Seeing the American flag flying from the ground-floor window of one of the beautiful old buildings of the Place Stanislas, I went in to find Mrs. Dawson installed in charge of the Nancy branch of the “American Fund for French Wounded.” It was another novelty for Stanislas to look upon out of his _right_ eye! He’s been kept busy, these past three years, looking about him. The large room was filled with furniture M. Mirman is collecting for refugees—wardrobes, tables, chairs, in and on which were piles of shirts, vests, sweaters, _cachenez_, handkerchiefs, all from over the ocean. And really, when one investigates the comfort-bags filled by too-generous American hands, one has a cupidous feeling. There is a lavishness in the matter of Colgate’s tooth-paste, for instance, which one can rarely get for love, and not at all for money, in Paris! I came away in a gray, slanting rain that made the Place Stanislas look as if Raffaello had done it over and framed it beautifully in gray. Great scratchings of rainfall, and soldiers and women hurrying through it. But _le geste_ is not like the days when Raffaello painted—there are no skirts to lift up, or, rather, none that need lifting. Then I crossed over to the Place de la Carrière, where _souvent en ces aimables lieux des héros et des demi-dieux_ had held their tournaments, and then into the church of St.-Epvre to get a Mass. The stained-glass windows, modern and very expensive-looking, were crisscrossed with broad stripes of paper on the side toward the railway, where the shocks from the frequent bombing of the station are especially felt. Everywhere in Nancy the windows are broken, or crisscrossed with paper, or both. The church was blue with military. Afterward I walked through the Grande Rue. The ducal palace of the early sixteenth century, begun by René II, has its door scaffolded and sandbagged. It is the celebrated _Musée Lorrain_, whose treasures are now removed further from the frontier. It is here that the body of Charles III lay in such magnificence that there arose the saying in the sixteenth century that the three most gorgeous ceremonies in the world were the consecration of a king of France at Reims, the crowning of an emperor of Germany at Frankfort, and the obsequies of a duke of Lorraine at Nancy. I continued down the Grande Rue between groups of _poilus_, officers, and the usual Sunday population coming from Mass, or getting in last dinner provisions, to the Porte de Graffe of the fourteenth century, beyond which is the Porte de la Citadelle, and then the garrison. As one walks along, the snatches of talk one overhears are “_Bombardé deux fois_,” “_Pas un vitre qui reste_,” “_Volant très-bas_,” etc.