We pass along, admiring the
abundance of flowers everywhere, and finally reach a large open square
around which are a congeries of handsome buildings, all like the
dwelling houses, new, cheerful, and having trees and benches in front.
This is the heart of the "Cite," to be described by-and-by, consisting
of Co-operative Stores, Schools, Libraries, &c.; beyond, stands the
chateau of M. Menier, surrounded by gardens, and before us the
manufactory. The air is here fragrant, not with roses and jessamine, but
with the grateful aroma of chocolate, reminding us that we are indeed in
a city, if not literally a pile, of cocoa, yet owing its origin to the
products of that wonderful tree, or rather to the ingenuity by which its
resources have been turned to such account.
The works are built on the river Marne, and, having seen two vast
hydraulic machines, we enter a lift with the intelligent foreman deputed
to act as guide, and ascend to the topmost top of the many storied,
enormous building in which the cocoa berry is metamorphosed into the
delicious compound known as Chocolate Menier. This is a curious
experience, and the reverse of most other intellectual processes, since
here, instead of mounting the ladder of knowledge gradually, we find
ourselves placed on a pinnacle of ignorance, from which we descend by
degrees, finding ourselves enlightened when we at last touch the ground.
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