A little below all this I carry over a narrow bit of land to avoid the lock at Bougival. Here the Seine resembles somewhat the Thames. Fine estates with formal gardens run to the edge of the river. Cedar boats gay in colored cushions and silk parasols are drawn under shady trees, the nooks of idling house parties. From the walls of one country place the butler is fishing in his spare half hour before dinner. The gateway to this estate is protected by an iron grille bearing in gilt the crest of the family. A smart coupé passes, driven by a cockaded coachman.
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
A PRETTY SPOT ON THE SEINE
At dusk the forbidding settlement of Pecq came into view, a sordid collection of gray houses harboring a wretched combination of a hotel and tobacco-shop. Above Pecq towers the forest plateau of St. Germain, with its palace and balustrades and terraces faced with long avenues of trees strung out like the wings of an advancing army, and having an effect which smacks of the fancies of an extravagant court.
Here from the Pavilion Henri IV., where chic Paris drives to dîner, one sees the Seine glistening far below—a vein of silver running through a vast undulating ocean of trees.
I stop at Maison for déjeuner the next day, and find the proprietress of a river-side café washing in the public lavoir. However, she leaves her suds and scrubbing-board with the best of humor, and hurries to her kitchen, whence she emerges a few minutes later with a smoking omelet, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine.
“Monsieur will excuse my larder, but we get ready for Parisians on Sundays.”
“Then you have a big crowd on that day?”
“Ah! monsieur, quel monde!” and she went hurrying back to her kitchen, with her honest face beaming.