I replied, that I was amply repaid for a few moments of pain by the satisfaction I felt at having been called to perform before his gracious sovereign. And this was, indeed, the truth. CHAPTER XIX. An Optimist Manager--Three Spectators in a Room--A Magical Collation--The Colchester Public and the Nuts--I return to France--I give up my Theatre--A Farewell Tour--I retire to St. Gervais--An Academician’s Predictions. A short time after this performance my engagement with Mitchell terminated. Instead of returning to France, as I should much have desired after so lengthened an absence, I thought it better to continue my excursions in the English provinces till the end of September, when I hoped to reopen my theatre at Paris. Consequently, I drew up an itinerary, in which the first station would be Cambridge, celebrated for its university; and set out. Possibly the reader may feel no inclination to follow me on this tour, but he may be assured I will not drag him after me, especially as my second passage through England presents hardly any details worth mentioning here. I will content myself with recounting a few incidents, and among them a small adventure that happened to me, as it may serve for a lesson for all professionals, that it is dangerous both to their self-esteem and interests to drain public curiosity too deep in the various places whither the hope of good receipts attracts them. I intended to go straight from London to Cambridge, but, half way, I took a fancy to stop and give a few performances at Hertford, a town containing some ten thousand people. My two first performances were most successful, but on the third, seeing that the number of spectators had greatly fallen off, I decided on giving no more. My manager argued against this resolution, and offered me reasons which certainly had some value. “I assure you, sir,” he said, “that nothing is spoken of in the town but your performance. Every one is asking if you are going to perform to-morrow, and two young gentlemen have already begged me to keep them places if you intend to remain for to-morrow.” Génet, my manager, was certainly the best fellow in the world; but I ought to have distrusted his counsels, knowing, as I did, his disposition to look at the bright side of everything. He was the incarnation of optimism, and the calculations he made about this performance went far beyond those of the inkstand inventor. To hear him talk, we should have to double the price of places, and increase our staff to keep back the crowd that would rush to see me. While jesting Génet on his exaggerated ideas, I still allowed him to send out the bills for the performance he so much desired. The next evening, at half-past seven, I went, according to my usual custom, to order the box-office to be opened, and the public allowed admission. The performance would commence at eight precisely.