IN the meanwhile I worked indefatigably at my automata, hoping that when these were completed, I should be able to establish myself permanently. But, in spite of my activity, I advanced very slowly towards the realization of my long-deferred hopes.

Only an inventor can know the value of a day’s work on the gloomy road to success in combining automata. Numberless trials and deceptions of every nature foil at any moment the best-conceived plans, and seem to realize the pleasant story about reaching the end of a journey by making two steps forward and three backward.

I performed this wearisome progress during six months, and, at the end of that time, though I had several specimens far advanced, it was still impossible for me to fix the period when they would be quite finished. In order not to defer my appearance before the public, I therefore resolved to begin with my conjuring tricks and such automata as were ready. I had arranged with an architect, who was to help me in finding a suitable site for a theatre, but I had scarce taken my first steps, when an unforeseen catastrophe ruined both my father-in-law and myself.

This reverse of fortune threw me into a state of abject despondency, for I saw, to my terror, the realization of my plans indefinitely postponed. I could no longer think of inventing machines, but must work, day by day, to support my large family. I had four children, all very young, and this was a heavy burden on a man who had never yet thought of his own interests.

The vulgar truth, “Time dissipates the severest griefs,” is not the less true from being so often repeated; and it was the case with me. I was at first as wretched as man could well be; then my despair gradually died away, and made room for sorrow and resignation. At last, as it is not my nature to keep up a melancholy character long, I ended by accepting the situation. Then the future, which had appeared so gloomy, assumed a different face, and, by a gradual process of reasoning, I began to indulge in reflections whose consoling philosophy restored my courage.

“Why should I despair?” I said to myself. “At my age, time itself is a fortune, and I have a considerable reserve fund of that. Besides, who knows whether Providence, by sending me this trial, has not wished to delay an undertaking that was not yet quite assured of success?”

In fact, what had I to offer the public that would overcome the indifference a new performer always inspires?—improved conjuring tricks! Those, I thought, would not prevent me failing, for I was unaware at that period that, in order to please the public, an idea must be, if not novel, at least completely transformed, so that it cannot be recognized. Only in that way can an artiste escape a remark that always fills him with dread—“I have seen that before.” My automata and mechanical curiosities would not have betrayed the hopes I built upon them, but I had too few, and the specimens I had in hand still required years of study and labor.

These wise reflections restored my courage, and, resigned to my new situation, I resolved to effect an utter reform in my budget. I had nothing more to look for than what I earned with my own hands, so I hired a modest lodging, at three hundred francs a year, in the Rue du Temple. It consisted of a room, a cabinet and a stove in a cupboard, to which my proprietor gave the name of kitchen. I converted the largest room into our common sleeping apartment, the cabinet served as my workshop, while the stove kitchen was used to prepare our modest meals.

My wife, though in delicate health, undertook the household department. Fortunately, this was not very laborious, as our meals were most modest; and as our rooms were limited in number, there was not much moving about required. The proximity of our mutual laboratories had also this double advantage, that, whenever my housekeeper was absent, I could watch the pot-au-feu or stir a ragoÛt without leaving my levers, wheels and cogs.

These vulgar occupations for an artiste will make many a reader smile, but when a man cannot afford to keep a servant, and the quality of the dinner, consisting of a single dish, depends on the care devoted to it, it is better to pocket one’s dignity and attend to the culinary department, at any rate, without feeling false shame. However, it appears that I performed my confidential mission admirably, for my exactitude gained me abundant praise. Still, I must confess that I had very slight talent for cooking, and this boasted exactitude was produced by my fear of incurring the reproaches of my head cook.

This humble existence was less painful to me than I had imagined. I had always been moderate, and the privation of succulent dishes affected me very little. My wife, surrounded by her children, to whom she devoted her utmost care, seemed equally happy, while hoping for better times to come.

I had resumed my first trade, that of repairing watches and clocks. Still, this was only to secure our hand-to-mouth existence, for all the while I was repairing I was meditating a piece of clockwork, the success of which restored some ease to our household. It was an alarum, which was thus arranged:

You placed it by your side when you went to bed, and, at the hour desired, a peal aroused the sleeper, while, at the same time, a ready lighted candle came out from a small box. I was the prouder of this invention and its success, as it was the first of my ideas which produced me any profit.

This “alarum-light,” as I christened it, was so popular that, in order to satisfy the great demand for it, I was obliged to add a workshop to my rooms and hire several workmen. Encouraged by such a favorable result, I turned my attention afresh to inventions, and gave a free scope to my imagination. I succeeded in making several more toys, among which was one which my readers will probably remember to have seen in the shop-windows. It was a glass dial, mounted on a column of the same material. This “mysterious clock” (as I called it), although entirely transparent, indicated the hour with the greatest exactness, and struck, without any apparent mechanism to make it move. I also constructed several automata, such as a conjurer playing with cups, a dancer on the tight-rope, singing birds, &c.

It may strike the reader that, with so many strings to my bow, and such amusing toys to make, my situation would be considerably improved, but it was not so. Each day, on the contrary, produced fresh trouble in my trade as well as in my household, and I even saw a financial crisis approaching which I found it impossible to prevent.

The cause of this result was very simple. While engaged with the mechanical toys I have just mentioned, I still worked at my theatrical automata, for which my passion had been again aroused by my present labors. Like the gambler, who throws his last farthing on the board, I invested all my earnings in my theatrical preparations, hoping these would soon repay me for my sacrifices with a hundred per cent. profit.

But it was fated that I should no sooner see the realization of my projects close at hand, than an unforseen event should remove it again from my grasp. I had a sum of two thousand francs to pay at the end of the month; I had not a penny to meet it, and I had only three days left before the bill I had accepted became due.

Never did an embarrassment arrive more inopportunely! I had just formed the plan of an automaton in which I placed the greatest hopes. It was a “writing and drawing automaton,” answering in writing or emblematic designs questions proposed by the spectators, and I intended to employ this figure between the performances in my future theatre.

Once more was I obliged to check the flight of my imagination to absorb myself in the vulgar and difficult problem of meeting a bill when you have no money. I might, it is true, have saved myself all trouble by applying to my friends, but prudence and delicacy rendered it my duty to pay it from my own resources. Providence, doubtlessly, recognized the merit of my resolution, for she sent me a saving idea.

I had sold several mechanical toys to M. G——, a rich curiosity dealer, who had always treated me with marked kindness. I went to him, and gave him an exact description of my new automaton, and necessity must have rendered me eloquent, for M. G—— was so satisfied that he bought my automaton on the spot, which I bound myself to deliver to him within eighteen months. The price was arranged at five thousand francs, half of which M. G—— agreed to pay me in advance, reserving to himself the right, if I failed, in my promise, of recouping himself by purchasing several of my automatic toys.

Imagine my joy when I returned home, holding in my hands the money to meet the bill! But the prospect of devoting myself for a long time to the manufacture of an article satisfying my mechanical taste, rendered me even happier.

Still, the princely way in which M. G—— had concluded the bargain, produced some serious thoughts as to the promise I had made him. I now saw a thousand obstacles to prevent me keeping my word. I calculated that, even if I devoted every moment to my work, I should lose much time by causes I could not foresee or hinder. There were, first, friends, customers, and bores; then a family dinner, an evening party, that could not be declined, a visit that must be paid, and so on. These claims on politeness, which I must respect, would inevitably cause me to break my word: in vain I racked my brain in devising some scheme to gain time, or at least not lose it; still, I could only succeed at the expense of my good temper. I therefore formed a resolution which my relations and friends declared to be madness, but from which they could not turn me, and that was to exile myself voluntarily until my task was completed.

Paris not appearing to me a secure place against annoyance, I chose the suburbs as my retreat, and one fine day, despite the prayers and supplications of my whole family, after entrusting my business to one of my workmen, whose talent and probity I was convinced of, I proceeded to Belleville, and installed myself in a little room in the Rue des Bois, which I hired for twelve months, at a hundred francs. The only furniture was a bed, a chest of drawers, a table, and a few chairs.

This act of madness, as my friends called it, or this heroic determination, as I called it, saved me from imminent ruin, and was my first step on the ladder of success. From this moment an obstinate will was aroused in me which enabled me to confront many obstacles and difficulties.

I am bound to confess that the first days of my retirement were painful, and I bitterly deplored the harsh necessity that thus isolated me from all I loved. The society of my wife and children had grown a necessity to me; a kiss from these dear beings restored my courage in hours of despondency, and now I was deprived of it. Surely I must have been supported by an enormous strength of will not to turn back at the prospect of this frightful vacuum.

Many times I furtively wiped away a tear, but then I closed my eyes, and straightway my automaton and the various combinations that were to animate it appeared before me like a consoling vision; I passed in review all the wheels I had created; I smiled upon them like so many children of my own; and when I emerged from this restorative dream I set to work again, filled with a courageous resignation.

It had been arranged that my wife and children should spend every Thursday evening with me, and I always dined at home on Sunday. These few hours devoted to my family were the only amusements I allowed myself.

At my wife’s request, the portress of the house had agreed to prepare my meals; this excellent creature, an old cordon bleu, had left service to marry a mason of the name of Monsieur Auguste. This gentleman, judging by my modest existence in the house, thought me a poor devil who found some difficulty in keeping himself: hence, he assumed an air of generous protection, or kindly pity towards me. As he was a worthy man at the bottom, I pardoned his ways, and only laughed at them.

My new cook had received special instruction to treat me famously, but, not wishing to increase my household expenses, I, on my side, made stipulations which were kept with the greatest secresy. I arranged my meals after the following fashion: Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays I lived on an enormous dish, to which my chef gave the generic name of fricot, but that made no difference to me. On Friday and Saturday, for the sake of my health, I lived low; haricot beans, either white or red, satisfied my hunger, and with them a composite soup, often reminding me of the gastronomic tastes of an Auvergnat, and I dined as well, perhaps better, than Brillat-Savarin himself.

This mode of life offered me two advantages: I spent little, and indigestion never troubled the clearness of my ideas. I required this, however, for it must not be supposed that mechanical difficulties were the only ones I had to contend against in making my automaton. My readers may judge, from the following incident, which also proves the truth of the proverb, “Willing is doing.”

At the commencement of my labor I had ordered from a wood-carver the body, head, legs, and arms of my writer, and had applied to an artist, particularly recommended to me as most skillful, and I had tried to make him understand the importance I attached to my automaton having an intelligent face. My Phidias had replied that I might trust to him.

A month after, my sculptor made his appearance: he carefully removed the wrapper, and showed me arms and legs splendidly carved, and ended by handing me the head, with an air that seemed to signify, “What do you think of that?”

After what I had already seen I was prepared to admire a masterpiece, but imagine my stupor on observing that the head belonged to a saint! Quite astonished at this, I looked at my friend as if seeking an explanation, but he did not seem to understand me and continued to point out all the beauties of his work. I had no good reason to refuse it, for, after its fashion, it was a very fine head, so I accepted it, though it could be of no use to me. At any rate I wished to know the motive that induced my sculptor to select such a type, and, by dint of cross-examination, I learned that his special trade was carving saints, and he could not emerge from his usual “groove.”

After this check I applied to another artist, being careful to inquire of him previously whether he had been in the habit of carving heads of saints. In spite of my precautions, I only got from this artist a head bearing a strong family likeness to those Nuremberg dolls made to act as lay figures in studios.

I had not the courage to make a third trial; yet, my writer required a head, and I regarded my chefs-d’oeuvre in turn. Neither could by possibility suit me. A head with not the slightest expression spoiled my automaton, while a holy Jerome on the body of a writer dressed in the Louis XV. style would be a terrible anachronism.

“And yet the face I want is engraved here,” I said, striking my forehead. “What a pity I cannot carve it—suppose I were to try!”

It has always been my character to set about a scheme as soon as I had formed it, whatever the difficulties might be. Hence I took a piece of modeling wax, made it into a ball, in which I formed three holes, representing mouth and eyes, then sticking on a patch for a nose, I stopped to admire my handiwork.

Have you ever noticed a toy belonging to earliest youth, representing two blacksmiths at work on an anvil, which they are made to strike in turn by pulling two parallel rods? Well, those mechanical combinations, sold at one penny, I believe, are perfect marvels of art in comparison with my first essay in modeling.

Dissatisfied, disgusted, and almost angry, I threw my clumsy attempt aside, and thought of some other plan to escape my difficulty. But I have already said I am obstinate and persevering in all I undertake, and the greater the difficulty seems, the more I feel myself pledged to surmount it. The night passed in dreams which showed me my task satisfactorily accomplished, and the next morning I took heart, and went at it again. In fact, by passing a chisel over my ball—by taking away from one side and adding to the other—I succeeded in making eyes, mouth, and nose, which, if not regular, had at least the appearance of a human form.

The following days were spent in fresh studies and improvements, and each time I noticed some progress in my work. Still, a moment arrived when I was terribly embarrassed. The face was regular, but that was not enough. I must give it some sort of character; but, as I had no model, the task seemed beyond my strength.

The idea struck me of looking in the glass, and judging from my own face what features produce expression. Sitting down, then, as if writing, I studied my full face and profile, and tried to imitate what I saw. I was engaged at this task a long while, incessantly touching and retouching, until one fine day I found my work finished, and I stopped to look at it more attentively. Judge of my surprise on finding that I had unconsciously produced an exact likeness of myself. Far from being vexed at this unexpected result, I was pleased, for it was quite natural this child of my imagination should have my features. I was not sorry to place this family seal on a work to which I attached such importance.

I had been now living for more than a year at Belleville, and I saw with extreme pleasure the end of my task and of my exile drawing near. After many doubts as to the success of my enterprise, the solemn moment arrived when I should make the first trial of my writer. I had spent the whole day in giving the last touches to the automaton, which sat before me as if awaiting my orders, and prepared to answer the questions I asked it. I had only to press the spring in order to enjoy the long awaited result. My heart beat violently, and though I was alone, I trembled with emotion at the mere thought of this imposing trial.

I had just laid the first sheet of paper before my writer, and asked him this question:

“Who is the author of your being?”

I pressed the spring, and the clockwork began acting. I dared hardly breathe through fear of disturbing the operations. The automaton bowed to me, and I could not refrain from smiling on it as my own son. But when I saw the eyes fix an attentive glance on the paper—when the arm, a few seconds before numb and lifeless, began to move and trace my signature in a firm handwriting—the tears started to my eyes, and I fervently thanked Heaven for granting me such success. And it was not alone the satisfaction I experienced as inventor, but the certainty I had of being able to restore some degree of comfort to my family, that caused my deep feeling of gratitude.

After making my Sosia repeat my signature a thousand times, I gave it this next question: “What o’clock is it?”

The automaton, acting in obedience to a clock, wrote: “It is two in the morning.”

This was a very timely warning. I profited by it, and went straight to bed. Against my expectations, I enjoyed a sleep I had not known for a long time.

There may be among those who read my book some who have also created some successful work. They will know that next to the happiness of enjoying one’s own invention, nothing is so flattering as to offer it to the notice of a third party. MoliÈre and J. J. Rousseau consulted their servants, and, I must confess, it afforded me great pleasure the next morning to invite my portress and her husband to be present at the first performance of my writer.

As it was Sunday, and M. Auguste had no work to do, I found him at breakfast. He held a modest sardine with his thumb on a piece of bread, while in the other hand he had a knife, the handle of which was fastened to his waist by a lanyard. My invitation was graciously accepted, and they came to my room to witness the aristocratic performance of a nobleman of the age of Louis XV. The mason’s wife chose this question: “What is the emblem of fidelity?” The automaton replied by drawing a pretty little greyhound lying on a cushion. Madame Auguste, quite delighted, begged me to make her a present of the drawing, while her husband, having by this time finished his breakfast, begged to see the work, for, as he said,

“I understand something about that sort of thing, for I have always to grease the vane on the church steeple, and have even taken it down twice. Ah! if I were to direct my attention to mechanics, I have no doubt I should be very successful.”

Although, of course, he understood nothing of what he saw, the worthy mason carefully examined the mechanical arrangements; then, as if yielding to an impulsive frankness, he said, in a kindly protecting tone,

“If I was not afraid of vexing you, I would make an observation.”

“Pray do so, Monsieur Auguste, and be sure I shall treat it as it deserves.”

“Well, in your place, I would have made the mechanism much more simple; for then those who do not understand that sort of thing, would be able to do so more easily.”

With some difficulty I maintained sufficient gravity to reply:

“Your observation is very just, Monsieur Auguste; I had not thought of that: but be assured I shall now profit by your suggestions, and speedily remove half the machinery; there will be quite sufficient left.”

“Oh, certainly,” the mason said, believing in the sincerity of my remarks, “there will be quite enough left then.”

At this moment the garden-bell rang, and M. Auguste, ever attentive to his duties, ran to answer it, and as his wife also took her departure, I was enabled to laugh at my ease.

It is curious that an automaton which was visited by all Paris and gained me such reputation—that the designer, which interested Louis Philippe and his family so greatly, should at the outset only receive the stupid criticism of a porter. Well, a man is no more a prophet in his own house than in his own country.

It was more extraordinary, though, that I had eventually to make an alteration in the automaton for the following reasons: the public (I do not mean the educated portion) generally understand nothing of the mechanical effects by which an automaton is moved; but they are pleased to see them, and often only value them by the multiplicity of their parts. I had taken every care to render the mechanism of my writer as perfect as possible, and had set great store on making the clockwork noiseless. In doing this I wished to imitate nature, whose complicated instruments act almost imperceptibly.

Can it be credited that this very perfection, which I had worked so hard to attain, was unfavorable to my automaton? On its first exhibition, I frequently heard persons who only saw the outside, say:

“That writer is first rate; but the mechanism is probably very simple. It often requires such a trifle to produce great results.”

The idea then struck me of rendering the clock-work a little less perfect, so that a whizzing sound should be heard, something like cotton spinning. Then the worthy public formed a very different estimate of my work, and the admiration increased in ratio to the intensity of the noise. Such exclamations as these where continually heard: “How ingenious! What complicated machinery! What talent such combination must require!”

In order to obtain this result, I had rendered my automaton less perfect; and I was wrong. In this I followed the example of certain actors who overdo their parts in order to produce a greater effect. They raise a laugh, but they infringe the rules of art and are rarely ranked among first-rate artists. Eventually, I got over my susceptibility, and my machine was restored to its first condition.

My writer thus finished, I could have ended my voluntary imprisonment if I pleased; but I wished to finish another automaton, for which a residence in the country would be requisite. Although this second automaton was very complicated, it did not so fully occupy my time as the first. It was a nightingale, which a rich merchant of St. Petersburg had ordered, and I had agreed to produce a perfect imitation of the song and actions of this delightful wood minstrel.

This undertaking offered some serious difficulties; for though I had already made several birds, their singing was quite arbitrary, and I had only consulted my own taste in arranging it. The imitation of the nightingale’s pipe was much more delicate, for I had to copy notes and sounds which were almost inimitable.

Fortunately, we were in the season when this skillful songster utters his delicious accents; hence, I could employ him as my teacher. I went constantly to the wood of Romainville, the skirt of which almost joined the street in which I lived, and, laying myself on a soft bed of moss in the densest foliage, I challenged my master to give me lessons. (The nightingale sings both by night and day in Continental Europe, and the slightest whistle, in tune or not, makes him strike up directly.)

I wanted to imprint on my memory the musical phrases with which the bird composes its melodies. The following are the most striking among them; tiou-tiou-tiou, ut-ut-ut-ut-ut, tchit-chou, tchit-chou, tchit-tchit, rrrrrrrrrrrrrouit, &c. I had to analyse these strange sounds, these numberless chirps, these impossible rrrrouits, and recompose them by a musical process. Now, here was the difficulty. I only knew so much of music as a natural taste had taught me, and my knowledge of harmony was hence a very feeble resource. I must add that in order to imitate this flexibility of throat, and produce these harmonious modulations, I had a small copper tube, about the size and length of a quill, in which a steel piston moving very freely, produced the different sounds I required; this tube represented in some respects the nightingale’s throat.

This instrument would have to work mechanically; clock work set in motion the bellows, opened or closed a valve which produced the twittering, the modulation, and the sliding notes, while it guided the piston according to the different degrees of speed and depth I wanted to reach.

I had also to impart motion to the bird: it must move its beak in accordance with the sounds it produced, flap its wings, leap from branch to branch, &c. But this part of my task troubled me much less than the other, as it was purely mechanical.

I will not attempt to describe to the reader all the trials and investigations I had to make; suffice it to say that, after repeated experiments, I created a system, half musical, half mechanical, which only required to be improved by fresh studies. Provided with this instrument, I hurried off to the wood of Romainville, where I seated myself under an oak, near which I had often heard a nightingale sing, which I thought was the “star” among the virtuosi. I wound up the clockwork, and it began playing in the midst of profound silence; but the last notes had scarce died away ere a concert commenced from various parts of the wood, which I was almost inclined to regard as a general protest against my clumsy imitation.

This collective lesson did not suit my purpose, for I wished to compare and study, and could positively distinguish nothing. Fortunately for me, all the musicians ceased, as if by word of command, and one of them began a solo: it was doubtlessly the premier sujet, the Duprez of the company—possibly the nightingale I have just mentioned. This tenor indulged me with a succession of dulcet sounds and accents, which I followed with all the attention of an industrious pupil.

Thus I passed a portion of the night; my professor was indefatigable, and, for my part, I was not weary of listening. At length we were obliged to part, for, in spite of the pleasure I felt, I began to grow chilly and sleepy. However, my lesson had done me so much good, that the next morning I began making important corrections in my mechanism. After five or six more visits to the wood, I attained the required result—the nightingale’s song was perfectly imitated.

After eighteen months’ stay at Belleville, I at length returned home to enjoy the company of my wife and children; in my absence my business had prospered, and I, by the manufacture of my two automata, had gained the enormous sum of seven thousand francs.

Seven thousand francs by making filings, as my father used to say. Unfortunately, that excellent man could not enjoy the beginning of my success—I had lost him a short time before the reverse of my fortune. With his love for mechanical inventions, how proud he would have been of my successes!

Having thus regained a certain degree of comfort, I was now able to enjoy some amusement, and visit my friends, among them Antonio, who could not blame me for deserting him so long. In our long conversations my friend never ceased to encourage me to realize the projects he had suggested—I mean my theatrical schemes, of which he predicted the certain success.

While not neglecting my work, I had recommenced my conjuring exercises, and began to make the acquaintance of several conjurers. I also wished to see those ingenious personages who, not having a theatre to display their talents in, visit the cafÉs. Such men as these are obliged to employ an extraordinary degree of skill, for they have to deal with people who are set upon detecting them. I met several interesting specimens from whom I learned something; but a slight adventure soon told me I must be on my guard in the choice of my acquaintances.

A conjurer, whom I had formerly met at Roujol’s, and to whom I had rendered a service, introduced me one day to a person by the name of D——. He was a young man of prepossessing appearance and very elegantly dressed, while his manners evidenced the thorough gentleman.

“My friend tells me, sir,” he said, after the usual salutations, “that you are in search of a person possessing a certain degree of address. Although I have no wish to compliment myself, I may be able to show many things you do not know.”

“I accept your offer willingly,” I replied, “but I must tell you before hand I am not a novice.”

This introduction took place in my study, and we sat down to a table on which refreshments were served. This was a trap by which I intended to make my visitor more communicative. I then took up a pack of cards, and showed him my dexterity in sauter la coupe and various other tricks.

I was watching D—— to observe the impression I produced on him, and after a few moments’ careful following my hands, he gave his comrade a gentle wink, of which I did not understand the meaning. I stopped for a moment, and not wishing to ask a direct explanation, I opened a bottle of Bordeaux, and filled his glass several times. This scheme was successful, and the wine loosened his tongue, and he told me something that surprised me.

“I have a remark to make, M. Robert-Houdin,” he said, emptying his glass, and holding it out to be filled again: “I thought I had come here to deal with what we call a ‘pigeon;’ I perceive it is quite otherwise, and as I do not wish to expose the tricks by which I earn my livelihood, I will content myself with the pleasure of having formed your acquaintance.”

The technical terms seemed to me a startling contrast to my visitor’s elegant manners, still, as I did not wish to give in yet, I said, in a tone of disappointment,

“I hope, sir, you will recall your decision, and not leave me till you have shown me how you handle the cards. You can do this without prejudice, I think?”

To my great satisfaction he at length consented.

“Very well,” he said, taking up a pack of cards; “but you will see our modes of ‘working’ do not agree.”

It would be difficult for me to give a name to what he performed in my presence. It was not, properly speaking, sleight-of-hand; but they were tricks and processes applied to cards, and were so unexpected, that they must deceive everybody. This manipulation was only an exhibition, however, of certain principles I learned at a later date.

Like singers who begin by being urged, and who, when they have once started, cannot leave off, D——, animated both by the sincere praise I offered him and the great number of glasses of Bordeaux he had swallowed, said to me with that frankness common to drinkers, “And now, sir, I will give you another hint. I am not a professor of sleight-of-hand, but only perform a few tricks I show to amateurs. These lessons, you can understand, would not suffice for my livelihood, and I will tell you, then,” he added, emptying his glass again, and holding it out to be filled, as if he wished me to pay for his confidence, “I visit in the evening houses where I have managed to gain an introduction, and profit by some of the principles I have just shown you.”

“I suppose you give a performance?” D—— smiled slightly, and repeated the wink he had once before given his comrade.

“Performances!” he replied. “Never! or rather, I give them after my own fashion; I will explain that to you presently, but I will first amuse you by telling you how I manage to get a handsome prize for the lessons I give my amateurs; after that I will return to my performances.

“You can suppose, for reasons easy to understand that I only give lessons to young men whose pockets I presume are well lined. On beginning my explanations I tell my pupil that I leave my price to him, and during the lesson I perform an interlude which must heighten his generosity.

“Drawing near my pigeon—pray pardon the word--“

“I have already done so.”

“Ah, very good; I beg your pardon. I say, taking one of his buttons in my hand, ‘Here is a mould piercing the cloth, and you might lose it.’

“At the same time I throw a Louis on the table; then I examine his buttons, one after the other, and pretend to draw a gold piece from each. As I only perform this trick as a harmless pleasantry, I pick up my gold with the greatest indifference. I even push my indifference so far as to leave one or two by mistake on the table, but only for a short time, of course.

“I continue my lesson, and, as I expected, my pupil pays but slight attention to it, being fully engaged with the reflections I have so skillfully suggested. Can he offer five francs to a man who appears to have his pocket full of gold? Of course not; the least he can do is to add one more piece to those I had displayed, and that always happens.

“Like a modern Bias, then, I carry all my fortune about me; I am sometimes tolerably rich, and then my pockets are well lined. Often enough, too, I am reduced to a dozen of these ‘yellow boys,’ but them I never touch, as they are the instruments by which I procure others. Many times I have gone without my dinner, though having this small fortune in my pocket, because I laid it down as a rule not to break into it.”

“The performances you give in society,” I said to my narrator, in order to bring him back to that point, “are of course more lucrative?”

“They are so, but prudence prevents me giving them so often as I should like.”

“I do not understand you.”

“I will explain my meaning. When I am in society I am a young man of good family, and, like all young men, play. The only difference is, I have my own way of playing, which is not that of all the world, but it seems it is not bad, because it often renders chances favorable. You shall judge.”

Here my narrator stopped to refresh himself, then, as if doing the most legal or harmless thing in the world, he showed me several tricks, or rather acts of swindling, which he executed with so much grace, skill, and simplicity, that it would be impossible to detect him.

In order to understand the effect these culpable confessions produced upon me, my readers ought to know what it is to love a science of which you seek to solve the mysteries. Far from feeling repugnance or even disgust at this man with whom justice would have one day an account to settle, I admired, I was stunned! The finesse and perfection of his tricks made me forget their blameworthy application.

At length my Greek left me, and so soon as he was gone the remembrance of his confessions sent the blood to my cheeks. I was as ashamed of myself as if I had been his accomplice. I even reproached myself severely for the admiration I could not restrain, and the compliments it extorted from me. In some measure to compound with my conscience, I ordered my door to be closed against this man; but it was an unnecessary precaution—I never heard of him again.

Strangely enough, in consequence of my meeting with D——, and the revelations he had made me, I was enabled, at a later period, to render a service to society by unmasking a piece of swindling which the most skillful experts could not detect.In 1849, M. B——, a magistrate belonging to the police office of the Seine, begged me to examine and verify one hundred and fifty packs of cards, seized in the possession of a man whose antecedents were far from being as unblemished as his cards. The latter, indeed, were perfectly white, and this peculiarity had hitherto foiled the most minute investigation. It was impossible for the most practised eye to detect the least alteration or the slightest mark, and they all seemed very respectable packs of cards.

I consented to examine the cards, as I hoped to detect a manoeuvre which must be clever as it was so carefully concealed. I could only do so after my performance was over, and so each night, before going to bed, I sat down with a bright lamp, and remained at my task till sleep or want of success routed me from my post.

Thus I spent nearly a fortnight, examining, both with my eyes and a strong magnifying-glass, the form and imperceptible varieties in the cards composing the one hundred and fifty packs. I could detect nothing, and, weary of the job, I began to agree in the opinion of the previous experts.

“I am sure there is nothing the matter with these cards,” I said one night, angrily, as I threw them across the table.

Suddenly I fancied I noticed a pale spot on the glistening back of these cards, and near one of the corners. I stepped forward, and it disappeared, but, strangely enough, it reappeared as I fell back.

“What a magnificent dodge!” I exclaimed, in my enthusiasm. “I have it: that is a distinguishing mark.”

And following a certain principle which D—— had explained to me, I assured myself that all the cards possessed a mark, which, according to its position, indicated the value and color.

For the last quarter of an hour I have been burning with a desire to explain to my readers a most interesting process, but I am restrained by the fear that this ingenious swindling may facilitate false play. Still, it is an indubitable truth, “that to avoid a danger, it must be known.” Hence, if every player were initiated into the stratagems of the card-swindlers, the latter would find it impossible to employ them.

I am, therefore, inclined to make the communication I have stated, that a single mark placed in a certain part of a card is sufficient to make it known. To explain this, I must employ a diagram:

Diagram 1.

Suppose a card divided into eight parts vertically, and four horizontally, as in diagram 1; the former will indicate the value of the cards, the latter the suit. The mark is placed at the point where two lines intersect. Such is the process: practice does the rest.

As for the process employed in impressing the mysterious mark I have mentioned, I may be excused from stating it, as my object is to expose swindling, and not show the way to do it. Suffice it to say that, looked at closely, this point is lost in the white of the card; but, at a distance, the light renders the card brilliant, while the mark alone remains dull.

At the first blush, it will appear, perhaps, rather difficult to find out the division to which the isolated dot on the back of the card belongs. Still, by a little attention, it may be accurately detected by a practised eye. Thus, on my diagram, the dot indicates the Queen of Diamonds.

It must be remembered that a Greek using these cards stakes, I will not say his honor but, his liberty, against fortune, and that he has carefully studied an art on which his livelihood depends.

After the explanation I have given, I can easily imagine my reader forming an heroic determination.

“Since these things take place,” he says to himself, “I will only play with chequered cards, and so I shall be safe.”

Unfortunately, chequered cards are better adapted for swindling purposes than the others, and to prove it, I must employ another diagram. Suppose the chequer to be formed of dots or any other figures regularly arranged, as is usually the case with fancy backed cards:

Diagram 2.

the first dot, starting from the left-hand top of the card, as in the previous diagram, will represent hearts; the second, downwards, diamonds; the third, clubs; and the fourth, spades. If, now, another small dot is placed by the side of one of these chequers, it will indicate the value of the card. This dot must be placed in one of the divisions marked in fig. 3 The topmost point indicates an ace; the next, to the right, a king; the third, a queen; the fourth, a knave; and so on. Of course, a single dot, as in fig. 2, when it is placed by the3 third point or color, indicates the eight of clubs.

There are many other arrangements, but they are more difficult to explain than to understand. Thus I have had chequered cards given me to inspect which had had no mark at all on them, but the pattern was more or less altered by the way in which the cards were shaped, and this simple peculiarity indicated them all.

There are also the cards on the edge of which the Greek, when playing, makes a mark with his thumb-nail, which he can detect as they pass through his hands. If he is playing ÉcartÉ, the kings are thus marked, and when these pass through his fingers, he can, by a familiar trick, leave them on the pack and deal the next card. This substitution can be done so cleverly that it is impossible to detect it. I have also met persons of such practised sight that, after playing two or three games with a pack, they could recognize every card.

Returning to the prepared cards, it may be asked how it is possible to change the cards, for in all society where play goes on the cards are only taken out of the paper just before beginning.

Well! this is simple enough. The Greek finds out at what shop these houses buy their cards: at first he will make some small purchases, so that he may be regarded as a regular customer: then, on one fine day, he says that a friend has commissioned him to buy a dozen packets of packs. The next day these are brought back under the pretext that they are not of the color required, and as the packets are still sealed, the tradesman, full of confidence, changes them for others.

But the Greek has spent the night in undoing the bands and sealing them up again by a process known to conjurers; the cards have been all marked and properly arranged, and as the tradesman has them now in his shop, the trick is accomplished. Before long, they will reach the house where they are wanted.

All these swindling arts are very shocking, but there is another even more so in the shape of “imperceptible telegraphy.” Without the slightest appearance of collusion, a Greek can tell his partner every card his opponent holds in his hand by a system similar to that of my “second sight.”

I could describe many other tricks, but I will stop here. 1 believe I have said enough about card-sharpers and their swindling to induce a person never to sit down but with persons whose honor is unimpeachable.