The concerts were held in the “Salle de Fetes,” a hall in which, during peace time, the village celebrates its little festivals.  It was an ugly, bare shed with a sloping roof resting on iron girders painted clay white, but the poilus had beautified it with a home-made stage and rustic greenery.  The proscenium arch, painted by Bonnefon, was pearl-gray in color and decorated with panels of gilt stripes; and a shield showing the lictor’s rods, a red liberty cap and the letters “R.  F.” served as a headpiece.  The scenery, also the work of Bonnefon, represented a Versailles kind of garden full of statues and very watery fountains.  There was no curtain.  Just below the stage a semicircle of chairs had been arranged for the officers of the regiment, and behind these were wooden benches and a large space for standing room.  By the time the concert was supposed to begin, every bench was filled, and standing room was at a premium.  Suddenly there were cries of “Le Colonel,” and everybody stood up as the fine-looking old colonel and his staff took their places.  The orchestra, composed of a pianist, a few violinists, and a flute-player, began to play the “Marseillaise.”  When the music was over, and everybody decently quiet, the concert began.

“Le Camarade Tollot, of the Theatre des Varietes de Paris will recite ‘Le Dernier Drapeau,’” shouted the announcer.  Le Camarade Tollot walked on the stage and bowed, a big, important young man with a lion’s mane of dark hair.  Then, striking an attitude, he recited in the best French, ranting style, a rhymed tale of a battle in which many regiments charged together, flags flying.  One by one the flags fell to the ground as the bearers were cut down by the withering fire of the enemy; all save one who struggled on.  It was a fine, old-fashioned, dramatic “will-he-get-there-yes-he-will-he-falls” sort of thing.  “Il tombe,” said le Camarade Tollot, in what used to be called the “oratorical orotund”—­“il tombe.”  There was a full pause.  He was wounded.  He rose staggering to his feet.  All the other flags were down.  He advanced—­the last flag (le dernier drapeau) reached the enemy—­and died just as his comrades, heartened by his courage, had rallied and were charging to victory.  A tremendous storm of applause greeted the speaker, who favored us with the recital of a short, sentimental poem as an encore.

The next number was thus announced:  “Le Camarade Millet will sound, first, all the French bugle-calls and then the Boche ones.”  Le Camarade Millet, a big man with a fine horseshoe beard, stood at the edge of the stage, said, “la Charge francais” and blew it on the bugle; then “la Charge boche,” and blew that.  “La Retraite francais—­La Retraite boche,” etc.  Another salvo of applause was given to le Camarade Millet.

“Le Camarade Roland.”