HAD it not been for my constant toil and the inconveniences attached to it, I should have been quite happy and satisfied with the daily profit my performances brought me in. But one fine day the demon of seduction presented himself before me in the obsequious form of a theatrical agent.

“Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” he said, with a smile on his lips, as if we were old friends, “I am commissioned by M. X——, manager of the royal theatres of Brussels, to offer you an engagement for the summer season.”

My first answer was a refusal, which I based on excellent reasons. As I was very successful, it would not be prudent to break the vein, while I saw no occasion to go a long distance in search of advantages I could secure at home. This reasoning would have settled any one but a theatrical agent; but nothing, it is well known, can shake off the grip of these skillful crimps.

“Permit me, Monsieur Robert-Houdin, not to be quite of your opinion. I allow, of course, that with your talents you are always secure of good receipts, but you should bear in mind that the dog-days are approaching, and your room is stifling in summer. This consideration might induce the Parisian public to defer till autumn the pleasure of witnessing your performances, while, by going to Brussels, where the theatres are large and airy, you would have no reason to fear such a result. Come,” the plenipotentiary continued, in a most candid tone, “I must tell you, without wishing to flatter you the least in the world, that everybody is talking about you in Belgium; I may add, even, that the manager has been urged to make you offers by a great number of his subscribers.”

This flattering insinuation began to shake my decision, and I offered in my defence reasons whose weakness only attested to my indecision. My clever touter noticed this, and thinking the moment arrived to strike his great blow, said:

“Do you know, sir, the probable proceeds of my offer?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, make an estimate.”

“It is impossible.”

“Then, approximate.”

“I must decline; for I understand nothing of such calculations.”

“Well, then, I understand them, and am rarely mistaken,” said the agent, stroking his chin, “and I tell you it is an affair to you” (here my seducer stopped, as if to make a most accurate calculation)—“an affair of one hundred thousand francs.”

“One hundred thousand francs!” I exclaimed, dazzled at such a prospect, “you cannot mean it.”

“It is precisely because I mean it that I tell you, and repeat it again: you will clear one hundred thousand francs by your trip. Add to this, the advantage of having seen a splendid country, and being received with all the attention due to an artist of your merit. You will then return to your impatient spectators, whose curiosity, heightened by their long privation, will produce you receipts far more brilliant than any you might have expected by remaining in Paris.”

Being little conversant at that period with theatrical matters, and having no reason to doubt the honesty of my eloquent “humbugger,” I easily believed his fine promises. The chink of one hundred thousand francs still ringing in my ears fascinated me; and I gave way unconsciously to the same mode of reasoning the inkstand inventor had employed.

“And, really,” I said to myself, “supposing, for instance, that——“ And, leaping from supposition to supposition, my calculations exceeded those of the agent. But, in order to be reasonable, I concluded, like my friend the inventor, in this way: “Well, to prevent any misunderstanding, suppose we say only fifty thousand francs—surely nobody can accuse me with exaggeration.”

Though dazzled by this brilliant calculation, I strove to conceal my desire of accepting the offer.

“It is all very well,” I said, in my turn, after the style of a perfect man of business, “but what are the conditions?”

“Oh, most simple!” the crafty fellow said; “the same as are made with all distinguished artists. Monsieur X—— will pay all the expenses, but to cover those, he will deduct three hundred francs from the gross receipts, exclusive of the claim of the poor, and the rest will be fairly divided between him and yourself.”

“Still, I should like to know how much the sum to be divided will amount to?”

“How is it possible to say?” the agent exclaimed, with an aspect of the greatest sincerity. “With such success as awaits you, it will be enormous.”

In spite of my pressing, the agent always entrenched himself in his exclamations, and the impossibility of making such an estimate. Tired of the struggle, I at length formed my decision.

“I will go to Brussels,” I said, in a resolute tone.

The theatrical agent immediately drew from his pocket a printed form, which he had brought in case of our coming to terms, and we had only to add the stipulations to it.

“Tell me, sir,” the manager’s representative said, in a conscientious tone, “will you have any objection to a forfeit of six thousand francs? As the engagement is reciprocal, you must find this but fair.”

I only saw in the agent’s request a very natural desire to defend his employer’s interests; and I drew this conclusion from it: if the agreement was advantageous for the manager, it must be equally so for me, as we were to share the receipts. I consented to the clause, and affixed my signature. The agent could not repress his satisfaction, but he cleverly ascribed it to the interest he felt in me.

“I congratulate you sincerely on the engagement you have just made,” he said, as he offered me his hand; “you will soon be able to tell me of the results you will draw from it. By the way,” he added, in a friendly tone, after a pause, “will you now permit me to give you a piece of advice?”

“Certainly, sir—certainly.”

“I would recommend you, then, to take a collection of showy bills and posters with you to Belgium. They do not know how to get them up in Brussels, and they will produce a prodigious effect. It would be also as well to have a handsome lithograph, representing your stage; it can be put up in the various picture-shops, and you will obtain increased publicity.”

These counsels, and the familiar, almost protecting, tone in which they were given, appeared to me strange; and I could not refrain from expressing my surprise to the man of business.

“What need of all these precautions? I fancied I understood you that——“

“Good gracious me! all professionals are alike,” the giver of advice interrupted me; “absorbed in their art, they understand nothing of business. But tell me, Monsieur Robert-Houdin, would you feel annoyed at netting one hundred and fifty thousand francs, instead of the one hundred thousand I promised you?”

“On my word, no,” I said, with a smile; “and I confess that, far from feeling vexed, I should be very pleased at it.”

“Well, then, the more you make yourself known, the more you will add to the amount I stated.”

“But I thought that notoriety was generally the business of managers.”

“Certainly, ordinary publicity, but not extraordinary. You must see that is unlikely, as it will be all for your advantage.”

Though little conversant with business, as the agent had just remarked, I saw that his arguments were not always in accordance with logic. However, I consented to the posters and the lithograph, in consideration of the promised results.

“That is right,” the agent said, his familiarity sensibly increasing since the signature of the contract—“that is right: that is what I call managing things properly.”

And my man left me, after complimenting me once more on the arrangement I had made.

When left to myself, I indulged at my ease in daydreams about the magnificent result promised me, and this anticipated joy was probably all I tasted from the moment of signing this engagement to its termination. The first unpleasantness it occasioned me was a slight discussion with my cashier, that is to say, my wife, who, in consideration of her employment, had a deliberative voice in all theatrical matters. I could not certainly have found an employÉe of greater probity, or a more devoted clerk, but I am bound to say that this clerk, probably through her intimate connexion with her employer, sometimes ventured to contradict him. Thus I feared when I described to that functionary the brilliant perspective of my agreement.

Although I finished my statement with this harmonious phrase, on every word of which I laid a heavy stress, in order to give it more value, “and we shall return to France with one—hundred—thousand—francs clear profit,” my wife, or rather my cashier, coolly said to me:

“Well, in your place, I should not have made such a bargain.”

“But why not?” I said, piqued by this unexpected opposition.

“Why? because nothing guarantees you the promised profits, while you are perfectly certain as to your expenses.”

Wishing to cut short a discussion from which I did not see my way out with honor:

“Women are all alike,” I said, employing the phrase of the theatrical agent; “understanding nothing of business, they oppose one out of obstinacy. But,” I added, tossing my head, “we shall soon see which of us is in the right.”

I confess that in this instance I allowed myself too easily to be led astray by flattering illusions; but I must add, that it was for the last time; for, thenceforth, I was so skeptical as regarded calculations, that my modest expectations always remained below the reality.

The period for starting soon arrived, and we made our preparations with incredible activity, for I desired to lose as little time as possible between the closing of my performances at Paris and their commencement in Brussels.

The Great Northern line not being open at that period, I was obliged to content myself with a post-chaise. Consequently, I hired from a builder of public conveyances, for two hundred francs a month, a diligence which had formerly been used in the environs of Paris; it was composed of a coupÉ and a vast rotonde, over which was an impÉriale for the luggage. On the 25th of May, the day fixed for our departure, my carriage was loaded with an immense number of chests, containing my apparatus, and after we had taken our places, the postillion’s whip cracked, and we started.

We took with us on this trip, besides my two boys who performed with me, a manager, a workman, also acting as servant, and my wife’s mother, who came partly for pleasure, and partly to help her daughter in her theatrical details. Galloping through Paris, we soon left the Faubourg and the BarriÈre St. Denis behind us. The weather was splendid—a perfect spring evening; my wife and I, with the children, were comfortably established in the coupÉ, and as it was Madame Robert-Houdin’s first journey, she was so delighted with it, that I believe, if I had then offered her the calculation of my presumed profits, she would probably have herself augmented it. For my own part, I was plunged in a delicious reverie. I recalled my journey with Torrini, and while giving a thought of regret to that excellent friend, I compared his carriage with my brilliant equipage, his modest claims on fortune with the magnificent prospects promised me; and I could not help yielding to a feeling of noble pride when I remembered I owed this position solely to my labor and to my energy. Then, finding myself freed from the annoyance of any theatrical administration, and my inventive ideas abandoned, I experienced an undefinable comfort, and were it not for the fear of making a pun, I would add, at this moment I was really transported.

What would I have given to see myself thus bowling along in my own carriage! I fancied that the very passers-by regarded us with a certain degree of satisfaction; and in this infantile illusion I smiled upon them most benignantly.

At some distance from the barrier we stopped.

“Will you please to get out and have your carriage weighed? Here is the office.”

“Before proceeding to weigh,” the receiver of the toll said, approaching me, “I warn you that I shall summons you for carrying a heavier weight than the law allows.”

I could not appeal to my ignorance of this, for no one ought to be ignorant of the law; I therefore submitted philosophically enough to the threatened summons, and we soon recommenced our journey, laughing heartily at the incident. The shades of night began to cover the country when we reached the environs of Senlis. An old beggar, seeing us approaching, held out his hat; I understood this expressive gesture, and had the satisfaction of doing a clever trick and a good action at the same time; for I threw out a penny, which fell in his hat.

I had hardly executed this adroit manoeuvre, when cries of “Stop! stop!” reached my ear; and at the same time I saw the old man running panting after the carriage, and shouting. The postillion at length stopped the horses, and he was just in time—a few paces further on, and our heavy carriage would have been upset. The worthy beggar had perceived that one of our wheels was on the point of losing its tire, and as the old man in his haste had lost his coin, and was beginning to look for it, I spared him this trouble by giving him a five-franc piece.

How true it is that an act of kindness is never lost: to a simple penny we owed our escape from an accident, the consequences of which would have been incalculable. A neighboring cartwright soon came up and told us it was necessary to have the two wheels of the carriage repaired; and he gave us the following explanation of the accident that had occurred:

The diligence had been standing for a long time in a damp coach-house, and the felloes had swollen. The heat produced by our rapid locomotion had dried them, and they had caught fire under the tire. The operation lasted four hours, and cost me forty francs; this was, perhaps, twenty more than it was worth, but what could I do but pay, as I should have lost precious time by appealing to the law?

I was beginning to understand that travelling impressions in a diligence are not at all of a nature to enrich a traveller; but the reflection came too late, and I could only continue my journey. I, therefore, did so, not very gaily, perhaps, but at any rate with a degree of careless resignation.

I will pass over the details of a thousand petty miseries we had to undergo, like so many pin-pricks echeloned on our passage to prepare us for more bitter deceptions. We at length reached QuiÉvrain, the frontier town of Belgium, where we were to give up our horses and put our carriage on the railway running to Brussels; beforehand, however, we had to endure the formalities of the custom-house.

I hoped, as the theatrical agent had informed me, to pass all my traps summarily, by declaring the nature of my apparatus, and hence I went to the office and made my declaration.

“There is only one way of passing your luggage, sir,” a clerk said to me, very politely. (Belgian officials are generally very gentle and civil—at least, I always found them so.)

“Then,” I replied, in the same tone, “will you have the kindness, sir, to tell me the way, that I may profit by it as speedily as possible?”

“You must unpack your instruments, put an ad valorem duty on them, which the comptroller will verify, and pay 25 per cent. on the amount, after which you can start as soon as you please.”

“But, sir, that is not possible,” I said, greatly annoyed at this contretemps.

“And why not?”

“Because my instruments are not merchandise.”

I then explained to my clerk that I was going to Brussels to give some performances, after which I intended to return to France with the same luggage. According to the information the official gave me, it seems I had neglected to fulfil a simple formality, through the want of which the office at QuiÉvrain would not let me go on without payment. To pass my instruments duty free, I ought to have applied to the Belgian Minister, who would willingly have granted me the permission. I could certainly do so still, but I could not receive an answer under a week, and that was just three days after the period fixed for my commencing at Brussels.

Hence I found myself between the horns of a dilemma. I must either, after paying a heavy duty, lose precious time in packing, valuing and unpacking my instruments, or forfeit six thousand francs to my manager while awaiting a ministerial reply. Although I made all sorts of supplications to the different custom officials, I could only obtain this answer, dictated by their inflexible orders, “We can do nothing.”

I was in despair; in vain, conforming to the maxim, “It is better to address the king than his officials,” I pursued the director himself with my entreaties; he would not hear a word. He was a stout, good-looking man, of some fifty years of age, dressed in an enormous paletot, much resembling in cut the one I have described as my costume when learning my sleight-of-hand tricks at Tours.

We were both standing at the door of the custom-house, near the high road, where my chests had been deposited. Wearied with listening to my eternal remonstrances, the director began talking to me about indifferent matters; but I always led the conversation back to the same subject.

“You are a prestidigitator, then?” my stout Belgian said to me, laying a stress on this word, to prove to me that he knew the pompous title by which the juggler is distinguished.

“Yes, sir, that is my profession.”

“Ah, ah! very good; I know several celebrities in that art. I have even witnessed their performances with a great deal of pleasure.”

While my amateur was thus talking, an idea occurred to me, which I immediately put in execution, for I trusted the result of it would powerfully aid in favoring my entreaties.

“What are your most striking tricks?” the stout man added, in the tone of a perfect connoisseur.

“I really cannot describe them to you, it would be too difficult. There is one which can only be appreciated when seen; but I can easily give you a specimen.”

“I should much like it, if you would,” the official said, not sorry thus to console himself for the trouble I had caused him. My son, at this moment, was playing some distance off on the high road, and kicking a pebble about.

“Emile!” I cried, hailing him, “can you tell us what this gentleman has in his pocket?”

“Certainly!” the boy replied, without leaving off his game; “he has a blue-striped handkerchief.”

“Oh, oh!” the stout gentleman said, with an air of astonishment. Then he recovered, and putting his hands in both pockets to conceal their contents,

“That’s all very good!” he added, with an air of doubt; “but chance may have aided that discovery.”

After a slight pause, during which he seemed considerably bothered, he continued!

“Can he tell me, though, what is under the handkerchief?”

“The gentleman asks what is under the handkerchief?” I shouted to my son.

“There is,” he replied, in the same loud voice, “a green morocco spectacle case, without the spectacles.”

“That’s really curious—very curious!” said the man of the paletot. “But,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “I should much like him to mention the article under the spectacle case.”

And my incredulous friend shoved his hands in his pockets. I drew a good omen from this last exclamation, and so, desirous to ensure my success, I took my precautions that my son should answer correctly, and I transmitted him the question just asked me.

Emile, who had not left off his game for a moment, exclaimed, as if anxious to get rid of us, “It is a piece of sugar which the gentleman saved from his cup of coffee.”

“Ah! that is too fine!” the director exclaimed, in a tone of admiration; “the lad is a sorcerer.”

My second-sight performance was at an end; still I saw with pleasure that it produced a lively impression on the director of the customs, who, after some moments’ reflection, himself returned to the subject we had left.

“Come, sir,” he remarked, “I will infringe my regulations for your sake. We will not open your chests; I will rely on your statement of their contents and value, and you will pay the duty according to the tariff. When you have reached Brussels, and have obtained the ministerial authority to introduce your instruments duty free, I will return you the money you have paid.”

I thanked my new protector, and, a few hours later, personnel and luggage had reached the station at Brussels.

Before leaving QuiÉvrain for ever, I will give my reader an idea of the conjuring trick which enabled me to produce those startling instances of second sight to which I owed my deliverance.

I have already said that the director wore a paletot, with large pockets, so, profiting by the art by which I had so cleverly emptied Comte’s pockets some time before, I found out what he had in them, and my son consequently learned it from me. As for the piece of sugar, it was easy enough to perceive by its regular shape that it had come from a cafÉ—besides, I could have no doubt that a lump of sugar, taken from the pocket of a man of fifty, and, above all, a Belgian, must be saved from his after-dinner coffee.

At the Brussels station, a postillion who had three horses out of work, offered to take our heavy carriage to the Tirlemont Hotel, and I consented, for I really knew not what hotel to go to. After driving through the city at full speed, we entered a winding street, in the midst of which our driver began smacking his whip loudly to announce our arrival, and with the skill of a practised driver, he turned into an archway that opened on to the hotel yard. We made a princely entrÉe here, which reminded me of our departure from Paris, for the master of the hotel, his wife, and the servants, were all at their posts ready to receive us worthily. We had gone safely through about half the narrow entry, when our vehicle suddenly stopped, as if riveted to the pavement: blows fell like hail on the unhappy steeds, but these, though accompanied by vigorous oaths and stimulants of every description, could not conquer the unknown obstacle.

Being quite convinced that the road was clear on either side, our postillion decided on trying a final effort; so he got down rapidly from his seat, took the horses by the bit, and drew them forward sharply. The carriage appeared to yield to this powerful attraction, and began to move slowly. All at once a sound of breaking was heard, while at the same moment cries of alarm issued from both compartments of the carriage.

The doors were hurriedly opened, women and children emerged, and the last of our party was still on the step, when the impÉriale gave way, and the numerous heavy trunks crashed into the centre of the carriage. In the emotion produced by such danger, I looked round my party, and thanks to Heaven, we were all safe and sound.

My wife and children were carefully attended to, while I, though not entirely recovered from my terror, sought the cause of this unforeseen catastrophe. I soon discovered that our carriage, being too highly loaded, had caught in the projecting sides of the archway, and that this gradual and powerful pressure had forced the mouldering framework of our old vehicle to give way.

In comparison with the misfortune from which we had so miraculously escaped, the injury to the carriage was an accident of no importance—a loss which would be quickly forgotten in the success that awaited us. The carriage was sent to be repaired, and the accident was soon a thing of the past, as we sought to recover from the fatigue of our long and wearying journey.

My first walk in Brussels led me straight to the manager, who appeared delighted at my keeping my word, and gave me a most polite reception: thence, I proceeded to the Park Theatre, where I was to give my performances.

This building, lately destroyed by fire, was situated on one of the most agreeable sites in the city, for it formed the angle of a magnificent park, which is to Brussels what the Tuilleries are to Paris.

During the summer no theatrical performance took place, and it was to fill up this gap that the engagement had been formed with me.

This theatre was city property, and I learned the fact in the following way. The porter, whom the manager ought to have recommended to give me all necessary information, stated to me that he was attached to the theatre, both as keeper and head machinist. He also told me, with pedantic gravity, that I could not drive in a nail, form an opening in the stage, or, in a word, make the slightest change, until he, as responsible official, had referred the point to the city architect.

“Such supervision is not possible,” I said to this important personage. “How do you manage, then, when the theatrical performances are on?”

“Ah, that is different. As the architect places confidence in me, he allows me to do whatever I think proper, and I am responsible for everything.”

“If that is all, I can take the responsibility on myself, and the matter can be settled at once.”

“If you think so,” the porter replied, in an ironical tone, “you can apply to the city authorities; the council will take it into consideration, and you will receive permission in a fortnight.”

I saw that the crafty gentleman wished to force himself upon me, but I soon destroyed his hopes by making him understand I would allow no stranger to be initiated into my mysterious arrangements.

This conversation had taken place on the stage, by the light of a candle which the conservator of the royal theatre held in his hand, but so soon as I had intimated my intention of doing without him, he turned on his heel and retired to his den, leaving us in perfect darkness.

“Wait a moment, sir,” I cried to him; “we cannot be groping about in this way; so, open the windows.”

“Windows!” the machinist said, with a laugh; “who ever heard of windows in a theatre? What use would they be when the rehearsals always take place by candle-light?”

“Excellently reasoned, my worthy man,” I replied, checking my inclination to laugh; “I always thought like you that windows could be done without if you had lights, but when you have no lights——“

“Why, then, you do as I do, you go money in hand to the grocer’s and buy candles; I see no difficulty in that.”

And, while making this reply, the porter and his candle were gradually eclipsed. I had no time to lose in arguing, and besides, this man, whom I would have gladly brought to his senses under other circumstances, might play me some trick that might prevent me performing mine. My instruments would remain, so to speak, at his mercy during the night, and he would have all possible facility to do me some injury, which he could deny in safety. Hence, I sent my servant straight to the grocer’s, that natural providence of any one who wants a light.

All my readers have probably read descriptions of theatrical interiors, and they are all much alike, although their cleanliness and arrangement vary according to the intelligence of the stage-manager. Nor is the same luxury of decorations and accessories visible in all theatres; some are literally encumbered with them, while others are almost entirely wanting in these qualities.

I remember that, when giving a dozen performances at Chester, I found the theatrical decorations charmingly original. Properly speaking, there was only one scene; but, as it would have been impossible to produce the scenic effect with this, the machinist had very cleverly painted a forest on the back, and the scene moved on a pivot, which my friend turned by the aid of a winch, and thus could display a hall or a forest at will.

With such feeble resources, the scenic illusion was often compromised, but, according to the machinist, the actors corrected any glaring anachronisms of place by ingenious new readings, and sometimes, too, by the expression of their faces.

This machinist was like his scenery, for he filled many parts; he was in turn porter, painter, wig-maker, property man, tailor, and ticket-taker; but with so many strings to his bow, this worthy man found himself out of work during three parts of the year, for during that period there were no performances at Chester.

But to return to the porter, machinist, and keeper of the Park Theatre. This man could never forgive my refusal of his services, and his impertinence and ill-will pursued me to the close, and occasioned me continual annoyance; and although I complained to the manager, I could obtain no redress. The porter, being paid by government, claimed the right, like his brethren the porters of Paris, of making his tenants feel his power and his independence.

I have performed in many royal theatres, but I never had to deal with any but most polite machinists and managers, who could flatter themselves they were masters in their own house.

However, I managed to surmount difficulties of every description, and the day of my first representation arrived.

On this very day was opened that fiery furnace which was called “the summer of 1846;” and the heat was astounding. Still, the theatre was full, and the success of my experiments was as great as I could desire. The second sight, especially, produced an enthusiasm which the generally cold inhabitants of Brussels expressed by noisy bravos.

I was proud and happy, for, in addition to the satisfaction success always produces, I foresaw the realization of the theatrical agent’s brilliant promises. Thus, to take a slight revenge for my cashier’s obstinacy, I never failed, each time I left the stage, to say to her in a tone of triumph:

“Well! do you believe in the one hundred thousand francs now? That’s how I like business.”

And I returned on the stage with a smiling and animated face.

The performance over, the curtain fell on the illusions I had produced, as well as on those I had nursed as to my receipts. They were equally ephemeral in either case, for I had scarcely left the stage when I saw my manager coming towards me in the attitude once assumed by the steeds of Hippolytus, according to Theramene’s recital. He, so joyous at the commencement of the performance,

“Here, sir,” he said, pointing to a small rouleau, “is your share.”

“What! my share?” I exclaimed, in a tone of indescribable disappointment; “and the rest?”

“The rest, sir, has gone in the expenses, and the poor-rate.”

“But the rest,” I still insisted—“the rest, what has become of it?”

“Well, sir,” my manager replied, in a lamentable tone, “the cashier states that the greater part of the audience received free admissions.”

Irritated by such an explanation, I hurried to the office, and opened and closed the door violently. The employÉ turned towards me, and without being affected by my abruptness, he bowed to me politely (another instance of Belgian courtesy).

“How is it,” I said, without replying to his bow, “that so many free admissions were given without my sanction?”

“They were given, sir, by the manager’s orders,” the man replied, with a calmness that made me believe he was used to such scenes, “and you must be aware,” he added, in a conciliatory tone, “that there are numerous claims on the first night of a new performance at a royal theatre. Thus we have, for instance, the authorities, the city architect, the manager of the gas company, the newspaper writers, the manager’s relations and friends, the police inspector, who has a right to a box; and all these gentlemen, as you may suppose, bring their families with them. We have, again——“

“Oh, sir,” I replied, ironically, “for goodness’ sake, stop, for if you go on at that rate I shall begin to fear you had not a seat left for the paying public. To-morrow, I presume, I shall have to hand you back the modest sum you have just sent me. However, I shall certainly insist on an explanation with the manager.”

The next day I proceeded to call on M. X——, with the firm intention of evincing to him my dissatisfaction; but he was so ready with his explanations that I could not be angry, and we ended by agreeing that, henceforth, all free admissions should have my signature, and that they should not be dispensed quite so liberally.

This measure, perhaps, checked some new abuses, but was not enough to suppress them all, for though the theatre grew more and more crowded, my strong-box did not follow the same progression.

Far from netting the fabulous sum which had so dazzled me, I only brought back from my trip to Brussels an illusion dispelled and experience, while, as my cashier had predicted, my expenses rather more than balanced my receipts.

I have great reason for believing that, during my stay at the Park Theatre, I was cheated out of my proper share. It was my first affair of the kind, and I was obliged to study at my own expense; but, from that period, I was on my guard, and evaded every attempt at fraud. I will add, too, that at a later date I had the satisfaction of dealing only with managers of well-known probity, to whom I gave my entire confidence without ever having any reason to regret it.