the life of the town as is the
Rambla typical of Barcelona, or the Cannebiere of Marseilles. They
are dull enough places in the daytime, but with the hour of the
_aperitif_, which may be anywhere between five and eight in the
afternoon, they wake up a bit, then slumber until nine or
nine-thirty, when gaiety descends with all its forces until any hour
you like in the morning. They won't think of such a thing as turning
the lights out on you in the cafes of Perpignan.

From Perpignan we turned boldly into the cleft road through the
valley of the Tet, via Prades and Mont Louis to Bourg-Madame, the
frontier town toward Spain, and the only decent route for entering
Spain by automobile via the Mediterranean gateway.

Bourg-Madame is marked on most maps, but it is all but unknown of
itself; no one thinks of going there unless he be touring the
Pyrenees, or visiting Andorra, one of the unspoiled corners of
Europe, as quaint and unworldly to-day as it ever was; a tiny
republic of very, very few square kilometres, whose largest city or
town, or whatever you choose to call it, has but five hundred
inhabitants.

If one is swinging round the Pyrenean circle he goes on to Porte,
where, at the Auberge Michette, he will learn all that is needful for
penetrating into the unknown darkest spot in Europe. We thought to do
the journey "_en auto,_" but on arrival at Porte learned it was not
to be thought of. A sure-footed little Pyrenean donkey or mule was
the only pathfinder used to the twistings and turnings and blind
paths of this little mountain republic, where the people speak
Spanish, and religion and law are administrated by the French and
Spanish authorities in turn.

It's a week's travel properly to visit Andorra and view all its wild
unworldliness, so the trip is here only suggested.

[Illustration: Some Snap-shots in the Pyrenees]

We took up our route again, crossing the Col de Puymorans (1,781
metres), and dropped down on Hospitalet, which also is printed in
large black letters on the maps, but which contains only 148
inhabitants, unless there have been some births and no deaths since
this was written.

From Hospitalet we were going down, down, down all of the time, the
valley road of the Ariege, dropping with remarkable precipitation.

In eighteen kilometres we were at Aix-les-Thermes. The guide-books
call it "_une jolie petite ville,_" and no one will dispute it,
though it had no charms for us; we were more interes