It was for this purpose that Malletort crossed the Seine, and penetrated into one of the loftiest, gloomiest, and narrowest streets of Old Paris—how different from Imperial Paris of to-day!—to thread its windings, with his accustomed placid face and jaunty step, ere he stopped at the door of the tallest, most dilapidated, and dirtiest building in the row. The Abbé’s face was, if possible, more self-satisfied, his step even lighter than usual. He was in high favour with the Regent, and the Regent, at least among the lower classes, was still the most popular man in France. They were aware of his vices, indeed, but passed them over in a spirit of liberality, bordering on want of principle, with which the French, in this respect so unlike ourselves, permit their leading men a latitude of private conduct proportioned to their public utility. Had the Abbé doubted his patron’s popularity, he need only have listened to an impudent little urchin, who ran almost between his legs, shouting at the top of his voice a favourite street song of the day called “The Débonnaire.” “’Tis a very fine place to be monarch of France, Most Christian king, and St. Louis’s son, When he takes up his fiddle the others must dance, And they durstn’t sit down till the music’s done. But I’d rather be Regent—eh! wouldn’t you, Pierre? Such a Regent as ours, so débonnaire. Tra-la-la—tra-la-la—such a mien, such an air! Oh, yes! our Regent is débonnaire. “A monarch of France, when they bring him to dine, They must hand him a cloth, and a golden bowl; But the Regent can call for a flagon of wine, And need never sit down till he’s emptied the whole. He wouldn’t give much for your dry-lipped fare, This Regent of ours, so débonnaire. Tra-la-la—tra-la-la—how he’ll stagger and swear, Oh, yes! our Regent is débonnaire. “A monarch of France has a mate on the throne, And his likings and loves must be under the rose; But the Regent takes all the sweet flowers for his own, And he pulls them by handfuls wherever he goes. Of the bright and the fair, the rich and the rare, Our Regent, you see, is so débonnaire. Tra-la-la—tra-la-la—he puts in for his share, Oh, yes! our Regent is débonnaire. “A monarch of France has his peers in a row, And they bring him his boots with the morning light; But our Regent is never caught bare-footed so, For his roués and he, they sit booted all night! And they drink and they swear, and they blink and they stare— And never a monarch of France can compare, Neither Louis the Fat, nor yet Philip the Fair, With this Regent of ours, so débonnaire. Tra-la-la—tra-la-la—let us drink to him, Pierre! Oh, yes! our Regent is débonnaire.”