Madame de Parabére was perfectly right in believing she would have no opportunity for conversation with the Regent till they met at the opera. The whole of that prince’s morning was employed in struggling with the drowsy fiend who on a sensualist’s couch represents sleep, and is such a hideous mockery of its original. At these hours the tendency to apoplexy, which the Duke strengthened and pampered by indulgence, displayed itself in alarming colours, and none of his attendants could have been surprised when, a few years later, the destroyer swooped down and carried off his prey at a stroke. It took him many an hour of heavy, unhealthy, and disturbed slumber to regain sufficient clearness of mind for the duties of the day, but once in exercise, his intellect, which was doubtless above mediocrity, soon reasserted itself, and the Prince, shaved, bathed, dressed, and seated over a pile of papers in his cabinet, seemed quite capable of grasping the political helm, and guiding with a steady hand the destinies of France. But it was only by a strong mental effort he thus overcame the effects of his pernicious habits; such an effort as, when often repeated, saps the vital energies beyond the power of nature to restore them, and the wasting effects of which are best conveyed by the familiar expression—“burning the candle at both ends.” When business was concluded, and the Regent, leaving his cabinet, entered the adjoining dressing-room to prepare for amusement, he was generally much fatigued, but in excellent spirits. A thorough Bourbon, he could work if it was necessary, but his native element was play. When he shut up his portfolio the virtual King of France felt like a boy out of school. It was in such a mood the Abbé Malletort found him the afternoon succeeding his necromantic visit to the cavern. The valets were dismissed, the wardrobe stood open, various suits of clothes hung on chairs or lay scattered about the floor, yet it seemed the visitor was expected; for no sooner did he enter than the door was locked, and his Highness, taking him by the shoulders, accosted him with a rough, good-humoured welcome. “True to time,” said he, in a boisterous yet somewhat nervous tone. “True and punctual as a tailor, a confessor, and a creditor should be!—since for me, little Abbé, you combine these several characters in one! A tailor, for you must dress me; a confessor, for you know most of my sins already, and I have no desire to conceal from you the remainder; and a creditor, because I owe you a heavy debt of gratitude which you need not fear I shall forget to pay!”