But the magician was foxy. He suspected a trap on the part of a police agent in disguise, who had a spite against him. He replied as follows: “Citizens, I once had a recipe for bringing dead kings to life, but that was before the 18th Fructidor, when the Republic declared royalty abolished forever. On that glorious day I lost my magic formula, and fear that I shall never recover it again.” In spite of Robertson’s clever retort, the affair created such a sensation that on the following day, the police prohibited the exhibitions, and placed seals on the optician’s boxes and papers. However, the ban was soon lifted, and the performances allowed to continue. Lucky Robertson! The advertisement filled his coffers to overflowing. People struggled to gain admission to the wonderful phantasmagoria. Finding the Pavilion too small to accommodate the crowds, the magician moved his show to an abandoned chapel of the Capuchin Convent, near the Place Vendôme. This ancient place of worship was located in the middle of a vast cloister crowded with tombs and funeral tablets. A more gruesome spot could not have been selected. The Chapel was draped in black. From the ceiling was suspended a sepulchral lamp, in which alcohol and salt were burned, giving forth a ghastly light which made the faces of the spectators {91} resemble those of corpses. Robertson, habited in black, made his appearance, and harangued his audience on ghosts, witches, sorcery, and magic. Finally the lamp was extinguished and the apartment plunged in Plutonian darkness. A storm of wind and rain, thunder and lightning, interspersed with the tolling of a church bell, followed, and after this the solemn strains of a far-off organ were heard. At the evocation of the conjurer, phantoms of Voltaire, Mirabeau, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Robespierre, Danton, and Marat appeared and faded away again “into thin air.” The ghost of Robespierre was shown rising from a tomb. A flash of lightning, vivid and terrible, would strike the phantom, whereupon it would sink down into the ground and vanish. People were often carried away fainting from the exhibition. It was truly awe inspiring and perfect in _mise en scène_. At the conclusion of the séance, Robertson used to remark: “I have shown you, citizens, every species of phantom, and there is but one more truly terrible spectre—the fate which is reserved for us all. Behold!” In an instant there stood in the center of the room a skeleton armed with a scythe. It grew to a colossal height and gradually faded away.[18] [18] For a romance embracing the subject of phantasmagoria see the poet Schiller’s _Ghost-Seer_. (Bohn Library.)