We walked seemingly through the entire town toward a freshness of parks, and in darkness we arrived before a garden gate; silence, and the bell nowhere to be found. After looking for it in the light of various matches—vainly, of course—the _commissaire_ had the brilliant idea of going to the house next door, _la maison de M. le Maire_, the celebrated M. Keller. A woman came out and showed the bell where nobody would ever have thought of looking for it, and, furthermore, masked by vines. The door was finally opened by a tall, slender, white-robed figure with two black braids showing over her shoulders and a floating scarf. I thought it a vision of Isolde, but it proved to be Miss P., who cried: “We had given you up! We waited at Nancy till the train came in, and then had to motor back as quickly as possible on account of the lights.” I went in, to find E. M. in a most becoming, slinky, pale-blue satin _négligé_, also with braids on her shoulders. I’d rather have found them both in _paniers_, shaking the powder out of their hair. However, I can’t complain; it was all pretty good as regards the stage-setting. We embraced. I explained that various zealous guardians of the gates of Nancy had stamped my _sauf-conduit_, and, as I was certainly the only one of my species arriving by that train, they should have given news of me when asked concerning _une Américaine_. Then, as the only healthy rooms in Lunéville in 1917 are on the ground floor, I departed to one that had been retained for me at the Hôtel des Vosges. Again through the soft-scented night, guided by my _commissaire_, to a room of extreme cleanliness and a most comfortable bed. It is 2 A.M. I am too tired to sleep. My mind is jacked up by all the twists and turns of the day. I have been reading the _Cour de Lunéville_, by Gaston Maugras, found in my room, belonging to E. M. Three o’clock. Soft, very soft booming of cannon, and a deep-toned bell. But no “poppy throws around _my_ bed its lulling charities.” CHAPTER III LUNÉVILLE Lunéville, a dream of fair women of old and new times, linden scents, and circling Taubes and little white puffs of shrapnel against blue skies. HÔTEL DES VOSGES, _June 15th, 8 a.m._ Have just breakfasted to the gentle accompaniment of firing on a Taube. Dear old village life began at an early hour, but of course the Taube put the cocks and the carts and the geese and all the other usual auroral sounds quite in the background. My breakfast service is decorated with the same double cross of Lorraine that I saw on various houses in Nancy indicating comfortable cellar accommodation. The cross with the _chardon lorrain_ (Lorraine thistle) is everywhere. Popping and cannonading going on at a lively rate, and whir of aero wheels; a beautiful day. Some little white puffs of shrapnel visible from my window; I must get dressed and investigate. Cannonading just stopped. I don’t know whether he got off or was got.