Part 8 (1/2)

n.o.body ever wants to go to Grenelle.

If some one tactfully suggests the Avenue de Messine, he is instantly rebuffed by a steady stare that sends him back, withered, into the second row of the group. A s.h.i.+vering woman, taking all her courage into her hands, suggests the Palais d'Orsay, but is ignored while a man from behind calls forth ”Five francs if you'll take me to the Avenue du Bois.”

The chauffeur's glance wavers, it seems possible that he might entertain the proposal. The gentleman steps forward, already has his hand on the door handle, when from somewhere in the darkness, helmet clad, stick in his hand, kit bag over one shoulder, a _poilu permissionaire_ elbows his way through the crowd. There is no argument, he merely says,

”Look here, old man, I've got to make the 6.01 at the Gare du Nord; drive like h.e.l.l!”

”You should worry. We'll get there.”

Now, the Gare du Nord is certainly not in the direction of Grenelle.

On the contrary it is diametrically opposite, geographically speaking.

But n.o.body seems to mind. The chauffeur is even lauded for his patriotic sentiments, and one good-hearted, bedraggled creature actually murmurs:

”I only hope the dear fellow does make it!”

”What does it matter if we do have to wait a bit--that's all we've really got to do, after all,” answers an elderly man moving away.

”It would be worse than this if we were in the trenches,” chimes in some one else.

”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 G.o.d-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 sc.r.a.pe 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 ”w.i.l.l.y” 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 ba.s.s drum, and both though symbolic, are about as unreal as possible.

n.o.body 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.

From sc.r.a.ps of their conversation I learned that they had left the battle front of the Somme that very morning, were merely crossing Paris, taking a midnight train which would land them home some time the following day.

I even managed to gather that their papers had reached them at the very moment when they came out of the trenches, that they had not even had time to brush up, so great was their fear of missing the last train.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, then, they had really been in it--standing out there in the mud, surrounded by rats and the putrid odour of dead bodies, the prey not only of the elements, but of enemy bombs and sh.e.l.ls, expecting the end at any instant; or curled up, half frozen in a humid, slimy dug-out, not long enough to permit stretching out--scarcely deep enough to be called a shelter.