Hence I found myself between the horns of a dilemma. I must either, after paying a heavy duty, lose precious time in packing, valuing and unpacking my instruments, or forfeit six thousand francs to my manager while awaiting a ministerial reply. Although I made all sorts of supplications to the different custom officials, I could only obtain this answer, dictated by their inflexible orders, “We can do nothing.” I was in despair; in vain, conforming to the maxim, “It is better to address the king than his officials,” I pursued the director himself with my entreaties; he would not hear a word. He was a stout, good-looking man, of some fifty years of age, dressed in an enormous paletot, much resembling in cut the one I have described as my costume when learning my sleight-of-hand tricks at Tours. We were both standing at the door of the custom-house, near the high road, where my chests had been deposited. Wearied with listening to my eternal remonstrances, the director began talking to me about indifferent matters; but I always led the conversation back to the same subject. “You are a prestidigitator, then?” my stout Belgian said to me, laying a stress on this word, to prove to me that he knew the pompous title by which the juggler is distinguished. “Yes, sir, that is my profession.” “Ah, ah! very good; I know several celebrities in that art. I have even witnessed their performances with a great deal of pleasure.” While my amateur was thus talking, an idea occurred to me, which I immediately put in execution, for I trusted the result of it would powerfully aid in favoring my entreaties. “What are your most striking tricks?” the stout man added, in the tone of a perfect connoisseur. “I really cannot describe them to you, it would be too difficult. There is one which can only be appreciated when seen; but I can easily give you a specimen.” “I should much like it, if you would,” the official said, not sorry thus to console himself for the trouble I had caused him. My son, at this moment, was playing some distance off on the high road, and kicking a pebble about. “Emile!” I cried, hailing him, “can you tell us what this gentleman has in his pocket?” “Certainly!” the boy replied, without leaving off his game; “he has a blue-striped handkerchief.” “Oh, oh!” the stout gentleman said, with an air of astonishment. Then he recovered, and putting his hands in both pockets to conceal their contents, “That’s all very good!” he added, with an air of doubt; “but chance may have aided that discovery.” After a slight pause, during which he seemed considerably bothered, he continued! “Can he tell me, though, what is under the handkerchief?” “The gentleman asks what is under the handkerchief?” I shouted to my son. “There is,” he replied, in the same loud voice, “a green morocco spectacle case, without the spectacles.”