We visited Mlle. Antoine, living in a reconstructed street named after a Polish prince. She escaped to Lunéville with her servant on the day of the entry of the Germans into the village, August 23, 1914, fleeing through the ancient forest, but returned to her Lares and Penates a few days afterward with German passes. She represents culture in the village, and is clear-eyed, sweet-voiced, but with two red spots on her cheeks—she is fighting off consumption by living out of doors with her chickens and live stock, in sabots and apron and shawl. A beautiful old desk was in her living-room, and there was a discussion as to whether it was Louis XVI or Directoire, but under any name one would have loved to possess it. The windows looked out onto the inevitable dung-heap, but beyond were bronzing forests, and, in between, fields the color of semi-precious stones. [Illustration: MISS POLK’S WEDDING The Comtesse de Buyer (Miss Polk) on the arm of Monsieur Mirman, Prefect of the Meurthe et Moselle, after her wedding at Vitrimont, September, 1917.] Hearing the sound of music as we passed the church, we went in and found some young girls were practising a “_Credo_,” clustered about the little organ, and wearing brooches with a device of thistle and double Lorraine cross that Madame de Buyer had given them on her wedding-day. I looked again upon the lovely old fifteenth-century vaulting, fully restored, shifting my eye hurriedly from the hideous but seemingly imperishable dado with its design of painted folds of cloth. At the door the little holy water fonts, formed of shells held upon two heads of seraphim, gave me a thrill of joy—and sadness, too, that beauty is so perishable.