before her time--_Souvigny_, cradle of the Bourbons, now one vast congeries of abbatial ruins--_Arcis-sur-Aube_, the sweet riverside home of Danton--its near neighbour, _Bar-sur-Aube_, connected with a bitterer enemy of Marie Antoinette than the great revolutionary himself, the infamous machinator of the Diamond Necklace. These are a few of the sweet nooks and corners to which of late years I have returned again and again, ever finding “harbour and good company.” And these journeys, I should rather say visits, East of Paris led me once more to that sad yearning France beyond the frontier, to homes as French, to hearts as devoted to the motherland as when I first visited the annexed provinces twenty years ago! EAST OF PARIS CHAPTER I MELUN Scores upon scores of times had I steamed past Melun in the Dijon express, ever eyeing the place wistfully, ever too hurried, perhaps too lazy, to make a halt. Not until September last did I carry out a long cherished intention. It is unpardonable to pass and re-pass any French town without alighting for at least an hour’s stroll! Melun, capital of the ancient Gatinais, now chef-lieu of the Department of Seine and Marne, well deserves a visit. Pretty as Melun looks from the railway it is prettier still on nearer approach. The Seine here makes a loop, twice curling round the town with loving embrace, its walls and old world houses to-day mirrored in the crystal-clear river. Like every other French town, small or great, Melun possesses its outer ring of shady walks, boulevards lying beyond the river-side quarters. The place has a busy, prosperous, almost metropolitan look, after the village just left. [Footnote: For symmetry’s sake I begin these records at Melun, although I halted at the place on my way from my third sojourn at Bourron.] The big, bustling Hotel du Grand Monarque too, with its brisk, obliging landlady, invited a stay. Dr. Johnson, perhaps the wittiest if the completest John Bull who ever lived, was not far wrong when he glorified the inn. “Nothing contrived by man,” he said, “has produced so much happiness (relaxation were surely the better word?) as a good tavern.” Do we not all, to quote Falstaff, “take our ease at our inn,” under its roof throwing off daily cares, assuming a holiday mood?