The Manager, a prosperous brewer, who had become proprietor of a theatre for the pleasure of producing revues, which if not witty were certainly vulgar, shrugged his heavy shoulders.
"You expect me to lose money! That act is one of the best we have got."
"And you, sir?" Albert turned on the author, a man of doubtful reputation, always on the alert for any occasion of scandal in others.
"Oh! of course I am sorry to offend you, but I can't take off the piece."
The last word was not out of his mouth when the Count grabbed both of them by the napes of their necks and knocked their heads together till the blood spurted from their surprised faces. Their cries were heard even by the audience. Reporters came running to witness this unbilled spectacle. The stage hands tried to free the Manager, but desisted when one received a terrible smash from the Count's fist, and another a kick that sent him through space. When the two men were reduced to rags, Albert held them upright and addressed them:
"I am going into the hall to see the show. I advise you to withdraw the scene we spoke of and to which I object."
Then he quietly re-arranged his clothes and went into the auditorium where the audience were very noisy and laughing at the news the journalists had reported. Count Albert was one of the best known figures about Brussels, where his father had played a very important part in the foreign affairs of the country, and enjoyed, for more than twenty years, the confidence of King Leopold. When he died his wife was still a young and very beautiful woman, and his great fortune had made the only heir of the family already famous. The Count was astonished at the clamorous ovation that received him. He would have liked to impose silence on the people, but he was a poor orator, and very timid; he kept silence and wont to his seat. He was popular from that day, and greatly respected.
At the Monnaie, as soon as the rehearsal was over, the Queen sent for Esperance and Mounet-Sully. The Queen assured the tragedian of the admiration that she had long felt for him, for Mounet-Sully played almost every year in Brussels; but all her kindly enthusiasm was directed towards Esperance.
"What a perfectly delicious voice!" she said. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen, Madame."