Again in 1820 it was removed to a new establishment, which had been erected on the site of the former Hôtel de Choiseul. This house had accommodations for but two thousand spectators, and, in spite of its sumptuousness and rank, was distinctly inferior in point of size to many opera-houses and theatres elsewhere. Up to this time the management had been governed after the manner of the old régime, "by three gentlemen of the king's own establishment, in concurrence with the services of a working director," and the royal privy purse was virtually responsible for the expenses. Louis-Philippe astutely shifted the responsibility to the public exchequer. In 1831, Dr. Louis Véron, the founder of the _Revue de Paris_,--since supplanted by the _Revue des Deux Mondes_,--became the manager and director. Doctor Véron has been called as much the quintessence of the life of Paris of the first half of the nineteenth century as was Napoleon I. of the history of France. Albert Vandam, the author of "An Englishman in Paris," significantly enough links Véron's name in his recollections with that of Dumas, except that he places Dumas first. "Robert le Diable" and Taglioni made Véron's success and his fortune, though he himself was a master of publicity. From 1831 onward, during Véron's incumbency, the newspapers contained column after column of the "puff personal," not only with respect to Véron himself, but down through the galaxy of singers and dancers to the veriest stage-carpenter, scenic artist, and call-boy. The modern managers have advanced somewhat upon these premature efforts; but then the art was in its infancy, and, as Véron himself was a journalist and newspaper proprietor, he probably well understood the gentle art of exchanging favouring puffs of one commodity for those of another. These were the days of the first successes of Meyerbeer, Halévy, Auber, and Duprez; of Taglioni, who danced herself into a nebula of glory, and later into a shadow which inspired the spiteful critics into condemnation of her waning power. It has been said that Marie Taglioni was by no means a good-looking woman. Indeed, she must have been decidedly plain. Her manners, too, were apparently not affable, and "her reception of Frenchmen was freezing to a degree--when she thawed it was to Russians, Englishmen, or Viennese." "One of her shoulders was higher than the other, she limped slightly, and, moreover, waddled like a duck." Clearly a stage setting was necessary to show off her charms. She was what the French call "_une pimbêche_." The architectural effect produced by the exterior of this forerunner of the present opera was by no means one of monumental splendour. Its architect, Debret, was scathingly criticized for its anomalies. A newspaper anecdote of the time recounts the circumstance of a provincial who, upon asking his way thither, was met with the direction, "That way--the first large gateway on your right."