“A man must possess very great talent to undertake the responsibility of such praise. After all, I think the journalist is amusing himself at the expense of his readers, and that the famous Bosco only exists in his columns.” “You are quite wrong, my dear Robert: this conjurer is not an imaginary being, for not only have I read this puff in several papers, but I even saw Bosco last night at a café, giving some specimens of his skill, and announcing his first performance for next Tuesday.” “If it be so,” I said to my friend, “I must ask you to spend the evening with M. Bosco, and I will come and call for you.” “Done,” said Antonio, “mind and call for me on Tuesday at half-past seven, as the performance commences at eight.” At the appointed time we proceeded to the Rue Chantereine, where the performance was announced. At the money-taker’s we found ourselves face to face with a stout gentleman, dressed in a coat adorned with frogs and trimmed with fur, making him look like a Russian prince on his travels. Antonio nudged me with his elbow, and said, in a whisper, “That’s he!” “Who’s he?” “Why, Bosco.” “All the worse,” I said; “I am sorry for him.” “Explain yourself, for I do not understand the harm a Boyard’s dress can do a man.” “My friend, I do not blame M. Bosco so much for his dress as for occupying his present place. I think an artiste cannot be too chary of his person off the stage; there is so much difference between the man whom an entire audience listens to and applauds, and the director who comes openly to watch his paltry interests, that the latter must injure the former.” During this conversation, my friend and myself had entered the room and taken our seats. According to the idea I had formed of a magician’s laboratory, I expected to find myself before a curtain whose large folds, when withdrawn, would display before my dazzled eyes a brilliant stage ornamented with apparatus worthy of the celebrity announced; but my illusions on this subject soon faded away. A curtain had been considered superfluous, and the stage was open. Before me was a long three-storied sideboard, entirely covered with black serge. This lugubrious buffet was adorned with a number of wax candles, among which glistened the apparatus. At the topmost point of this strange _étargère_ was a death’s-head, much surprised, I have no doubt, at finding itself at such a festival, and it quite produced the effect of a funeral service. In front of the stage, and near the spectators, was a table covered by a brown cloth, reaching to the ground, on which five brass cups were symmetrically arranged. Finally, above this table hung a copper ball, which strangely excited my curiosity.[D]