To support my determination in making my researches, I had ever before me this maxim: 

It is more difficult to support admiration than to excite it.

And this other, an apparent corollary of the preceding: 

The fashion an artist enjoys can only last as his talent daily increases.

Nothing increases a professional man’s merit so much as the possession of an independent fortune; this truth may be coarse, but it is indubitable.  Not only was I convinced of these principles of high economy, but I also knew that a man must strive to profit by the fickle favor of the public, which equally descends if it does not rise.  Hence I worked my reputation as much as I could.  In spite of my numerous engagements, I found means to give performances in all the principal theaters, though great difficulties frequently arose, as my performance did not end till half-past ten, and I could only fulfill my other engagements after that hour.

Eleven o’clock was generally the hour fixed for my appearance on a strange stage, and my readers may judge of the speed required to proceed to the theater in so short a time and make my preparations.  It is true that the moments were as well counted as employed, and my curtain had hardly fallen than, rushing toward the stairs, I got before my audience, and jumped into a vehicle that bore me off at full speed.

But this fatigue was as nothing compared to the emotion occasionally produced by an error in the time that was to elapse between my two performances.  I remember that, one night, having to wind up the performances at the Vaudeville, the stage manager miscalculated the time the pieces would take in performing, and found himself much in advance.  He sent off an express to warn me that the curtain had fallen, and I was anxiously expected.  Can my readers comprehend my wretchedness?  My experiments, of which I could omit none, would occupy another quarter of an hour; but instead of indulging in useless recriminations, I resigned myself and continued my performance, though I was a prey to frightful anxiety.  While speaking, I fancied I could hear that cadenced yell of the public to which the famous song, “Des lampions, des lampions,” was set.  Thus, either through preoccupation or a desire to end sooner, I found when my performance was over I had gained five minutes out of the quarter of an hour.  Assuredly, it might he called the quarter of an hour’s grace.

To jump into a carriage and drive to the Place de la Bourse was the affair of an instant; still, twenty minutes had elapsed since the curtain fell, and that was an enormous time.  My son Emile and I proceeded up the actors’ stairs at full speed, but on the first step we had heard the cries, whistling, and stamping of the impatient audience.  What a prospect!  I knew that frequently, either right or wrong, the public treated an artiste, no matter whom, very harshly, to remind him of punctuality.  That sovereign always appears to have on its lips the words of another monarch:  “I was obliged to wait.”  However, we hurried up the steps leading to the stage.