"You are not a Frenchman?" quoth the latter before giving the desired
information.

"No I am not" was the reply.

"You are not an American?"

"No, I am an Englishman."

"Ah!" was the answer, "I smelt you out sure enough" (_Je vous ai bien
senti_). Whereupon he proceeded to put the wayfarer on his right road.

As a rule French peasants are exceedingly courteous to strangers, but
these good people of the plain seldom come in contact with the tourist
world, their country not being sufficiently picturesque even to attract
the cyclist.

The curious thirteenth-century church of Recloses had long been an art
pilgrimage. It contains, or at least should contain, some of the most
wonderful wood carvings in France; figures and groups of figures highly
realistic in the best sense of the word. These sculptures,
unfortunately, we were not able to inspect a second time; exhibited in
the Paris Exhibition they had not yet been replaced.

It is a beautiful drive from Recloses to Bourron by the Croix de Saint
Herem. A little way out of the village we came upon a pretty scene,
people, in family groups, playing croquet under the trees. Dancing also
goes on in summer as in the olden time. It was curious as we drove along
to note the behaviour of my friend's dog: it never for a moment closed
its eyes, and yet there was nothing to look at but avenue after avenue