We found Nemours just like any other little French town in Algeria, very formal and neat, with a little square, a little church, and boulevards in their babyhood, and a certain indescribable air of order and importance about it. We went straight to the inn—I think it was called l’Hôtel des Voyageurs—and, after knocking once or twice, the landlord came down, very shaggy and sleepy, but pleasant and amiable, as Frenchmen always are. He went out at once to his neighbour, the baker’s, and came back with a pan of red-hot ashes, which was very clever of him, for we were bitterly cold, and nothing else would so effectually have heated the room. Then he brought us out a bottle of good Bordeaux and excellent bread and Rochefort cheese; and by the time we had finished our meal, there was a clean bedroom ready for us and hot water: and what more does a weary traveller require? The douane did not choose to wake up and give us our luggage till late in the morning; it was such a lazy douane; and though I went again and again, and said pretty things to the gendarmes, it was of no use. They said pretty things in return, but kept the luggage. At last the douane chose to wake up and open its doors, and we got our portmanteaus, and were able to get at brushes and combs and clean dresses, and to sit down to breakfast clothed and in our right minds.
Then we obtained the services of an old soldier as guide, and went out to see something of Nemours. The weather was perfect, and our guide just the person to make you feel in a new world. He had something unexpected to tell us about everything; the people of Nemours, the past of Nemours, and the present aspect of French-African colonization collectively.
A bright blue sea, glistening white sands, and bold dark rocks, will make any place beautiful; but, otherwise, Nemours is uninteresting enough. It is only when you are outside the town, and breathing the air of the wild desolated hills, that you understand the romance of the place. For the history of Nemours, if written with a vigorous pen, would abound in incidents as thrilling as any conceived by the author of Monte Christo, or of The Last of the Mohicans.
We passed through the town, and were just entering upon a picturesque gorge, when our guide pointed to a little farm-house that peeped sunnily from its orchards and gardens, and said,—
“Do you see a great patch of new whitewash, just above the door yonder?”
“Yes, we see it.”
“Eh, bien! I will tell you the history of that patch of new whitewash. A good colonist lived in that house, and was murdered a few weeks back by the Arabs. He went to bed as usual, first having seen that every lock was secure, and that his pistol was loaded—for only fools go unarmed here by night or day—and at midnight woke suddenly, hearing the dogs bark and the cocks crowing. ‘The Arabs!’ he says to his wife, who wakes up too, and then he takes up his pistol and throws open the window, ready to scare the scoundrels away. But before he can do it, he is shot through his head, and his blood and brains are all over the wall, and so it had to be whitewashed as you see.”
“And the poor widow, and the guilty Arabs?”
“The widow lives there still. The poor can’t indulge in fine feelings, you see, Madame, and must stay where their bread is to be earned. The Arabs got away to Morocco—they can do it in a few hours from here—and voilà l’histoire!”
“A sad history indeed!”