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.

From scraps 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 n