It, too, is in what was once the Oberforster’s house, only _its_ walls had been hung by the commandant with ancient souvenirs picked up in the valley; old engravings of Alsatian generals, Rapp, Kléber, and Lefèvre, Duke of Dantzig, this last vanquished husband of Madame Sans-Gêne as well as victorious general of France. And there are some old engravings of the portals of the church at Thann, and 1860 street scenes, with bombazined women and high-collared men. An enormous flag of Louis Philippe decorates one corner, and many horns and antlers of the Oberforster’s time hang in the entrance-hall. There is a busy, pleasant coming and going of men who like their work. More officers are presented, and there is much joking about our Masevaux _popote_ and odious comparisons. We tell them proudly of the new coffee-pot, but the haughty chef of the St.-Amarin _popote_ answers that it was needed, and probably we had at last heard what people really thought about the coffee at the Masevaux mess. I am to lunch here on Thursday and see—or rather, _taste_! And all love St.-Amarin and its wide valley, even those who now live at Masevaux. Home by the Route Joffre with Sérin and Laferrière. A rising up over indigo mountains, blackening at their base, blotted against the strange white sky, white even now at sunset, then a drop into the dark valley of Masevaux, talking of politics, theirs and mine, things of wisdom and valiance done or undone. And the end in sight. Though Laferrière said: “I am not sure that they will feel so conquered. They will proudly record the dates of their great victories, and their historians will tell of their sweeping invasions; one must confess they have had great generals. They will doubtless reproach their statesmen with not having made better alliances, and decry their _gaffes_. But as for fighting, they will feel that men may fight one to two, one to three or to four or even five, but that no one can fight the world. _Tenez_, for Napoleon, after Waterloo, there was nothing more personally, but his victories remain among the great military glories of history.” On the crest as we started to drop into the valley, in that pale, pale sky above a blue, blue hill, something almost like words was written in delicate gold, in long looping characters, by the unseen, setting sun. I know not what they spelled, but I think it was Peace, lovely Peace....