nd bless her
ancient place of Lunae Villa, in good time!

It was here, Brian reminded me, that they drew up the treaty which gave
the Rhine frontier to France, after Napoleon won the Battle of Marengo.
I wonder if the Germans remembered this in 1914 when they came?

We lunched at an hotel, in a restaurant crowded with French officers;
and not a civilian there except ourselves. I was hoping that Paul Herter
might come in, for the tragic Rue Princesse Marie is not far away--and
even a Wandering Jew must eat! He did not come; but I almost forgot my
new disappointment in hearing the French officers talk about Lorraine.

They were in the midst of a discussion when we came in, and when they
had all bowed politely to us, they took up its thread where it had
broken off. A colonel--a Lorrainer--was saying that out of the wealth of
Lorraine (stolen wealth, he called it!) Germany had built up her fortune
as a united nation, in a few years far exceeding the indemnity received
in 1871. Germany had known that there were vast stores of iron; but the
amazing riches in phosphorus ores had come to her as a surprise. If she
had guessed, never would she have agreed to leave more than half the
deposit on the French side of the frontier! Well enough for Prussian
boasters to say that Germany's success was due to her own industry and
supervirtue, or that her tariff schemes had worked wonders. But take
away the provinces she tore from France, and she will be a Samson shorn!
Take away Lorraine and the world will be rid once and for all of the
German menace!

When we left Luneville there was still hope from Gerbeviller. Herter is
often there, it seems. Besides, Gerbeviller was the principal end and
aim of our day's excursion. Once no more than a pleasant town of quiet
beauty on a pretty river, now it is a _monument historique_, the Pompeii
of Lorraine.

As we arrived the sun clouded over suddenly, and the effect was almost
theatrical. From gold the light had dimmed to silver. In the midst of
the afternoon, we saw Gerbeviller as if by moonlight in the still
silence of night. On the outskirts we forsook our three cars, and
walked slowly through the dead town, awestruck and deeply thoughtful as
if in a church where the body of some great man lay in state.

There was not a sound except, as at Leomont, the unseen choir of
bird-voices; but their song emphasized the silence. In the pale light
the shells of wrecked houses glimmered white, like thin