The end of our line at the north, and there is a Gothic church of the thirteenth century called Notre Dame des Vertus, and in it is the tomb of the Maréchale de Luxembourg, dead in 1695. NANÇOIS-TRONVILLE. More blue meadow mists along gold waters, and soft dark fringes of willows. LONGEVILLE. The evening star and spirals of smoke from little houses, and blue-clad men melting into the twilight, and the canal a golden band, with stampings of deepest purple where tree shadows cut across it. Two American soldiers standing at a road-crossing looking up at the sign-post. Everywhere the Lorraine twilight is shot with khaki-colored threads from over the seas—and the three gray sisters spin the inexorable web. Bar-le-Duc, looking sick and sorry for itself. Station full of broken glass, dirt, and piles of demolished masonry. The evening star hangs above the older town on the hill. No time to get out to see how the canteen work is going on; but two obliging station employees gave me news. A whole quarter of the town by the river, near the Hôtel du Commerce et de Metz, of unsanctified memory, was destroyed ten days ago, by an air raid. I asked if anything had happened to the church of St.-Peter, for I thought of the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Ligier Richier, René de Châlons,[20] standing in its dim space, holding his heart aloft in his left hand, eternal offering to his first wife, Louise of Lorraine. How his widow, Philippe de Gueldre, felt about this before she was laid out in the garb of the Poor Clares I don’t know. No longer any night work in the canteen, no lights being permitted. Our train unlighted, too. New and larger signs indicating cellars and shelters everywhere. Black moving shapes of _camions_ along the road, and the evening star following us along the top of the hill of Bar. A squad of Annamites quitting their work on the road. _En ces armées singulières_ _Où l’Annam casse des pierres_ _Sur la route de Verdun._ REVIGNY. Portentous dark shapes of roofless houses and detachments of blue-clad men going down a winding road, one with the blue twilight. The station dim, the town completely dark, and the vine-planted hills only soft masses; the evening star still following us, though she is so close to the ridge that in a few minutes she will drop behind it. Oh, this passing of the evening star in a war—autumn behind French hills! VITRY-LE-FRANÇOIS, _5.45_.