On page 196 of his "Memoirs," American edition, he starts his romantic description of its conception and manufacture. According to this he had just planned what promised to be the most brilliant of his mechanical inventions when financial difficulties intervened. He was obliged to raise two thousand francs to meet a pressing debt. He applied to the ever-convenient Monsieur G----, who had bought automata from him before. He described the writing and drawing figure minutely to his patron, who immediately agreed to advance two thousand five hundred francs, and if the figure was completed in eighteen months, two thousand five hundred francs more were to be paid for it, making five thousand francs in all. If the figure was never completed, then Monsieur G---- was to reimburse himself for the amount advanced by selecting automatic toys from Robert-Houdin's regular stock. After liquidating his debt, Robert-Houdin retired to Belleville, a suburb of Paris, where for eighteen months he worked upon the figure, seeing his family only twice a week, and living in the most frugal fashion. He employed a wood-carver to make the head, but the result was so unsatisfactory that in the end he was obliged, not only to make all the complicated machinery which operated the figure, but to carve the head itself, which, he adds, in some miraculous fashion, resembled himself. This resemblance, however, cannot be traced in existing cuts of the figure. The chapter devoted to this particular automaton is so diverting that I quote literally from its pages, thus giving my readers an opportunity to take the true measure of the writer and the literary style of his "Memoirs." Here is his description of his moment of triumph: "I had only to press a spring in order to enjoy the long-waited-for result. My heart beat violently, and though I was alone I trembled at the mere thought of this imposing trial. I had just laid the first sheet of paper before my writer and asked him this question: 'Who is the author of your being?' I pressed the spring, and the clockwork started--began acting. I dared hardly breathe through fear of disturbing the operations. The automaton bowed to me, and I could not refrain from smiling on it as on my own son. But when I saw the eyes fix an attentive glance on the paper--when the arm, a few seconds before numb and lifeless, began to move and trace my signature in a firm hand--the tears started in my eyes and I fervently thanked Heaven for granting me success. And it was not alone the satisfaction I experienced as an inventor, but the certainty I had of being able to restore some degree of comfort to my family, that caused my deep feeling of gratitude. "After making my Sosia repeat my signature a thousand times, I gave it this question: 'What o'clock is it?' The automaton, acting in obedience to the clock, wrote, 'It is two in the morning.' This was a timely warning. I profited by it and went straight to bed."