I now coil myself up in the “O.P.” corner of the stage of the municipal
theatre. It is curious to see by the dim light of the pilot lights
forty or fifty men sleeping on the boards with their rifles stacked
between them. The curtain is up, but the auditorium is dark and empty,
for what is probably the most realistic and interesting scene that
has ever been set between its proscenium. I am surrounded by a crowd
of French people of every age and of all shapes and sizes. The fact
that I am writing a letter seems to strike them as an incident of
extraordinary interest. “Here’s one writing a letter,” they call to
their friends, and they all flock round. The people of this town press
round us when we feed, sleep, wash, dress, and, in fact, at every
moment of the day. Until we were quartered in the theatre some of the
more modest soldiers were compelled to wait till it was dark before
they could summon up sufficient courage to change their clothes. One
old lady has just come up and tested the quality of the material of my
tunic and has moved off nodding her head in approbation. Their interest
in our welfare is practical, nevertheless: _Pte. F. J. St. Aubyn,
Interpreter_.