Then back to Nancy, running swiftly over a white road, the gray sky very low, and on either side green and yellow and brown fields, and the oak and beech forest of Haye. The _Grand Couronné_ for a moment was divested of its mists, and some brightening of the western sky touched its ridge with a subdued splendor; and then we got into Nancy and were deposited at the Prefecture, where we made our adieux. We proceeded to the garage of a stoutish, blond man of pronounced Teuton type and accent, with an uncertain smile—and a coreless heart, I think—who cranked _la Ford_ (by the way, Fords change their sex in France), and we started out through the town that night was enveloping, with but one dull eye to light us to Lunéville. We thought the trip might prove fairly uncertain, but didn’t know how much so till there was an impact, in the crowded suburb, and a horse’s form with legs in air, looking as big as a monster of the Pliocene age, showed for an instant on our radiator, then fell to the ground. A crowd immediately gathered, while the driver of the cart proceeded to tell us what he thought of us in particular and women drivers in general. But, though unfortunate, we felt blameless, as the horse had been tied _behind_ the wagon standing at the curb and there was no light, except something very dim coming from a green-grocer’s. We departed to the _commissaire de police_ with the man and a couple of gendarmes, explained that we were willing to do anything and everything if he would only let us proceed to Lunéville, gave the magic name “Commission Californienne,” and equally potent reference to the _Préfet de la Meurthe et Moselle_ whose house we had just left. Then with beating hearts and a chastened outlook on life—I use the word “outlook” rather wildly; we couldn’t see anything—we passed out through the great manufacturing district. Every now and then our feeble ray was swallowed up by the great lamps of a military auto or the large round headlight of a _camion_. As we passed through St.-Nicolas du Port and Dombasle the blue of the soldiers’ tunics took on a strange ghoul-like color, a white incandescent sort of gray, and the moving forms seemed twice their natural size. We couldn’t see the streets at all, and the only thing we wanted to do in all the world was to get to Lunéville and run _la Ford_ into the garage of M. Guérin.