“Yes, sir—yes.”
“Raise the curtain!” the same voice shouted.
“Wait, wait, it is imp——“
My breath would not allow me to finish my objection; I fell on a chair, unable to move.
“Come, M. Houdin,” the manager said, “do go on the stage, the curtain is up, and the public are so impatient.”
The door at the back of the stage was open, but I could not pass through it, fatigue and emotion nailed me to the spot. Still, an idea occurred to me, which saved me from the popular wrath.
“Go on to the stage, my boy,” I said to my son, “and prepare all that is wanting for the second-sight trick.”
The public allowed themselves to be disarmed by this youth, whose face inspired a sympathizing interest; and my son, after gravely bowing to the audience, quietly made his slight preparations, that is to say, he carried an ottoman to the front of the stage, and placed on a neighboring table a slate, some chalk, a pack of cards, and a bandage.
This slight delay enabled me to recover my breath and calm my nerves, and I advanced in my turn with an attempt to assume the stereotyped smile, in which I signally failed, as I was so agitated. The audience at first remained silent, then their faces gradually unwrinkled, and soon, one or two claps having been ventured, they were carried away and peace was made. I was well rewarded, however, for this terrible ordeal, as my “second-sight” never gained a more brilliant triumph.
An incident greatly enlivened the termination of my performance.