After accepting an invitation for dinner that night, we walked out through the town toward the Château, once the haunt of witty rulers, philosophers, and of the fair and evidently too-amiable ladies beloved by them. However, when we got into the great square of the palace I forgot about them, for, looking up at the statue of Lasalle, born in Metz, 1775, and fallen at the battle of Wagram, 1807, were two Senegalese whom _we_ looked at as the Lunéville populace might once have looked at the camels the young Duke Léopold brought back with him from his wars with the Turks. The juxtaposition was as strange. One of the Senegalese had on a blue cap, the other a red. We gave each one a franc for cigarettes, received large-mouthed, white-toothed smiles, and proceeded to look at the remains of a German _avion_ which had fallen beside the statue the day before, the most complete wreck possible. The aviator had been killed and his broken wings were being removed to the Museum. It made me quite still—there was something so complete about it all, the great Château in the background, the statue of Lasalle, the two Senegalese, the shattered Taube! We walked on rather quietly over the bridge of the Vesouze to the Place des Carmes—the Place Brûlée, as it is now called. The big Carmelite convent which formed the square had been used as a barracks for a generation or so, and one side had been burned with incendiary bombs when the Germans left, while the other side was untouched. In the middle was the statue of L’Abbé Grégoire (who made the mistake of being ahead of his time), and on the pedestal are the words, “_J’ai vécu sans lâcheté, je veux mourir sans remords_.” We stopped only a moment at the church—eighteenth century, of course; fine old choir, delicate baroque designs on the great wooden doors, and dominating towers in a lovely reddish stone, with charming _motifs_ of urn and scroll, and flying angels against the sky, or rather _in_ it.