I do wish, for many reasons, that you could have heard the recitation by Brochard of Jean Bastia’s “L’Autre Cortege,” in which the poet foresees the day “When Joffre shall return down the Champs Elysees” to the frenzied cries of the populace saluting its victorious army, and greeting with wild applause “Petain, who kept Verdun inviolated,” “De Castelnau, who three times in the fray saw a son fall at his side,” “Gouraud, the Fearless,” “Marchand, who rushed on the Boches brandishing his cane,” “Mangin, who retook Douaumont,” and “All those brave young officers, modest even in glory, whose deeds the world knows without knowing their names,” and the soldier heroes who held the frontier “like a wall of steel from Flanders to Alsace,”—­the heroes of Souchez, of Dixmude, of the Maison du Passeur, of Souain, of Notre Dame de Lorette, and of the great retreat.  It made a long list and I could feel the thrill running all over the room full of soldiers who, if they live, will be a part of that triumphal procession, of which no one talks yet except a poet.

But when he had pictured that scene the tempo of the verse changed:  the music began softly to play a Schumann Reverie to the lines beginning:  “But this triumphal cortege is not enough.  The return of the army demands another cortege,”—­the triumph of the Mutiles—­ the martyrs of the war who have given more than life to the defence of France—­the most glorious heroes of the war.

The picture the poet made of this “other cortege” moved the soldiers strangely.  The music, which blended wonderfully with Brochard’s beautiful voice, was hardly more than a breath, just audible, but always there, and added greatly to the effect of the recitation.  There was a sigh in the silence which followed the last line—­and an almost whispered “bravo,” before the long shouts of applause broke out.

It is the only number on any programme that has ever touched, even remotely, on war.  It came as a surprise—­it had not been announced.  But the intense, rather painful, feeling which had swept over the audience was instantly removed by a comic monologue, and I need not tell you that these monologues,—­intended to amuse the men from the trenches and give them a hearty laugh,—­are usually very La Scala—­that is to say—­rosse.  But I do love to hear the boys shout with glee over them.

The scene in the narrow streets of Quincy after the show is very picturesque.  The road mounts a little to Moulignon, and to see the blue-grey backs of the boys, quite filling the street between the grey walls of the houses, as they go slowly back to their cantonnements, makes a very pretty picture.

It does seem a far cry from this to war, doesn’t it?  Yet isn’t it lucky to know and to see that these boys can come out of such a battle as Verdun in this condition?  This spirit, you see, is the hope of the future.  You know, when you train any kind of a dog to fight, you put him through all the hard paces and force him to them, without breaking his spirit.  It seems to me that is just what is being done to the men at the front.