is instantly
rebuffed by a steady stare that sends him back, withered, into the
second row of the group. A shivering 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 hell!"

"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 nobody 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
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.