and not yet
rendered unpoetic by the hum and bustle of commerce. Here, even more
than at Meaux, the material well-being of all classes is especially
striking. You see the women sitting in their little gardens at
needle-work, the children trotting off to school, the men busied in
their respective callings, but all as it should be, no poverty, no dirt,
no drunkenness, no discontent; cheerfulness, cleanliness, and good
clothes are evidently everybody's portion. Yet it is eminently a working
population; there are no fashionable ladies in the streets, no
nursery-maids with over-dressed charges on the public walks; the men
wear blue blouses, the women cotton gowns, all belonging to one class,
and have no need to envy any others.

Close to the railway-station is a little house, where I saw an instance
of the comfort enjoyed by these unpretentious citizens of this thrifty
little town. The landlord, a particularly intelligent and well-mannered
person, was waiting upon his customers in a blue cotton coat, and the
landlady was as busy as could be in the kitchen. Both were evidently
accustomed to plenty of hard work, yet when she took me over the house
in order to show her accommodation for tourists, I found their own rooms
furnished with Parisian elegance. There were velvet sofas and chairs,
white-lace curtains, polished floors, mirrors, hanging wardrobes, a
sumptuous little bassinette for baby, and adjoining, as charming a room
for their elder daughter--a teacher in a day-school--as any heiress to a
large fortune could desire. This love of good furniture and in-door
comfort generally, seemed to me to speak much, not only for the taste,
but the moral tone of the family. Evidently to these good people the
home meant everything dearest to their hearts. You would not find
extravagance in food or dress among them, or most likely any other but
this: they work hard, they live frugally, but, when the day's toil is
done, they like to have pretty things around them, and not only to
repose but to enjoy.

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