ard. Provins, that terrestrial paradise, filled the
brother and sister with the fanatical longings which all the lovely
towns of France inspire in their inhabitants. Let us say it to the
glory of La Champagne, this love is warranted. Provins, one of the
most charming towns in all France, rivals Frangistan and the valley
of Cashmere; not only does it contain the poesy of Saadi, the Persian
Homer, but it offers many pharmaceutical treasures to medical science.
The crusades brought roses from Jericho to this enchanting valley, where
by chance they gained new charms while losing none of their colors.
The Provins roses are known the world over. But Provins is not only the
French Persia, it is also Baden, Aix, Cheltenham,--for it has medicinal
springs. This was the spot which appeared from time to time before the
eyes of the two shopkeepers in the muddy regions of Saint-Denis.

After crossing the gray plains which lie between La Ferte-Gaucher and
Provins, a desert and yet productive, a desert of wheat, you reach a
hill. Suddenly you behold at your feet a town watered by two rivers; at
the feet of the rock on which you stand stretches a verdant valley, full
of enchanting lines and fugitive horizons. If you come from Paris
you will pass through the whole length of Provins on the everlasting
highroad of France, which here skirts the hillside and is encumbered
with beggars and blind men, who will follow you with their pitiful
voices while you try to examine the unexpected picturesqueness of the
region. If you come from Troyes you will approach the town on the valley
side. The chateau, the old town, and its former ramparts are terraced on
the hillside, the new town is below. They go by the names of Upper and
Lower Provins. The upper is an airy town with steep streets commanding
fine views, surrounded by sunken road-ways and ravines filled with
chestnut trees which gash the sides of the hill with their deep gulleys.
The upper town is silent, clean, solemn, surmounted by the imposing
ruins of the old chateau. The lower is a town of mills, watered by the
Voulzie and the Durtain, two rivers of Brie, narrow, sluggish, and
deep; a town of inns, shops, retired merchants; filled with diligences,
travelling-carriages, and waggons. The two towns, or rather this town
with its historical memories, its melancholy ruins, the gaiety of its
valley, the romantic charm of its ravines filled with tangled shrubbery
and wildflowers, its rivers banked w