The Salt Smugglers by Gérard de Nerval

up his wardrobe manager M. Dumas and asked him: « How are we doing with Regency outfits?
    â€” Not well at all, sir! We’re out of jackets! We have a few vests and some trousses (the breeches of that era).
    â€” Well, with a few vests and breeches, we’ll just have to add some serge jackets in eye-popping colors. If the vests are bright enough in the footlights, the audience will go home happy. »
    It was thus that that La Duchesse de La Vaubelière was staged; the theater aficionados were bowled over by the Regency vests and queued up in endless lines for the show, — whose tickets cost between 50 and 65 centimes.
    Harel later confessed to me: « This success was my undoing. »
    And he proceeded to show me the books: an average of eight hundred francs a night for the first twenty performances.
    Then the box office earnings fell off precipitously. — I said to myself: « Beware of believing that you’ll ever make a killing in the theater. »
    But I was still quite worried about the props. The props in question were: sixteen student caps and sixteen masks for the scene of the Saint Wehme, — obviously black velvet masks, — such as the ones worn in the productions of Bravo , of Lucretia Borgia and a host of other dramas.
    The caps finally arrived during the first intermission, but I was told: « the masks are still on their way. »
    It’s quite difficult to get one’s bearings from the wings of a theater; — statesmen suffer from the same blindness. — The audience was all ears: rapt, utterly silent. The third act had just ended, and here I was, a nervous wreck because of the masks needed for the fourth act.
    I climbed up to the dressing rooms in the attic. Some extras were putting on the uniforms of the German honor guard, blue with epaulettes of yellow braid. Others were slipping into the uniforms of the sicaires and trabans , — which they found most humiliating.
    As for the students , they were getting outfitted with nary a care in the world, seeing as how they had been assured that their caps were about to arrive, — and blissfully oblivious to the fact that they would have to wear masks for the conspiracy scene in the fourth act.
    Â« Where are the masks? I asked.
    â€” The props manager has not yet distributed them. »
    I went to locate Harel.
    Â« The masks?
    â€” They’re on their way. »
    The audience was growing restless during the intermission. The theater staff had exhausted all of Harel’s standard bag of tricks in these situations, — which involved distracting the public from a late curtain by showering it with a rain of confetti during the first intermission. During the second, they would toss down a cap from the upper gallery, which would be passed around from hand to hand in the orchestra seat section. During
the third intermission, they would stage a scene in one of the private boxes which would inevitably provoke heated arguments in the pit: « He’s going to kiss her! No he won’t! »
    When the delay between the third and fourth act grew too protracted, they used to set a dog to barking, — or have a child start screaming. Then they’d have a bunch of kids (especially paid for the purpose) yell out: « Get that crybaby outta here . » At least the point was thereby made. If necessary, the orchestra would then strike up La Parisienne , — which was still permitted back in those days.
    After ten minutes of intermission, Harel came up to me and said: « The students have their caps ... But do they absolutely need masks at this point?
    â€” How could you dare ask me such a thing? It’s for the scene of the Secret Trial!
    â€” Well, a mistake has been made. All they sent over were some harlequin masks. They thought it was for a masked ball scene, — these days there’s always some sort of ball scene in the fourth acts of modern dramas.
    â€” Where are the masks? I