"My son is in water up to his waist out there in Argonne," echoes a third, as the group disbands. And yet people do go to the theatre. Gemier has made triumphant productions, with the translations of the Shakesperean Society, and true artist that he is, has created sensational innovations by way of _mise-en-scene_ in the "Merchant of Venice" and "Anthony and Cleopatra." It's a far cry now to the once all too popular staging a la Munich. Lamy and Le Gallo were excruciatingly funny in a farce called "My God-son," but the real type of theatrical performance which is unanimously popular, which will hold its own to the very end, is the Review. How on earth the authors manage to scrape up enough comic subjects, when sadness is so generally prevalent, and how they succeed in making their public laugh spontaneously and heartily, without the slightest remorse or _arriere pensee_, has been a very interesting question to me. Naturally, their field is limited, and there are certain subjects which are tabooed completely; so the trifling event, the ridiculous side of Parisian life, have come to the fore. Two special types, the slacker and the profiteer, or _nouveau riche_, are very generally and very thoroughly maltreated. If I am any judge, it is the _embusque_, who is the special pet, and after him come the high cost of living, the lack of fuel, the obscurity of the streets, the length of women's skirts, etc.--all pretexts for more or less amusing topical songs. As to the war itself, they have made something very special of it. Thanks to them the trenches become a very delightful spot populated by a squadron of nimble footed misses, who, booted, spurred, helmet-crowned and costumed in horizon blue, sing of the heroism and the splendid good humour of the _poilu_ while keeping time to a martial rhythm. There is invariably a heavy comedian who impersonates the jovial _chef_--preparing a famous sauce in which to dish up "Willy" the day he shall be captured; the soldier on furlough who is homesick for the front; the wounded man who stops a moment to sing (with many frills and flourishes) the joys of shedding one's blood for his country. Attacks are made to well known accompaniments--Bombardments perpetrated in the wings by the big bass drum, and both though symbolic, are about as unreal as possible. Nobody is illusioned, no one complains. On the contrary, they seem delighted with the show they have paid to see. Furthermore, the better part of the audience is composed of soldiers, wounded men, convalescents, and _permissionaires_, and they all know what to expect. Near me sat two of the latter--healthy looking lads, wind burned and tanned, their uniforms sadly faded and stained, their helmets scarred and indented. Both wore the Croix de Guerre, and the Fourragere or shoulder strap, showing the colours of the military medal, which at that time being quite a novelty, caught and held the eyes of all who surrounded them.