MORET-SUR-LOING.
The valley of the Loing abounds in captivating spots, Moret-sur-Loing
bearing the palm. Over the ancient town, bird-like broods a majestic
church, as out-spread wings its wide expanse of roof, while below by
translucent depths and foliage richly varied, stretch quarters old and
new, the canal intersecting the river at right angles. Lovely as is the
river on which all who choose may spend long summer days, the canal to
my thinking is lovelier still. Straight as an arrow it saunters between
avenues of poplar, the lights and shadows of wood and water, the
sunburnt, stalwart barge folk, their huge gondoliers affording endless
pictures. Hard as is undoubtedly the life of the rope tower, rude as
may appear this amphibious existence, there are cheerful sides to the
picture. Many of these floating habitations possess a fireside nook cosy
as that of a Parisian concierge, I was never tired of strolling along
the canal and watching the barge folk. One day a friend and myself found
a large barge laden with coal at the head of the canal, the huge dark
framework and its sombre burden lighted up with touches of grace and
colour. At the farther end of the vessel was hung a cage of canaries, at
the other end was a stand of pot-flowers, geraniums and petunias in full
bloom and all the more brilliant by virtue of contrast. A neighbour
of the bargeman, a bright, intelligent woman, brown as a gipsy but
well-spoken and of tidy appearance, invited us to enter. Imagine the
neatest, prettiest little room in the world, parlour, bedchamber and
kitchen in one, every object so placed as to make the most of available
space. On a small side-table--and of course under such circumstances
each article must be sizable--stood a sewing machine, in the corner was
a bedstead with exquisitely clean bedding, in another a tiny cooking
stove. Vases of flowers, framed pictures and ornamental quicksilver
balls had been found place for, this bargewoman’s home aptly
illustrating Shakespeare’s adage--“Order gives all things view.” The
brisk, weather-beaten mistress now came up, no little gratified by our
interest and our praises.
“You ladies would perhaps like to make a little journey with me?” she
asked, “nothing easier, we start to-morrow morning at six o’clock for
Nevers, you could take the train back.”
Never perhaps in our lives had myself and my companion received an
invitation so out of the way, so bewilderingly tempting! And we felt
too, with a pang, that never again in all probability should we receive
such another. But on this especial day we were not staying at Moret,
only running over for the afternoon from our headquarters at Bourron.
Acceptance was thus hemmed round with small impediments. And by way
of consolation, next morning the glorious weather broke. A downpour
recalling our own lakeland would anyhow have kept us ashore.
“Another time then!” had said the kind hostess of the barge at parting.
She seemed as sorry as ourselves that the little project she had mooted
so cordially could not be carried out.
The Loing canal joins the Seine at Saint Mammes, a few kilomètres lower
down, continuing its course of thirty kilomètres to Bleneau in the
Nièvre. Canal life in Eastern France is a characteristic feature, the
whole region being intersected by a network of waterways, those _chemins
qui marchent_, or walking roads as Michelet picturesquely calls them.
And strolling on the banks of the canal here you may be startled by
an astonishing sight, you see folks walking, or apparently walking, on
water. Standing bolt upright on a tiny raft, carefully maintaining their
balance, country people are towed from one side to the other.
These suburban and riverside quarters are full of charm. The soft reds
and browns of the houses, the old-world architecture and romantic sites,
tempt an artist at every turn. And all in love with a Venetian existence
may here find it nearer home.
A few villas let furnished during the summer months have little lawns
winding down to the water’s edge and a boat moored alongside. Thus their
happy inmates can spend hot, lazy days on the river.
Turning our backs on the canal, by way of ivy-mantled walls, ancient
mills and tumbledown houses, we reach the Porte du Pont or Gate of the
Bridge. With other towns of the period, Moret was fortified. The girdle
of walls is broken and dilapidated, whilst firm as when erected in the
fourteenth century still stand the city gates.
Of the two the Porte du Pont is the least imposing and ornamental, but
it possesses a horrifying interest. In an upper storey is preserved one
of those man-cages said to have been invented for the gratification of
Louis XI, that strange tyrant to whose ears were equally acceptable the
shrieks of his tortured victims and the apt repartee of ready-witted
subjects.
“How much do you earn a day?” he once asked a little scullion, as
incognito he entered the royal kitchen.
“By God’s grace as much as the King,” replied the lad; “I earn my bread
and he can do no more.”
So pleased was the King with this saying that it made the speaker’s
fortune.
We climb two flights of dark, narrow stone stairs reaching a bare
chamber having small apertures, enlargements of the mere slits formerly
admitting light and air. The man-cage occupies one corner. It is made of
stout oaken ribs strongly bound together with iron, its proportions just
allowing the captive to lie down at full length and take a turn of two
or three steps. De Commines tells us that the cage invented by Cardinal
Balue, and in which he languished for eleven years, was narrower still.
An average sized man could not stand therein upright.
The bolts and bars are still in perfect order. Nothing more brings home
to us the abomination of the whole thing than to see the official draw
these Brobdingnagian bolts and turn these gigantic keys. The locksmith’s
art was but too well understood in those days. By whom and for whom this
living tomb was made or brought hither local records do not say.
From a stage higher up a magnificent panorama is obtained, Moret, old
and new, set round with the green and the blue, its greenery and bright
river, far away its noble aqueduct, further still looking eastward
the valley of the Loing spread out as a map, the dark ramparts of
Fontainebleau forest half framing the scene.
The town itself is a trifle unsavoury and unswept. Municipal authorities
seem particularly stingy in the matter of brooms, brushes and
water-carts. Such little disagreeables must not prevent the traveller
from exploring every corner. But the real, the primary attraction of
Moret lies less in its historic monuments and antiquated streets than
in its _chemins qui marchent_, its ever reposeful water-ways. Like most
French towns Moret is linked with English history. Its fine old church
was consecrated by Thomas à-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 François 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.