When Macaire, Germany and Mephisto had successively dawned on the delighted consciousness of the Parisians--those most insatiate of all theatre-goers--Lemaitre had won the sceptre of the Paris stage. He reigned over the public with despotic sway, and the public adored its theatrical monarch. With his subjects he could do anything, take any liberty, without fear of dethronement. One evening, during an act in which he had not to appear on the stage, he was leaning while chatting with a comrade against that part of the wings known in French as "harlequin's cloak"--in our stage language the prompt-place. A brass knob was under his elbow. "What's this machine for?" he said, examining it. "Don't touch it, Monsieur Frederic," cried an employe: "it's the gas-regulator." "Bah! has the gas got a regulator, then? Lucky gas! Let's see what will happen." With this he turned the knob and plunged the whole theatre into darkness. Two thousand Frenchmen and women cried out in alarm and consternation. Great was their indignation and savage their inquiries as to the cause of the occurrence. But no sooner were they informed that Lemaitre had committed this hangable feat than the joke seemed charming, and when he came on the stage in the following act they received him with bravos and joyous laughs. Lemaitre was indeed a spoiled child of the public, and his prodigious success began to have the effect which success often has upon us poor mortals. He became impatient of all restraint, jealous of all honor offered to his confreres. The Ambigu won him away from the Porte Saint-Martin after a short time, and on the stage of his first successes he was supported by Madame Dorval, one of the finest actresses the French stage has known. These two dramatic powers did wonders, and the public divided its applause between them. This did not suit the petted genius. He complained to the manager. "Your horrible _claque_ splits my ears," he cried in a fury: "I expect you to get rid of it at once. Or if not--" Before his _ultimatum_ was pronounced Madame Dorval appeared. "Are you crazy?" she said to the manager: "what is the use of these imbeciles with their hand-clapping? Drive them all away from the theatre, and leave the real public to its own impressions. If your Romans[B] do not at once disappear, I play no more."--"Nor I," said Lemaitre.--"So be it," said the manager: "the claque shall be discharged."