Our theatre-goer, clutching the ticket of admission he had acquired either by favour or purchase, would stumble through the doors and find himself confronting three men in black sitting behind an imposing desk who, as Baudelaire said, strike a timid nature as being ‘invested with the majesty of Minos, Aeacus and Rhadamanthus’ – the three judges of the underworld. These were the contrôleurs, the check-takers or ticket inspectors, a trinity of solemn dignitaries with whom it was advisable not to tangle. The presiding functionary, enthroned in the middle, represented the theatre administration; the other two were delegates respectively of the assistance publique and the authors' union, making sure that the bodies they represented were not defrauded of their dues. The theatre-goer would hand over his ticket for verification by the contrôleur who, if it was a numbered ticket obtained from the booking office, would check it off on the sheets sent in beforehand by the advance ticket office clerk; if it was unnumbered, he would note it on a list, to ensure that no part of the theatre became overcrowded. But if it was a complimentary ticket, presented by someone whose face was unfamiliar, then he would examine it suspiciously, whisper something to his fellow contrôleur, stare hard at the spectator for a minute or two, and finally hand over grudgingly the square of cardboard which he also gave, but rather more graciously, to the spectators he regarded as bona fide.