There is an Arc de Triomphe, put up by Stanislas at one end, in honor of his kingly son-in-law, in front of the Hôtel de Ville, and a statue of Stanislas himself in the middle, bearing the name “Stanislas,” the date of 1831, and “_La Lorraine Reconnaissante_.” In looking about, my eye fell on the Restaurant Stanislas, _dans la note_, certainly, and I decided to dine there. We found that we had time to investigate a little further, and turned down by the café into a most lovely linden-scented square called Place de la Carrière. Through the double lines of trees between the fountains at the farther end was visible an old palace, and the square was flanked by houses that courtiers only could have lived in. It all cried out, “Stay with me awhile.” An old park was at one side, with trees planted _en quinconce_[2]—chestnuts, ash, trembling poplars—and everywhere was the penetrating fragrance of the lindens. It was so sweet and loosening under the shade, after the long hot day in the train, that the young officers began to talk, one of his fiancée waiting in _Les Landes_, the other of his wife of a year, seen only twice seven days. And then again we were silent, and under the flowering trees I was seized with a great longing for the beautiful and calm, for the arts and ways of Peace. It seemed to me I could not longer think of this, that, or the other “offensive,” but that I must see before my eyes, hear with my ears, feel with my touch, the lovely, the melodic, the benign. _O bon Jésus!_ Not of the battle-fields, not of _réformés_, of limbless, sightless men, not of starving, frightened children, not of black-robed women, not of lonely deaths, not of munition-factories. What is this world we are in? I don’t know how long we were silent, but at last one of the young men said, “We must think of the hour.” Then came a glancing at wrist watches, rattling of identity disks, and we went back to the café and got a table by the window, where we could look out on the lovely, calm _ensemble_ and the fading sky. The menu was brought; it was a meatless day, but with a snap of the eye the waiter recommended _œufs à la gelée_. We understood later, when we found, concealed in the bottom of each little dish under the egg, a thick, round piece of ham. Fried perch, new potatoes, salad, strawberries and cream, with the celebrated macarons of Nancy—_des Sœurs Macarons_, as the little piece of paper underneath each says—made a delicious menu. A certain _petit vin gris du pays_ had been recommended us with another snap of the eye. As we sat waiting, one of the officers exclaimed at a giant, lonely, priestly figure passing through the Place: “_Le voilà, l’aumônier du 52ème._” I said, “Do run after him and ask him for dinner, too.”