THE ONLY LICENSE that the latest Cabaret to open in Cambridge has is poetic. The round tables covered with red and white checkered tablecloths, the waiter garbed in black uniform and long white apron, and the complimentary chilled bottle of wine are all part of the setting of Adams House's All Gaul, the world premiere adaptations of three one-act French farces.

The entire audience becomes part of this set. They are seated at a table, given a bottle of wine, and after everyone has settled down the waiter starts humming and singing. This focus centers more and more on the one remaining empty table, which turns out to be the set. Thus begins the first of the three farces, Alphonse' Allais's "The Poor Beggar and the Fairy Godmother." Christopher Randolph, as the waiter, enchants the audience with his nonchalant egoism and warbles his strong voice as he sings both on and off the stage. This first farce consists of the waiter serving a poor beggar (portrayed in an appropriately pathetic manner by Sam Samuels) as they each complain about the failures of their lives. But as the beggar hopelessly asks for a fairy godmother to save him, bells ring and a ladder slides down the window to the room.

And then a leg appears. The leg, it turns out, is undoubtedly attached to the beggar's very own fantastically attired fairy godmother. Standing with one foot in the air, the four-armed fairy god-mother (Nela Wagman), bells, frizzy hair, Safron dress and all, keeps the audience in hysterics by sustaining her bizarre accent and ridiculous movements during her entire time on stage. The fairy godmother grants the beggar's wish, disappears, and reappears a few minutes later. This time she comes all the way down the ladder, on to the stage and assumes a yoga position on the table. The three actors combine precise execution of lines and movements to allow the ridiculous plot to reach its quick end. While the lines are funny and fluffy, the play subtly satirizes poverty and the dissatisfaction of people despite their material gains.

Immediately after the end of the first one-act play, the second one. "Capital Crime, Parisian Punishment," begins after a brief set change. Written by George Feydeau, the play consists of condemned prisoner's monologue. Played by Peter L. Stein, the prisoner agonizes over his hopeless fate as he relates the story of his imprisonment and subsequent sentence of death. Through the prisoner's dimwitted innocence and straightforward telling of the absurd facts of this supposed crime, the play mocks the injustices of the French judicial system in the late 1890s. Stein's performance is startling as he maintains the prisoner's naivete throughout this long time on stage. In the tale of the prisoner's conviction for the bizarre murder of his aunt. Stein also pretends to be the judge and lawyer and succeeds in recreating the entire incident.

Addressing his story directly to the audience. Stein maintains a constant high momentum throughout the monologue with ever-changing facial expressions and tones of voice. Until the end, he constantly bemoans his own fate as one "so bright, so young, so handsome." More sedate than the first play. "Capital Crime, Parisian Punishment" balances off the giddiness of the first half of the evening with the pathetic humor of an unjustly condemned man.

AFTER an intermission offering of a broad selection of cheeses, the evening resumes with Feydeau's one act, full-fledged farce "Fit to be Tried." The set of a detailed French drawing room incorporates the fireplace and closets already in the room. The four actors from the other two plays reappear as the major characters in the comedy of misidentifications, adultery, and murder. As Pepita Passionelle, Wagman expressively plays the emotionally fluctuating role of a neurotic actress. In one scene, she breaks into an uncontrollable hysteria then suddenly reverts to her previous composure. Samuels as Camembert, La Passionelle's husband, portrays the scheming, jealous husband with the proverbial evil, insane glimmer in his eye. Camembert is madly jealous of his wife's affections for La Mole, played by Randolph. Randolph, as the foppish lover, saunters around the stage and monopolizes it with his highly stylized movements. The scenes between La Mole and La Passionelle as they plot to throw a murder charge on the last character. Dupont (Stein), are marvelous. As the lovers develop their plans. Dupont, an innocent admirer of La Passionelle, is indeed mistaken for a murderer, when in fact he is only a love-stricken professor of Latin. Stein as Dupont adds a sense of ingenuousness as he did earlier as the prisoner. Spouting off Latin phrases in propitious moments. Dupont's role increases the web of absurd confusion throughout the play.

Perhaps the best scene in the play occurs as Dupont and La Mole--left alone in the room--each attempts to save himself by pretending to be a murderer. As their panicky, hysterical lines and actions consume the stage, the play reaches an appropriately farcical conclusion.

All in all, the acting in these farces is fantastic as the actors exemplify their dexterity in assuming different characters. H. Stuart Shifman's insightful directing enables the actors to take advantage of all parts of the room, not confining themselves strictly to the stage. The precise comic timing, versatility of the actors and fluidity of the actions produce a completely polished series of one-act farces. The informal cabaret style provides an excellent opportunity for the audience to relax and enjoy the near-professional acting. And Norman R. Shapiro's elegant translations avoid the familiar trap of stilted-seeming pieces of localized humor. The evening of French farce at Adams House transforms the audience from a collection of Harvard students to sophisticated connoisseurs of savory French drama.