NEMOURS: A TYPICAL FRENCH PROVINCIAL TOWN

A GLIMPSE OF THE GABLED HOUSETOPS OF NEMOURSNEMOURS: A TYPICAL FRENCH PROVINCIAL TOWNBY ROGER BOUTET DE MONVELWITH PICTURES BY BERNARD B. DE MONVEL

A GLIMPSE OF THE GABLED HOUSETOPS OF NEMOURS

BY ROGER BOUTET DE MONVEL

WITH PICTURES BY BERNARD B. DE MONVEL

IT is only a little provincial town, like many others in France. It has no famous monument, and the immediate neighborhood is neither imposing nor celebrated. And yet this little town, with its quiet streets, its modest houses, its limpid river, and its Champs de Mars, where in fine weather the prominent citizens come to discuss the events of the day, has a tranquil and intimate charm of its own, and the country thereabouts is so rich in smiling, changing views,—moist fields along the water’s-edge, wild heaths, and villages bathed in sunlight,—that the whole makes a picture that wins one’s heart at first sight.

Nemours lies in the department of Seine-et-Marne, that old part of France which used to be called La Brie, on the road leading from Fontainebleau to Montargis. As you approach the outlying houses, you come upon the first bridge that crosses the canal, on the sluggish waters of which glide unwieldy boats, heavily laden with wood, blocks of stone, or fine sand, and towed by mules or donkeys. Once over the bridge, to the right lies the main street, the Rue de Paris—naturally,for what town of the provinces is without its Rue de Paris? And what Rue de Paris has not, on one side, a window with a tempting display of delicacies, and on the other, the shops of the haberdasher, the grain-seller, the ironmonger, the harness-maker, and the barber, who, in his shirt-sleeves, stands at his door waiting for customers; and last, the Café du Progrès, where, gathered about little tables, the men drink, and hold forth on the future of France. Then you cross a second stream, bordered with old lime-trees and overshadowed by the high walls of the convent. Here is the Hôtel de l’Ecu, which still has the royal arms on its worn façade, and in front of which the mail-coaches used to stop; here is the market-place; the church, which dates from the thirteenth century; and, before the church, the statue of the great man of the neighborhood, Etienne Bezout, the distinguished mathematician.

If the truth must be told, Etienne Bezout’s fame is hardly world-wide; but since, in the matter of celebrities, one takes what one can get, for many long years the townspeople have been glad to have this old worthy—with his eighteenth-century wig, and his finger pointing heavenward in an attitude of wisdom and abstraction—preside over their weekly markets and the meetings of their fire-company, as well as at their outpourings from mass, from funerals, weddings, and christenings.

Beyond the market-place there is yet a third bridge, the great bridge overlooking the river Loing. A few steps farther, and you are amused by the droll sight of the washerwomen as they beat out their linen, gossiping and shrieking on the bank, like so many frogs at the edge of a marsh. Over there is the old pond, where the cows linger, and farther still stands the feudal castle, with its square tower. Beyond this we look down on the garden of M. le Curé, the tanneries, the convent, the town mill, and, last of all, on the river, which, though choked with weeds, is charmingly picturesque by reason of its tiny islands, its bubbling waterfalls, and its Normandy poplars. Just across the bridge lie the suburbs of the little town, with its working-men’s houses, quaint roofs, and farm-yards; and then again the open country and the green fields.

THE CANAL AT NEMOURS WITH ITS BORDER OF NORMANDY POPLARS

“AFTER ALL, EACH MAN ENJOYS LIFE IN HIS OWN WAY”

But to see Nemours as it should be seen, to catch the peculiar charm of this little corner of the provinces which Balzac has made famous in his “Ursule Mirouet,” we must retrace our steps. We must wander through certain fascinating old streets, with rough cobblestones and irregular sidewalks; the Rue du Prieuré, for instance, where the booths of the sabot-makers stand side by side with the tiny shops of the chair-caners; the Rue de l’Hospice, where old women in caps sit in their doorways knitting, and where the little orphan children march, two by two, under the guidance of the sisters of charity. We must glance at the gabled houses in the Place au Blé and the Place St.-Jean, or follow the Quai des Fosses, with its rows of flower-beds, where the trees make green arches along the edge of the river. Now we will steal into the courtyard of the old castle, which during the crusades was the fortress of the “great and mighty lords” of that part of the country, afterward the dwelling-place of the dukes of Nemours. Later, it was the bailiff’s court down to the time of the Revolution; since when it has gradually been transformed into a theater and dancing-hall, where nowadays traveling companies of actors stop to play “The Two Orphans” or “A Woman’s Punishment.” To-day the castle has a museum, for, just as any self-respecting town must have a “great man,” it must also have a museum, whether there is anything to put in it or not. Hence, it was an important day when the mayor of Nemours, adorned with his tricolored scarf, surrounded by the town councilors, and preceded by a flourish of trumpets, instituted this indispensable glory.

As we said before, the little town of Nemours has not been the scene of any startling event, but, like most of our provincial towns, it belongs to our past and is a part of our history. Its old walls have looked on some imposing ceremonies and have witnessed the arrival and departure of some celebrated personages. Did not Louis XIV himself condescend to enter Nemours in November, 1696? Later, in 1773, did not the Comtesse d’Artois choose it as a meeting-place with her sister, the Comtesse de Provence? One can imagine the militia of Nemours forming in line in the streets, the windows ablaze with lights, the thundering of cannon, the waving of flags, the sheriffs in their uniforms of state, and the townspeople, on bended knees, offering to these great personages their homage and the freedom of the city.

Indeed, this meeting between the sisters must still stand as the most memorable incident in the annals or Nemours, for although in our day politics play a more important part than formerly, we must yet admit that official ceremonies have lost much of their old-time grandeur.

A FRENCH COUNTRY CART RETURNING HOME ON MARKET-DAY FROM MARKET

If we wish to understand the charm of the tranquil life of the provinces, we must visit some of the townspeople of Nemours, and see them at their daily tasks in the privacy of their own homes. In common with the most important world capitals, this tiny town has its own manner of living, its own customs and traditions. We should follow yonder stout gentleman as, umbrella in hand, he takes his daily walk with deliberate steps along the quay; we should say “Good afternoon” to M. le Curé, whose cassock we see among the trees of his quiet garden; we should also have a chat with the shoemaker at the corner; and, above all, we should not fail to have our beard trimmed by the barber inthe Rue Neuve. He is such a kindly fellow, this barber.

“THE ONE NOISY TIME IN THE WEEK IS MARKET-DAY”

Just beyond the barber’s shop is the hatter’s, and he too seems well content with his lot. Not that his shop is spacious or his customers abundant. One wonders how many hats he sells in a week, for, in the memory of man, no one has ever seen two customers at the same time in his shop. Nevertheless, whenever you go into the Chappellerie des Elégants, you are certain to find M. Baudoin at his post behind the counter, alert and smiling, eager to show you all the novelties of the season. Above all things, do not venture to hint that his hats are not the very latest creations as to shape and style, as you would only surprise him, and inflict pain without standing a chance of convincing him. M. Baudoin is confident that he can compete with the most fashionable hatters in Paris, for has he not the best hats that are made? Besides, can Paris compare with Nemours? You would never make him believe it. He is proud of his native town, and despite his varied experience with men and things, he has never seen a finer city. This is the true provincial spirit.

M. Baudoin is no longer young. A few years more, and he will sell out his business, and with the proceeds of that sale, combined with his savings (for, like all good Frenchmen, he has been thrifty), will be able to end his peaceful life in ease and comfort. A little house in the suburbs, very new and very white; a tiny garden, with three or four fruit-trees, flower-beds with trim borders, and the inevitable fountain—this is M. Baudoin’s dream of an ideal old age.

This is, likewise, the dream of M. Robichon, the clock-maker; of M. Troufleau, the tailor; and of M. Camus, the grain-merchant, all of whom have spent their lives quietly in their little shops, selling from time to time a hat, a watch, or a bag of grain. For the most part, they have been happy. Their sons will have a modest inheritance, and will carry onthe trade of their fathers, unless one, fired with unusual ambition, should some day become a country doctor or lawyer’s clerk.

Color-Tone, engraved for THECENTURYby H. Davidson“THE LITTLE ORPHAN CHILDREN MARCH TWO BY TWO”DRAWN BY BERNARD B. DE MONVEL⇒LARGER IMAGE

Color-Tone, engraved for THECENTURYby H. Davidson

“THE LITTLE ORPHAN CHILDREN MARCH TWO BY TWO”

DRAWN BY BERNARD B. DE MONVEL

⇒LARGER IMAGE

Such are the people, born in the little town or its immediate vicinity. In addition to this native population, there is a colony of residents who have come from Paris or elsewhere and, attracted by the charm of the place, have bought country houses in the neighborhood.

Although only two hours’ distance by rail from Paris, Nemours is a typical corner of the provinces, where members of the lower middle class, and even persons of independent means, come in search of rest and quiet; merchants who have retired from business, army officers on half-pay, professors grown gray in service, and, oddly enough, a large number of artists, painters, sculptors, and actors. Some come for the summer only; others live in or near Nemours all the year round.

It is not every French provincial town that can rival Nemours in one respect: beside one of the new and dreadful houses its owner has seen fit to erect a kind of ruin, an imitation in miniature of an old fortified castle, with simulated remains of battlements, sham doors of the middle ages, barred windows, etc. He has even taken the trouble to have a real bullet embedded in the wall of his precious ruin—a bullet fired, it is said, by the Prussians during their campaign in France! Above the bullet, the date of the memorable event is placed in large letters—1814! The bullet looks not unlike a tennis-ball; the ruin itself seems to be made of papier-mâché; and, with the new house by the side of the sham ruin, thetout ensembleof this delightful little property is a triumph of the grotesque. It is certain that it is not this new and expensive quarter which lends to Nemours its strange charm, any more than in other French towns, or in Paris itself, where the modern attempts at architecture are veritable eyesores.

After all, each man enjoys life in his own way; and so M. Chevillard, a retired lawyer, who does not own any ruins, and who, strange to say, does not desire any, has a passion of an entirely different kind. M. Chevillard’s passion is fishing. He has chosen Nemours as his abiding-place simply because its three watercourses abound in pike and roach; but that fact does not imply that M. Chevillard catches many of them. Nevertheless, every day we may see him seated placidly on his camp-stool, on the bank of the river, near the bridge, wearing an enormous straw hat, which the suns of many summers have tanned a rich golden-brown, the shade of well-toasted bread. He holds a fishing-rod in his hand; the line falls into the water, and its tiny red cork moves gently to and fro with the current. When this red cork drifts toward the dark shadows under the bridge, M. Chevillard jerks his rod up quickly, and we hear the line whistle in the air; then, in the twinkling of an eye, the cork falls back on the surface of the water, and the game begins again; and so it goes on all day and every day.

The strange thing is, however, that nearly every one in Nemours has this same passion for fishing. All along the river, the canal, and the smaller stream, we see rows of yellow hats, and, under them, any number of kindly men and women of all ages, who sit calmly from morning till night, watching their lines.

In addition to this large body of fishermen, there are sportsmen; but do not imagine that they are any more successful. Formerly, this part of the country abounded in game; but of late years, owing to the increasing number of these sportsmen, the pheasants have rapidly diminished. As the cost of a hunting license in France is moderate, the humblest grocer may have the privilege of stringing a cartridge-case across his chest, and, attired in brown linen, with his grandfather’s old gun on his shoulder, may revel in the joys of the chase. It is not the humble grocer alone, however, who is responsible for the terrible slaughter of birds. All the other grocers, his friends and neighbors, would feel themselves disgraced if they did not follow his example; so, along with the grocers come the ironmongers, the harness-makers, and the innkeepers, in such overwhelming numbers that within a week after the opening of the shooting season not a hair or a feather is left to tell the tale.

Greatly disturbed by this state of affairs, the sportsmen of Nemours decided to found a society for the protection of game. Alas! within a few months serious differences arose in the society, which was promptly divided into two rival factions. Each faction had its own territory;and from that moment bird-shooting was forgotten by both parties in their eagerness to chase each other. The chief idea of each faction was to guard jealously its own territory; and fierce injunctions were sent to those imprudent sportsmen who ventured to trespass on forbidden ground. As the respective shooting territories grow smaller each year, and the two societies show no signs of being reconciled, there is grave reason to fear that some fine day, not knowing how else to utilize their powder and shot, the sportsmen of Nemours may be forced to fire at one another!

For my own part, I do not imagine that these gentlemen have as yet any idea of resorting to such extreme measures; but, peaceful and serene as the little town is, it has its own private quarrels. Just as there are two sportsmen’s societies, so there are two clubs—two rival clubs, known, quite properly, as the Union Club and the Peace Club, where every evening, before dinner, the half-pay captains and the retired merchants come to play whist at a penny a point. The members are kindly men, honest and peaceful; but there is not one of them who is not firmly convinced that any other club but his own is the resort of ill-bred fellows, not fit associates for himself or his friends. There is an abundance of gossip in this little town, and gossip travels fast at card-tables as well as tea-tables. However, only a certain set among the residents care to lend an ear to the local small-talk.

During the summer, many artists come in quest of rest or an industrious solitude. They are the ones who really enjoy and appreciate more than any one else the strange, sweet charm of this little provincial town, where every house has its garden, and every garden its flowers; where the peaceful days go by with a slow and regular rhythm, and the silence is broken only by the sound of the angelus or the ring of the blacksmith’s anvil.

The one noisy time in the week is market-day, when the throngs of covered wagons, drawn by strong cart-horses, the peasant women in their white caps and the men in their blue blouses bringing in cattle, poultry, fruit, and vegetables, make a lively and attractive scene; when the air is full of the crack of whips and the tinkle of bells, and gay with songs, cries, and laughter. But it may not be long before the country carts will give way to automobiles, the white caps to beflowered hats, and the blouses to jackets of the latest cut.

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