Soldiers are coming and going. The château has been for many years a barracks. One guardian of the park, of the now so-despised race of gendarmes, has walked by three times, for I have my little note-book in my lap and my pencil in my hand and I am plainly not of Lunéville. He is just passing me again, and I say “_C’est beau, le parc._” He answers, “Perhaps in summer,” evidently not stirred by autumnal Lorraine, and then, “_Madame est en visite?_” I answer, “Yes, with Miss Crocker.” That name being magic in these parts, he salutes and passes on. Of the lovely old bosquets where Stanislas combined his _jets d’eau_, his _grottes_, his Chinese pavilions, and his _parterres_, the long avenue and the great flat basin of the fountain, in which black swans are floating, are all that remain. From the end of this avenue can be seen the aviation field with its great hangars. The low terraces have borders of autumn flowers, dahlias, chrysanthemums, red vines, dead leaves, and moss-grown and charming statues of ancient love-making gods, who came into their own again in those amorous days. There is a statue to M. Guérin’s poet son born and dead between two invasions, but a lovely eighteenth-century statue of a veiled woman renders _mou_ and without accent the flat, white-marble shaft that commemorates his earthly span (1874-1908). The statue of Erckmann is also in the nineteenth-century manner. Is the human race as uncharming as modern sculptors would make it? One feels apologetic toward the ages to come, and one wants to cry out that we weren’t so bad, after all, and that seemingly soulless individual in a frock-coat and baggy trousers and top-hat, looking so unattractive in white marble, was really a delightful person, an imaginative lover, a perceptive intellectual, and witty to boot. He would have been the first to protest against his memorial; and how he would have hated the geraniums and begonias planted at his base, and the wire fencing! Beyond the park, where the trees have been cleared away, is the brown, reedy Vesouze, a little border of old houses on its banks. Beyond is the rolling stretch of forest-covered hills and russet and jasper and topaz fields, and above it all the sunless and gray, but strangely luminous, noonday heaven of autumnal Lorraine. _Later._ Wandered about the town. Everywhere charming bits of _autrefois_ arrest the eye. Over one doorway, between two angels’ heads of pure Louis XV, was written, “_Fais bien, laisses dire_.” A little farther along, under a figureless niche, “_Si le cœur t’en dit un ave pour son âme_.” In the window of a pharmacy near by, occupying a good old house with flat, gray façade, is a big Lunéville porcelain jar bearing the words “_Theriaca celestis_,” interwoven among flowered scrolls, and I thought of eighteenth-century servants going in for herbs and various cures for masters and mistresses having “vapors.”