bertin, St. Georges, Clos Vougeot,--and of
these the Clos Vougeot wines are the most renowned.

A line drawn across France, just north of the confines of ancient
Burgundy, divides the region of the _vins ordinaires_--the light
wines of the _tables d'hote_--and that of those vintages which have
no price. This, at least, is the way the native puts it, and to some
extent the simile is correct enough.

The Cote begins and the plain ends; the hillsides rise and the
river-bottoms dwindle away in the distance: such is the feeling that
one experiences as he climbs these vine-clad slopes from either the
Rhone, the Loire, or the Seine valleys, and here it is that the
imaginary line is drawn between the _vins ordinaires_ and the _vins
sans prix_.

Since there is no possibility of increasing the quantity of these
rich, red Burgundian wines, the highly cultured area being of but
small extent, and because their quality depends upon the peculiar
nature of the soil of this restricted tract, there is no question but
that the monopoly of Burgundian wines will remain for ever with the
gold coast of France, whatever Australian and Californian patriots
may claim for their own imitations.

The phylloxera here, as elsewhere in France, caused a setback to the
commerce in wines, as serious in money figures as the losses
sustained during the Franco-Prussian War, but the time has now passed
and the famous Cote d'Or has once more attained its time-honoured
opulence and prosperity.

"_Le vin de Bourgogne
Met la bonne humeur
Au coeur._"

Still northward, across the plateau of Langres, we set a roundabout
course for Paris. There is one great pleasure about automobiling that
is considerably curtailed if one sets out to follow precisely a
preconceived itinerary, and for that reason we were, in a measure,
going where fancy willed.

We might have turned westward, via Moulins, Nevers, and Montargis,
from Lyons, and followed the old coaching road into Paris, entering
by the same gateway through which we set out, but we had heard of the
charms of the valley of the Marne, and we wanted to see them for
ourselves.

Our first acquaintance with it was at Bar le Duc, which is not on the
Marne at all, but on a little confluent some twenty or thirty miles
from its junction.

For a day we had been riding over corkscrew roads with little peace
and comfort for the driver, and considerable hard work for the motor.
The hills were numerous, but the s