The pink-curtained windows have deep embrasures; a fresh, thick, pale-gray carpet quite covers the floor; on the mantelpiece is a bronze clock, a large Europa sitting on a small bull. I suspect _it_ is 1830. In one corner a commodious Louis XV _armoire_. On one of its doors is carved a peasant’s house and a hunter aiming at a deer half-hidden in some trees. On the other is a fishing scene and a bridge, and in the distance a château. The panels are inclosed in charming Pompadour scrolls, and there is an elaborate wrought-iron lock of the same period. It seemed to epitomize the life of Lorraine, as well as “the reign of the arts and talents.” Discovered last night that the electric light is in the right place, so that a lady can dress for dinner or read in bed with equal facility. There is all the hot water one could wish, an open fireplace, but it was with a sigh that I said, as I heard the cannon, “_Rien ne manque_.” The maid, who had been in England, put our things out last night with a dainty touch, the ribbons on top; my pink satin négligé was placed with art across the chair by my bed. In E. M.’s room, equally comfortable, her pale-blue one was also tastefully displayed. Somehow, all the physical comfort is so insistently in contrast with what is being gone through with a few kilometers away, and though my soul can be supremely content without any of it, I looked for the moment with a new appreciation on this flicker of comfort behind that dreadful front. Again we groped through the Place Léopold after dinner at Mlle. Guérin’s, feeling our way slowly under completely remote stars, Jupiter so gorgeous that for a moment my heart was afraid. Then I became sensible of ghostly and lovely companions, the amiable secrets of whose amiable lives have been revealed to me in many a tome since I crossed that square in those linden-scented nights of June. Did linden scent, on which a long chapter could be written, have anything to do with their morals, I wonder? However that may be, I thought of Duke Léopold going from the château through the park to the house in the rue de Lorraine to see the Princesse de Craon, who bore twenty children here in Lunéville, preserving her beauty and her husband’s love, and that of Duke Léopold as well, evidently having the secret of squaring the circle without breaking it (unknown in the twentieth century, when everything “goes bang” if it is but breathed upon). Then of the wild and witty Chevalier de Boufflers, painting and making verses, loving and forgetting, whose mother, beloved of “_Stanislas, Roi de Pologne et Duc de Lorraine et de Bar_,” was the bright particular star of Stanislas’s Court, as his grandmother had been of Léopold’s. And how often _La divine Emilie_ and Voltaire passed through the Place Léopold in their coach to be put up at the Palace and contribute to the gaiety of nations. They and many others filled the square, and I was thinking of discreet sedan-chairs coming from