We left on a Wednesday for Angoulême, which was a beautiful day's run. The weather was superb, and it seemed too good to be true that we were actually flying down the famous poplar-edged roads of France in our own little car. We reached Angoulême at sunset-time. If you have ever been there, you will remember the wonderful situation of the city. It rises high in the center of a plain and the walk around the walls affords a beautiful view. After getting settled in the hotel, we made the circuit of the town and watched the shades of a pink and gold sunset slowly deepen into the purple of twilight. I rose early the next morning, before the others were up, and took a few pictures. I had a lovely ramble among the old churches. It was on leaving Angoulême that I cleverly took the wrong road, which added fully fifty kilometres to our day's run. We found ourselves at about two o'clock in La Rochefoucauld. Everywhere we were in search of essence, and as we found plenty of it there, Marje forgave my stupidity. As we knew we could make Poitiers that night, anyway, Mrs. Shurtleff said that it made no difference. After having given one look at the lovely château, I felt personally very pleased with myself. We had luncheon at a funny little inn, which was so stuffy inside that we insisted upon having them serve our omelets on the front porch. They thought, of course, that we were crazy and the windows were crowded with faces showing ill-concealed curiosity. We went up to the château and found an old woman there who was glad to take us around. The present Duke and Duchess of La Rochefoucauld have not lived in the château since the beginning of the war. She is an American with millions who has restored most lavishly but in the best possible taste the interior of the fine old castle. The only son and heir died, at the age of seven, a few years ago. A charming marble bust of the child placed in the chapel gave a pathetic note to the whole place. We stopped at Ruffec that afternoon, having been advised not to miss the place where they manufacture pâtés de foie gras and truffles. The fattest woman I ever saw has a little shop in a courtyard where the finest canned goods are put up. She showed us her storeroom of thousands of cans, and I felt like buying a couple of thousand until I found out how much she charged. As it was, we bought six or seven cans, arguing that it was pure economy to eat pâté with bread at the side of the road instead of going to a hotel for luncheon every day.