The first part of the performance was Donizetti’s “Daughter of the Regiment,” beautifully sung by members of the regular company.  But somehow the spectacle of a fat soprano nearing forty in the role of the twelve-year-old vivandiere, although impressive, was not sublime.  A third of the audience were soldiers.  In the front row of the top balcony were a number of wounded.  Their bandaged heads rested against the rail.  Several of them yawned.

After the operetta came a “Ballet of the Nations.”  The “nations,” of course, represented the Allies.  We had the delectable vision of the Russian ballerina dancing with arms entwined about several maids 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 voice arose high and fine over the full orchestra, and even above her voice could be sensed the surging emotions of the audience that seemed to sweep over the house in waves.