But as I surveyed the dense, excited crowd, I gathered at a glance that the reception it reserved for M. Loubet was to be very far from friendly. Here, there and everywhere chattered and whispered the followers of MM. Edouard Drumont, Lucien Millevoye, Henri Rochefort and Jules Guérin. In full force, too, were the paid hirelings of those notorious agitators; collarless, shabby, unshaven fellows, “Messieurs les Quarante-Sous.” And present again was the “Emperor of the Camelots,” a striking-looking man with long hair, bold, brilliant eyes and a humorous expression; not only the composer and seller of “topical” songs, not only the indefatigable electioneering agent and the ironical pamphleteer, but the ingenious, the illustrious, the incomparable organiser of “popular demonstrations.” Often did agitators say to the “Emperor”: “I want So-and-so hissed,” or “I want So-and-so cheered.” Obligingly and genially the “Emperor” replied: “Nothing is easier.” And in truth, the operation was simple. The agitator provided the money: and the “Emperor” called together a fine army of manifestants. Thus the crowd before the St-Lazare station looked threatening on that memorable winter’s afternoon. Of course those garrulous, gesticulating bodies, the “Ligue de la Patrie Française” and M. Paul Déroulède’s “League of the Patriots,” were strongly represented. Inevitably, too, the little, nervous, impetuous policemen of Paris figured conspicuously in the scene. And everyone was restless, everyone was impatient, save the “Emperor of the Camelots,” who, making his way urbanely and imperturbably through the crowd, occasionally spoke a word to his subjects, his army: the shabby, unshaven fellows, Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. No doubt he was asking them whether their voices were in good condition, and whether their whistles were handy. And most probably he was instructing them how to keep out of the clutches of the alert, watchful police. “À bas Loubet!” The cry came from the interior of the station. No sooner had it been uttered than the crowd excitedly exclaimed: “He has arrived.” And then, what a din of shouting, of hissing, of hooting! And then, what a blowing of shrill, piercing whistles! And then, as the Presidential carriage drove away (with M. Loubet seated by the window, pale, grave, dignified, venerable), what a hoarse, violent uproar of “À bas Loubet!” and “Mort aux traîtres!” and “Panama! Panama! Panama!”[9] Not one hat raised to him. Not one cheer given him. Not one courtesy paid him. It was to the ear-splitting notes of whistles, it was to a chorus of calumny and abuse, it was in the midst of a howling, hostile mob, that the new Chief of the State made his début in Paris.