Above, the still forest sends down its treasures of bark and firewood, which are borne in creaking waggons down the steep ascent; the oxen stagger beneath the weight, while the drivers shout encouragement, and their great dogs look calmly from the overhanging bank upon the busy scene.
All the environs of Remiremont are beautiful, and the town itself is a favourable specimen of a French country town: it is much better paved than those towns usually are, and the principal street has arcades under the first floor, beneath whose shade it is pleasant to sit during the midday heat, and hear the water rushing through the tiny canals.
In the little busy inns people come and go rapidly, the fashionable watering-place of Plombières being only some twelve miles distant: the tables d’hôte at these inns are wonderful, the number of dishes, the rapidity with which they are served, and the really excellent cookery. Most of the diners are men, and they one and all make love to the woman who, in conjunction with a lad, waits on some twenty guests, and yet finds time to parry all their jokes with sharp repartee.
Here may be seen a good specimen of the false politeness of the French,—they never help themselves to the vin ordinaire without filling up their neighbour’s glass, whether he wants more or not, and they almost invariably pick out the choice morsel from the dish which the aforesaid neighbour eyes with longing looks: one, an epicure, reaches over you to secure the oil and pepper, with which to make additions to some vile sauce he is compounding for a coming dish; another will have something out of its proper turn, which irritates the handmaid; all eat voraciously, and with knives scoop up superfluous gravy, endangering the fair proportions of their mouths. After dinner (which is at twelve), cards and coffee fill the time until a little gentle exercise brings them to a second dinner at seven, when the knives play their part again.
Travelling in the smaller diligences is very miserable, but the little rattling carts that can be hired are worse and slower. Journeying, again, brings out the politeness of the French men,—who secure the best seats if possible, never giving them up to ladies, and fill the vehicle with very bad tobacco smoke.
Leaving them to the smoke and dust, we will go down into the meadows, and walk with our fresh river through the fields it waters on its passage to the gay town of Epinal.
Nurses and Children.
On a slight elevation at the entrance of the town is a public garden of fine old beech-trees, that shade seats and walks; rough grass lawns fill the intervening spaces. Here plays a military band on Sundays and fête-days, and the young men sun themselves in the eyes of the fair ladies, who in many-hued attire float up and down, ostensibly listening to the military music, but really to that of the voices of their admirers.