I came back through the park. In it is a modern iron bandstand, fortunately copied after the delicious designs of Jean Lamour—only _he_ would have done something to relieve the heavy iron roof. And he quite certainly caught his inspiration musing about the park one autumn day, for everywhere I saw charming repetitions of his _grilles_ in that delicate tracery of yellow leaf against gray trunk and branch. Old houses give on the park, where one might dream dreams, and find the world—perhaps well lost. Many windows broken, and more crisscrossing with bands of paper. It was getting to be 12.30 when, having been as much of an angel as the three dimensions permit, I emerged on to the Place Stanislas to see E. M. approaching with a young blue-clad aviator, with something distinguished yet modest in his bearing, of whom I instantly thought he is one of those _qui cherche sa récompense plutôt dans les yeux de ses hommes que dans les notes de ses chefs_—and so it proved to be. He didn’t even wear the _brisquets_ of his years of service on his arm. “_Tout le monde sait que je n’ai pas été trois ans sans rien faire_,” he said, later, during lunch, which we took in the Café Stanislas, crowded with gallooned and decorated officers. Several red-and-white marked autos of the General Staff were waiting before the door, where Stanislas also could see them, and those beings, half human, half divine, of the sky-line, framed it all. Afterward I again removed my three dimensions, hunting for M. Pierre Boyé, the great authority on all things of Lorraine, M. Guérin having given me a letter to him. On arriving at the house, through quiet gray streets, there was no answer to my numerous ringings of the bell, so I came back, drawn irresistibly to the Place Stanislas. By this time it was aglow in the afternoon light; great masses of clouds even at 3.30 were tinted with yellow and orange, and every inch of gilding caught the light. I hailed an antique cab and drove out where I could look over rolling stretches of country, along the road to Toul. The brown and yellow fields were aglow, the bronzing forests, too; above were piled the high and splendid clouds of autumnal Lorraine, and I saw where Claude le Lorrain had got _his_ masses. The _cocher_ then proceeded to bring me back to town by a perfectly hideous road, called Quai Claude le Lorrain—on one side the blackened railway, on the other modern claptrappy houses with their windows shattered and their roofs damaged. I then told him to take me to the church of the Cordeliers, where I stepped suddenly, not only into its late afternoon dimness, but into the dimness of past ages. A shaft of light from a high window showed me a dull, rich bit of color on an ancient pillar, in a sort of chapel; and then my eye fell on what I had come to see, the tomb of the Duchesse Philippe de Gueldre, widow of René II, bearing the incomparable stamp of the genius of Ligier Richier.