Let us see.

Here is a capable gentleman, a man of the theater, a dramatist acclaimed
a score of times, at the height of his powers, in full success. He has
written a comedy. He has bestowed upon it all his care, all his time,
all his ability. He has left nothing to chance.

He has just finisht it, and is content. According to the consecrated
expression, it is "certain to go." But as he is cautious, he does not
rely entirely upon his own opinion. He consults his
friends--fellow-workers, skillful as he, successful as he. He reads to
them his piece. I will not say that they are satisfied--another word is
needed--but at any rate, with more reason than ever, it is "certain to
go."

He seeks out a manager, an old stager who has every opportunity for
being clear-headed, because of his experience, and every reason for
being exacting, because of his self-interest. He gives him the
manuscript, and as soon as the manager gets a fair notion of the piece,
this Napoleon of the stage, this strategist of success, is seized by a
profound emotion, but one easy to comprehend in the case of a man who is
convinced that five hundred thousand francs have just been placed in his
hand. He exults, he shouts, he presses the author in his arms, he rains
upon him the most flattering adjectives, beginning with "sublime" and
mounting upward. He calls him the most honied names: Shakspere, Duvert
and Lauzanne, Rossini, Offenbach--according to the kind of theater he
directs. He is not only satisfied, he is delighted, he is radiant--it is
"certain to go."

Wait! That is not all. It is read to the actors--the same enthusiasm!