I have now arrived at a moment when I shall quit for ever the mournful and wearisome details of the numerous misfortunes that preceded my representations; but my readers will notice with some surprise to what a futile circumstance I owed my release from this state of discouragement, which I fancied would last for ever.
The repose I had taken during the day and the following night had refreshed my blood and my ideas. I regarded my situation under a very different aspect, and I had already made up my mind not to give up my theatre, when one of my friends—or, who called himself so—came to pay me a visit.
After expressing his regret at the unhappy result of my first performance, at which he had been present, he said:
“I called in to see you because I noticed your room was closed, and I had a wish to express my feelings to you on the subject. I must say, then, to speak frankly” (I have noticed that this phrase is always followed by some bad compliment, which is meant to pass under the guise of friendly frankness), “that you are perfectly right to quit a profession beyond your strength, and that you have acted wisely by anticipating with good grace a decision to which you would have been forced sooner or later. However,” he added, with a self-sufficient air, “I foretold it. I always thought you were committing an act of madness, and that your theatre would no sooner be opened than you would be obliged to close it.”
These cruel compliments, addressed under the cloak of apocryphal frankness, wounded me deeply. I could easily detect that this offerer of advice, sacrificing to his vanity the slight affection he felt for me, had only come to see me in order to parade his perspicacity and the justice of his previsions, of which he had never mentioned a syllable to me. Well, this infallible prophet, who foresaw events so truly, was far from suspecting the change he was producing in me. The more he talked, the more he confirmed me in the resolution of continuing my performances.
“Who told you my room was closed?” I said, in a tone that had nothing affectionate about it. “If I did not perform yesterday, it was because, worn out by the fatigue I have undergone for some time, I wished to rest for at least one day. Your foreboding will, therefore, be disappointed, when I tell you that I shall perform this very evening. I hope, in my second representation, to take my revenge on the public; and this time they will judge me less severely than you have done. I am quite convinced of it.”
The conversation having taken this turn, could not be continued much longer. My offerer of advice, dissatisfied at my reception of him, quitted me, and I have never seen him since. Yet, I bear him no malice; on the contrary, if he reads my Memoirs, I beg to offer him in this place my thanks for the happy revolution he produced in me by wounding my vanity to the quick.
Bills were immediately posted to announce my performance for that evening, and I made my preparations calmly, while thinking over those parts of my performance in which it would be advisable to introduce a change.
This second representation went on much better than I had hoped, and my audience appeared satisfied. Unfortunately, that audience was small, and my receipts, consequently, were the same. Still, I accepted it all philosophically, for the success I had obtained gave me confidence in the future.
However, I soon had real causes for consolation. The celebrities of the press came to my representations, and described my performance in the most flattering terms. Some contributors to the comic papers also made very pleasant allusions to my performances and myself. Among others, the present editor of the Charivari wrote an article full of fun and dash about my performances, which he terminated with some lines, expressive of his decided opinion that I belonged to the family of Robert le Diable and Robert Macaire.