The valley of the Saône above Dijon is a paradise of old fiefs of counts and dukes. Almost every kilometre of its ample course bears a local name allied with some seigneur of feudal days. The whole watershed is historic, romantic ground. Mantoche was the site of a Cité Romain; Apremont gave birth to one of the most prolific of romancers, Xavier de Montepin, a litterateur who wrote mostly for concierges and shop girls of a couple of generations ago, but a name famous in the annals of French literature nevertheless.
Leaving the country of the minor counts the Saône enters into Basse Bourgogne, taking on at various stages of its career the name of Petite Saône, Saône Supérieur or Grande Saône. All told it has a navigable length of nearly four hundred kilometres, making it one of France’s mightiest chemins qui marche, to borrow Napoleon’s phrase.
The entire heart of old Burgundy above Dijon, the plain that is, is most curiously sown with cultures of a variety that one would hardly expect to find.
Here and there a chateau de commerce, as the French distinguish the “wine-chateaux” from the purely domestic establishments and the “monuments historiques” of which the French government is so justly proud, crops up surrounded by its vineyards, with its next door neighbour, perhaps, an exploitation of hops, the principal ingredient of beer, as the grape is of wine. The paradox is as inexplicable, as is the fact that Dijon is famous for mustard when not a grain of it is grown nearer the Côte d’Or than India.
It is true that Dijon is noted quite as much for its mustard and its gingerbread as for its sculpture. The École Dijonnais is supreme in all three specialties. The historic figure, “mustardmaker to the Pope,” has caused many a “rire bourguignon”; nevertheless the preparing of Dijon mustard is a good deal of a secret still, as all who know the subtleness of this particular condiment recognize full well.
The mustard pots of Dijon, even those of commonest clay, are veritable works of art. It would pay some one to collect them. The “Fontaine de Jouvence,” which one may buy for thirty sous at the railway buffet, is indeed a gem; another, blazoned with the arms of Burgundy, and the legend “Moult me tarde,” followed by “d’y gouster” is no less.