I confess I do not myself find such charges excessive. From a very
different motive, Nemours put me as much out of temper as it had done my
great predecessor a hundred years before. Will it be believed that a
town memorialized by the great, perhaps _the_ greatest, French novelist,
could not produce its title of honour, in other words a copy of "Ursule
Mirouet"?

This town of 4,000 and odd souls and chef-lieu of department does not
possess a bookseller's shop. We did indeed see in a stationer's window
one or two penny books, among these an abridged translation of "Uncle
Tom's Cabin." But a friendly wine merchant, who seemed to take my
reproaches very much to heart, assured us that in the municipal library
all Balzac's works were to be found, besides many valuable books dealing
with local history.

Cold comfort this for tourists who want to buy a copy of the Nemours
story! As we stroll about the grass-grown streets, we feel that
railways, telephones and the rest have very little changed Nemours since
Balzac's descriptions, written three-quarters of a century ago.

The sweet and pastoral surroundings of the place are in strong contrast
with the sordid next-of-kin peopling the pages of his romance. Beyond
the fine old church of rich grey stone, you obtain as enchanting a view
as the valley of the Loing can show, a broad, crystal-clear river
winding amid picturesque architecture, richest and most varied foliage,
ash and weeping willow mingling with deeper-hued beech and alder. It is
difficult, almost impossible, to describe the charm of this riverside
scenery. In one passage of his novel, Balzac compares the view to the
scenery of an opera, and in very truth every feature forms a whole so