“Hence I called myself Signor Torrini, and, after the fashion of my rivals, I added the title of ‘first magician of France.’ Each of us is always the first and the most skillful in the country where he happens to be, unless he think proper to call himself the first in the whole world. Conjuring is a profession in which, as you know, no one errs through excess of modesty, and the custom of producing illusions facilitates this issue of bad money, which the public, it is true, appreciates and sets its true value on. “So it behaved to me, for, despite my pompous announcements, I frankly confess it did not recognize the celebrity I claimed. On the contrary, my performances were so little attended, that my receipts were hardly sufficient for my existence. Still I went from town to town, giving my performances, and nourishing myself more often on hope than on reality. But the moment arrived when this unsubstantial food no longer sufficed me, and I was forced to stop. I had exhausted my resources: I had nothing left but my instruments. My clothes were reduced to the sheerest necessity, and threatened to desert me at any moment: thus hesitation was impossible. I decided on selling my instruments, and, provided with the small sum they produced me, I set out for Paris, the last refuge of those whose talent is neglected and position hopeless. “In spite of my ill success, I had lost none of my stock of philosophy, and, though not very happy, I was full of hope in the future. Yes, my friend--yes, I had a presentiment at that time of the brilliant position fate reserved for me, and to which it lead me, I may say, by the hand. “Once arrived at Paris, I hired a modest room, and determined to live as savingly as possible, in order to make my money hold out. You see that, in spite of my confidence in the future, I took some precautions, so as not to run the risk of dying of hunger; but you will allow I acted wrong in not trusting entirely to my lucky star. “I had hardly been in Paris a week, when I met an old comrade, a Florentine, who used to perform as second basso in my old theatre. He, too, had been maltreated by Fortune, and having come to Paris, he found himself reduced to accept a situation in the chorus of the Opera. When I had revealed my position to him, he told me a tenor situation was vacant in the chorus, and advised me to try and get it: I accepted the offer with pleasure, though, of course, as merely transitional, for I felt a pang at my descent. Still, prudence suggested I had better guard against want.