of
Japan. The Scotch lassies wore violent blue jackets. The Belgian girls
carried large pitchers and rather wept and watered their way about the
stage. There were no thrills.

After the intermission there was not even available standing space. The
majority of the women were in black--the prevailing color in these days.
The only touches of brightness and light were in the uniforms of the
officers liberally sprinkled through the orchestra and boxes.

Then came "Le Chant du Depart," the famous song of the revolution. The
scene was a little country village. The principals were the officer, the
soldier, the wife, the mother, the daughter, and the drummer boy. There
was a magnificent soldier chorus and the fanfare of drums and trumpets.
The audience then became honestly enthusiastic. I concluded that the
best Chenal could do with the "Marseillaise," which was next on the
programme, would be an anti-climax.

The orchestra played the opening bars of the martial music. With the
first notes the vast audience rose. I looked up at the row of wounded
leaning heavily against the rail, their eyes fixed and staring on the
curtain. I noticed the officers in the boxes, their eyes glistening. I
heard a convulsive catch in the throats of persons about me. Then the
curtain lifted.

I do not remember what was the stage setting. I do not believe I saw it.
All I remember was Chenal standing at the top of a short flight of
steps, in the centre near the back drop. I indistinctly remember that
the rest of the stage was filled with the soldier chorus and that near
the footlights on either side were clusters of little children.

"Up, sons of France, the call of glory"----

Chenal swept down to the footlights. The words of the song swept over
the audience like a bugle call. The singer wore a white silk gown draped
in perfect Grecian folds. She wore the large black Alsatian head dress,
in one corner of which was pinned a small tri-colored cockade. She has
often been called the most beautiful woman in Paris. The description
was too limited. With the next lines she threw her arms apart, drawing
out the folds of the gown into the tricolor of France--heavy folds of
red silk draped over one arm and blue over the other. Her head was
thrown back. Her tall, slender figure simply vibrated with the feeling
of the words that poured forth from her lips. She was noble. She was
glorious. She was sublime. With the "March on, March on" of the chorus,
her voic