I tiptoed toward the stone slab where that great lady of another age is lying asleep, clad in the dark robe of the Poor Clares. Her hands, folded downward, are clasped at her waist. Under the cowl the pale head is turned gently, as if in sleep.[17] She is an enduring image of resignation, not alone for herself, but for all of us who live and die, we don’t quite know how or why, and who must “endure our going hence even as our coming hither.” The church was constructed by her husband, René II, Duke of Lorraine, to commemorate the deliverance of Nancy and the defeat of Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, in 1477. Duke René himself had a glorious reign; for him the arts and letters were the ornament of victory. I discovered a commemorative monument of my friend Duke Léopold, flanked rather flamboyantly by unquiet, yet charming, statues of Faith and Hope! Also an elaborate statue of Katerina Opalinska, the consort of Stanislas, who, though he had been somewhat forgetful of her in life, had done really all that a wife could wish in the matter of the tomb. But some virtue more mystic than the decorative Faith and Hope of the eighteenth century exhaled from the quiet figure of Philippe de Gueldre. Near the high altar is the Chapelle Ronde begun by Charles III, the grandson of René, in 1607, intended as a sepulcher for the princes of Lorraine, and in a beautiful _grille_ are entwined the arms of Lorraine and Austria. Then the sacristan came in to light the candles of the high altar, the church got suddenly quite dark, from the organ came the strains of “_O quam suavis est, Domine_,” and people began to come in to Benediction. The blue and vermilion and gold of the mausoleum of René II faded and one saw only vague outlines of saints and angels, and a figure of the Eternal Father. It cried out of that other deliverance of Nancy; but when the world war is over will his widow, Philippe de Gueldre, _conjunx Piissimi_, still be sleeping quietly, her brown cowl over her head and her crown at her feet? Her soul “conducted to Paradise by angels, where martyrs received her and led her into the Holy City Jerusalem.” The church got quite full, the organist continued to play early Italian music, and the “Pietà, Signor” of Pergolese rose as I knelt by Philippe de Gueldre. The great cope of the priest shone, the smell of incense pervaded the dim spaces, the “_Tantum Ergo_” sounded, and I bowed my head.... Then out into a world of fading light, found the _cocher_ in the exact attitude I had left him, and begged him to drive quickly (which was impossible) to the Hôtel Excelsior et d’Angleterre, bethinking me of the 5.30 train to Lunéville. As we went through the dim, charming streets I remembered an old verse I had found in one of M. Guérin’s books, by an unreservedly admiring individual, who said that if he had one foot in Paradise and the other in Nancy, he would withdraw the one in Paradise, that both might be in Nancy!