I have actually been to the theatre for the first time in four years.  Would you ever have believed that I could keep out of the theatre such a long time as that?  Still, I suppose going to the theatre—­to a sort of variety show—­seems to you, who probably continue to go once or twice a week, a tame experience.  Well, you can go to the opera, which I can’t do if I like, but you can’t see the heroes of Verdun not only applauding a show, but giving it, and that is what I have been doing not only once but twice since I wrote you.

I am sure that I have told you that our ambulance is in the salle de recreation of the commune, which is a small rectangular room with a stage across one end.  It is the only thing approaching a theatre which the commune boasts.  It is well lighted, with big windows in the sides, and a top-light over the stage.  It is almost new, and the walls and pointed ceiling are veneered with some Canadian wood, which looks like bird’s-eye maple, but isn’t.

It is in that hall that the matinees, which are given every other Sunday afternoon, take place.  They are directed by a lieutenant-colonel, who goes into it with great enthusiasm, and really gets up a first-class programme.

The boys do all the hard work, and the personnel of the ambulance aids and abets with great good humor, though it is very upsetting.  But then it is for the army—­and what the army wants these days, it must have.

Luckily the men in our ambulance just now are either convalescent, or, at any rate, able to sit up in bed and bear excitement.  So the beds of the few who cannot be dressed are pushed close to the stage, and around their cots are the chairs and benches of their convalescent comrades.  The rest of the beds are taken out.  The big military band is packed into one corner of the room.  Chairs are put in for the officers of the staff and their few invited guests—­there are rarely more than half a dozen civilians.  Behind the reserved seats are a few benches for the captains and lieutenants and the rest of the space is given up to the poilus, who are allowed to rush when the doors are opened.

Of course the room is much too small, but it is the best we have.  The wide doors are left open.  So are the wide windows, and the boys are even allowed to perch on the wall opposite the entrance, from which place they can see the stage.

The entire programme is given by the poilus; only one performer had a stripe on his sleeve, though many of them wore a decoration.  What seems to me the prettiest of all is that all the officers go, and applaud like mad, even the white-haired generals, who are not a bit backward in crying “Bis, bis!” like the rest.

The officers are kind enough to invite me and the card on my chair is marked “Mistress Aldrich.”  Isn’t that Shakesperian?  I sit among the officers, usually with a commandant on one side and a colonel on the other, with a General de Division, and a General de Brigade in front of me, and all sorts of gilt stripes about me, which I count with curiosity, now that I have learned what they mean, as I surreptitiously try to discover the marks that war has made on their faces—­and don’t find them.