Ville anywhere
to be seen, with pignons, and gables, and niches with figures in them
jutting out all over it.

Then there is the novel and energetic little _jaquemart_, the little
bronze figures of which strike the hours and even the halves and
quarters. There is not a detail of this charming building, inside or
out, which will not be admired by all. It is far and away more
interesting in its appeal than the chateau itself.

Our next day's journey was to Noyon. We were travelling by boat, to
be sure, but a good part of the personnel of the hotel, including the
hostler, and the bus-driver, whose business was at the station, came
down to see us off. Like a bird in a cage he gazed at us with longing
eyes, and once let fall the remark that he wished he had nothing else
to do but sit in the bow of a boat and "twiddle a few things" to make
it go faster. He overlooked entirely the things that might happen,
such as having to pull your boat up on shore and pull out the weeds
and rubbish which were stopping your intake pipe, or climb overboard
yourself and disentangle water-plants from your propeller, if indeed
it had not lost a blade and you were forced to be ignominiously towed
into the next large town.

It looks all very delightful travelling about in a dainty and facile
little _canot-automobile_, and for our part we were immensely pleased
with this, our first, experience of so long a voyage. Nothing had
happened to disturb the tranquillity of our journey, not a single
mishap had delayed us, and we had not a quarrel with a bargeman or an
_eclusier_, we had been told we should have. We were in luck, and
though we only averaged from fifty to sixty kilometres a day, we were
all day doing it, and it seemed two hundred.

We lunched at Ribecourt and struck the most ponderously named hotel
we had seen in all our travels, and it was good in spite of its
weight. "Le Courrier des Pays et des Trois Jambons," or something
very like it, was its name, and its _patronne_ was glad to see us,
and killed a fowl especially on our account, culled some fresh
lettuce in the garden, and made a dream of a rum omelette, which she
said was the national dish of America. It isn't, as most of us know,
but it was a mighty good omelette, nevertheless, and the rum was
sufficiently fiery to give it a zest.

We spent that night at Noyon of blessed memory. Noyon is not down in
the itineraries of many guide-book tourists, which is a pity for
them. It is a