In the Heart of the Vosges | Page 8

and colour in the picture, from the ripe warm gold barring the
branches of the firs, to the pale silveriness of their upper foliage; from
the gigantic trees rising from the gorge below, each seeming to fill a
chasm, to the airy, graceful birch, a mere toy beside it. Rare butterflies
abound, but we see few birds.
The hardy pedestrian is an enviable person here, for although excellent
carriages are to be had, some of the most interesting excursions must be
made on foot.
I do not suppose that matters are very greatly changed in hotels here
since my visit so many years ago. In certain respects travellers fare well.
They may feast like Lucullus on fresh trout and on the dainty aniseed
cakes which are a local speciality. But hygienic arrangements were
almost prehistoric, and although politeness itself, mine host and hostess
showed strange nonchalance towards their guests. Thus, when ringing
and ringing again for our tea and bread and butter between seven and
eight o'clock, the chamber--not maid, but man--informed us that
Madame had gone to mass, and everything was locked up till her
return.
Even the fastidious tourist, however, will hardly care to exchange his
somewhat rough and noisy quarters at Remiremont for the
cosmopolitan comforts of Plombières within such easy reach. It is a
pretty drive of an hour and a half to Plombières, and all is prettiness
there--its little park, its tiny lake, its toy town.
It is surely one of the hottest places in the world, and like Spa, of which
it reminds me, must be one of the most wearisome. Just such a
promenade, with a sleepy band, just such a casino, just such a routine.
This favourite resort of the third Napoleon has of late years seen many
rivals springing up. Vittel, Bains, Bussang--all in the Vosges--yet it
continues to hold up its head. The site is really charming, but so close is

the valley in which the town lies, that it is a veritable hothouse, and the
reverse, we should think, of what an invalid wants. Plombières has
always had illustrious visitors--Montaigne, who upon several occasions
took the waters here--Maupertuis, Voltaire, Beaumarchais, the Empress
Josephine, and a host of historic personages. But the emperor may be
called the creator of Plombières. The park, the fine road to Remiremont,
the handsome Bain Napoleon (now National), the church, all these owe
their existence to him, and during the imperial visits the remote spot
suffered a strange transformation. The pretty country road along which
we met a couple of carriages yesterday became as brilliant and
animated as the Bois de Boulogne. It was a perpetual coming and going
of fashionable personages. The emperor used to drive over to
Remiremont and dine at the little dingy commercial hotel, the best in
the place, making himself agreeable to everybody. But all this is past,
and nowhere throughout France is patriotism more ardent or the
democratic spirit more alert than in the Vosges. The reasons are
obvious. We are here on the borders of the lost provinces, the two fair
and rich departments of Haut-Rhin and Bas-Rhin, now effaced from the
map of France. Reminders of that painful severance of a vast
population from its nationality are too vivid for a moment to be lost
sight of. Many towns of the Vosges and of the ancient portion of
Lorraine not annexed, such as Nancy, have been enriched by the
immigration of large commercial firms from the other side of the new
frontier. The great majority of Alsatians, by force of circumstances and
family ties, were compelled to remain--French at heart, German
according to law. The bitterness and intensity of this feeling, reined-in
yet apparent, constitutes the one painful feature of Vosges travel. Of
course there is a wide difference between the supporters of retaliation,
such journals as _L'Alsacien-Lorrain_, and quiet folks who hate war,
even more than a foreign domination. But the yearning towards the
parent country is too strong to be overcome. No wonder that as soon as
the holidays begin there is a rush of French tourists across the Vosges.
From Strasburg, Metz, St. Marie aux Mines, they flock to Gérardmer
and other family resorts. And if some Frenchwoman--maybe, sober
matron--dons the pretty Alsatian dress, and dances the Alsatian dance
with an exile like herself, the enthusiasm is too great to be described.
Lookers-on weep, shake hands, embrace each other. For a brief

moment the calmest are carried away by intensity of patriotic feeling.
The social aspect of Vosges travel is one of its chief charms. You must
here live with French people, whether you will or no. Insular reserve
cannot resist the prevailing friendliness and good-fellowship. How long
such a state of things will exist, who can say? Fortunately for the lover
of nature, most of