We soon drew up the bill, at the top of which I wrote my name with great emotion; then came a list of the tricks I proposed to do. Just as we finished this, the usual guests entered the room, offering excuses more or less specious to explain their delay. Still their tardy appearance aroused no suspicion in my mind; for Pinetti’s was open all hours of the night, and his door was only closed from daybreak till two P. M., the time he devoted to sleep and dress. As soon as the new arrivers heard of my resolution, they noisily congratulated me, and promised to support me by their hearty applause. Not that I wanted it, they added, for my performance would create an extraordinary enthusiasm. Pinetti gave one of his servants the bill, telling him to order the printer to have it posted all over the city before daybreak. An impulse made me stretch out my hand to take back the paper, but Pinetti checked me with a laugh. “Come, my dear friend,” he said, “do not try to fly an assured triumph, and to-morrow at this hour we shall all be toasting your success.” All the visitors joined in chorus, and they drank in anticipation of my approaching triumph. A few glasses of champagne dispelled my hesitation and scruples. I returned home very late, and went to bed without thinking of what had occurred. At two the next afternoon I was still asleep, when I was aroused by Pinetti’s voice. “Get up, Edmond!” he shouted through the door. “Up, man! we have no time to lose: the great day has arrived. Open the door: I have a thousand things to say to you.” I hastened to open. “Ah! my dear count,” he said, “allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune. Your name is in every mouth: the whole theatre is taken; the last tickets are being positively fought for; the king and the royal family will do you the honor of being present; we have just been informed of the fact.” At these words the whole affair flashed across my mind: a cold perspiration stood on my forehead: the terror that assails every novice rendered me dizzy. In my confusion I sat down on the foot of my bed. “Do not reckon on me, chevalier,” I said, with firmness. “Whatever may happen, I will not perform.” “What! you will not perform?” my perfidious friend said, affecting the most perfect tranquility; “but my good fellow, you cannot be thinking of what you are saying. There is no possibility of drawing back: the bills are put up, and it is your duty to keep the engagement you have made. Besides, you should remember this performance is for the poor, who have already begun to bless you, and you cannot abandon them, while a refusal would be an insult to the king. Come, come,” he added, “summon up your courage, my dear friend. Meet me at the theatre at four: we will have a rehearsal, which I consider useless, but it may restore your pluck. Till then, good-by!”