The portal of the church reminds me, with its rich, wine-colored tones, of the _tezontle_ of the Mexican houses of the viceregal period. The words over the door are “_Au Dieu de Paix_,” the God that this torn borderland seldom receives, and still rarely keeps, and above is a figure of Chronos, or the Almighty, I don’t know which. A large black marble slab without name or date is near the door as one passes in; underneath lie the remains of Voltaire’s _divine Emilie_.[18] Having loved much, let us hope much was forgiven her. The choir, pulpit, and confessionals are very pure Louis XV. Over the organ-loft are the words “_Laudate Deum in chordis et organo_,” painted in among Pompadour knots which have been democratically colored red, white, and blue, near blue and gold fleurs-de-lys of another epoch. Against the wall of the façade is a marble urn that once contained the heart of Stanislas, who was very devout, and left no stone unturned, though he continued to love not alone the arts, to placate the final judge. He was very fond of music while dining, but on Friday never permitted any except that of the harp, considered less earthly than violin and clavecin. He never missed Mass; he was merciful to the poor and appreciative of the things of the mind. Not a bad showing; one hopes he’s happy somewhere. In one of the side altars is a Pietà and three long lists of those just dead for France, whose graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned Its charge to each; and then, as I sat quietly thinking upon the passing of heroes, Shelley’s immortal words kept sounding in my ears: And if the seal is set, Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, Break it not thou!... From the world’s bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonaïs is, why fear we to become? Lunched at the Guérins’. _La Ford_ being the only means of locomotion in Lunéville, not even an old horse remaining to pull a cab, we had to give up the trip to Baccarat, and indeed any trip anywhere. Delighted to be able to _flâner_ in the old streets without my umbrella being turned wrong side out. Overhead the _avions_ were thick; we counted twelve at one time, some of them flying so low that we could hear words. Observation airplanes, bombarding airplanes, the swift _avions de chasse_, going in the direction of the forest of Parroy, where the Germans are intrenched since the retreat from Lunéville, September, 1914. Parroy and all that part of the country was completely laid waste in 1636 by Richelieu, who sent the cheerful report to Louis XIV that “Lorraine was reduced to nothing, and the inhabitants dead for the most part.”