I had not guessed the whole truth.

At a turn of the road M. Flamaran suddenly pulled up, looked all around
him, and drew a deep breath.

"Hallo, Jupille! My good sir, where are you taking us? If I can believe
my eyes, this is the Chestnut Knoll, down yonder is Plessis Piquet, and
we are two miles from the station and the seven o'clock train!"

There was no denying it. A donkey emerged from the wood, hung with
tassels and bells, carrying in its panniers two little girls, whose
parents toiled behind, goad in hand. The woods had become shrubberies,
through which peeped the thatched roofs of rustic summerhouses, mazes,
artificial waterfalls, grottoes, and ruins; all the dread handiwork of
the rustic decorator burst, superabundant, upon our sight, with shy odors
of beer and cooking. Broken bottles strewed the paths; the bushes all
looked weary, harassed, and overworked; a confused murmur of voices and
crackers floated toward us upon the breeze. I knew full well from these
signs that we were nearing "ROBINSON CRUSOE," the land of rustic inns.
And, sure enough, here they all were: "THE OLD ROBINSON," "THE NEW
ROBINSON," "THE REAL ORIGINAL ROBINSON," "THE ONLY GENUINE ROBINSON,"
"ROBINSON's CHESTNUT GROVE," "ROBINSON'S PARADISE," each unique and each
authentic. All alike have thatched porches, sanded paths, transparencies
lighted with petroleum lamps, tinsel stars, summerhouses, arrangements
for open-air illumination and highly colored advertisements, in which are
set forth all the component elements of a "ROBINSON," such as shooting-
galleries, bowling-alleys, swings, private arbors, Munich beer, and
dinner in a tree.

"Jupille!" exclaimed M. Flamaran, "you have shipwrecked us! This is