The church, on the stones of which time has cast a rich discolored mantle (it was rebuilt in the fourteenth century by the Guises, for whom Nemours was raised to a peerage-duchy), stands at the end of the little town close to a great arch which frames it.

For buildings, as for men, position does everything.

Shaded by a few trees, and thrown into relief by a neatly kept square, this solitary church produces a really grandiose effect.

As the post master of Nemours entered the open space, he beheld his uncle with the young girl called Ursula on his arm, both carrying prayer-books and just entering the church.

The old man took off his hat in the porch, and his head, which was white as a hill-top covered with snow, shone among the shadows of the portal.
"Well, Minoret, what do you say to the conversion of your uncle ?" cried the tax-collector of Nemours, named Cremiere.
"What do you expect me to say ?" replied the post master, offering him a pinch of snuff.
"Well answered, Pere Levrault.