he wine belt. It was the custom, and was not being
"sprung" on us because we were automobilists. This we were glad to
know after our experience at Laon.

St. Quentin possesses a famous Gothic church, known to all students
of Continental architecture, and there is a monument of the siege of
1557, which is counted another "sight," though strictly a modern
work.

At St. Quentin one remarks the Canal de St. Quentin, another of those
inland waterways of France which are the marvel of the stranger and
the profit of the inhabitant. This particular canal connects France
with the extraterritorial commerce of the Pays Bas, and runs from the
Somme to the Scheldt, burrowing through hillsides with tunnels, and
bridging gaps and valleys with viaducts. One of these canal-tunnels,
at Riqueval, has a length of nearly four miles.

We worried our way out through the crooked streets of St. Quentin at
an early hour the next morning, _en route_ for Arras, via Cambrai.
Forty-two kilometres of "_ond. dure._," but otherwise excellent
roadway, brought us to Cambrai. (For those who do not read readily
the French route-book directions the above expression is translated
as "rolling and difficult.")

It matters little whether the roadways of France are marked rolling
and serpentine, or hilly and winding, the surfaces are almost
invariably excellent, and there is nothing met with which will annoy
the modern automobile or its driver in the least, always excepting
foolish people, dogs, and children. For the last we sometimes feel
sorry and take extra precautions, but the others are too intolerant
to command much sympathy.

Cambrai was burned into our memories by the recollection that Fenelon
was one-time bishop of the episcopal see, and because it was the city
of the birth and manufacture of cambric, most of which, since its
discovery, has gone into the making of bargain-store handkerchiefs.

Cambrai possessed twelve churches previous to the Revolution, but
only two remain at the present day, and they are unlovely enough to
belong to Liverpool or Sioux City.

We had some difficulty in finding a hotel at Cambrai. Our excellent
"Guide-Michelin" had for the moment gone astray in the tool-box, and
there was nothing else we could trust. We left the automobile at the
shop of a _mecanicien_ for a trifling repair while we hunted up
lunch. (Cost fifteen sous, with no charge for housing the machine.
Happy, happy automobilists of France; how much you hav