Those were the only cries that greeted M. Loubet when he drove out in the Presidential carriage—pale, grave, dignified, venerable. From his native place, the village of Montélimar, came a message imploring him to resign. More hissing and hooting in the streets, but always a calm smile on the President’s kindly face; always that determined, imperturbable expression. Other “incidents”? Well, for months there was incident after incident: and when Émile Loubet drove to the Longchamps Races surrounded by cavalry, it was stated that he feared assassination. At Longchamps up rushed an elegant young aristocrat with a stick in his hand, and the stick was aimed at the President’s head. It only smashed the President’s hat: but the Nationalists rejoiced. And the elegant young aristocrat was regarded as a hero, and caricaturists always portrayed Émile Loubet with his hat smashed over his head. Came another message from Montélimar, inviting him to accept the public verdict: but came, also, messages of sympathy and esteem from all the Courts in Europe. And here, passing over other incidents, let me arrive at once at the day when the man in the street began to admire Émile Loubet’s patience, tact, determination, and when he was delighted at the calm, kindly smile; and when—day of days—he said: “Ce bon Loubet,” and then—moment of moments—cried, “Vive Loubet.” A change, a change! Through the streets drove the President, saluting, saluted. Parisians rejoiced to learn that the Tsar had a veritable affection for Émile Loubet, and Parisians were pleased to see him drive across Paris with the King of England, chatting, smiling, laughing. Cordial the shouts of “Vive Loubet.” Cordial the newspaper appreciations of Émile Loubet. And the streets lined to see him take train to London. In London, scores of journalists accompanying him, and also scores of _camelots_. Yes, real Paris _camelots_ in Soho, and in the public-houses and little restaurants of Soho, the _camelots_ loud in their praises of Émile Loubet. Here, there and everywhere the motto: “Entente Cordiale.” I remember the King of the Camelots telling me in Soho that he and his men had taken a great fancy to Englishmen. His appreciation was worth having, for he was no enthusiast. Indeed, he had done a great trade some time ago in Anti-English caricatures, toys and post cards. He drank to the _entente_ in a bottle of Bass. He vowed that Bass was better than _bock_. He paid tributes to roast beef, apple tart and kippers; indeed, regretted with veritable emotion that there were no kippers in France. So kind and affable and flattering was the King of the Camelots that I could write of him for hours. However, I must leave him on the kerbstone in Holborn, shouting: “Vive Loubet,” and waving his hat and receiving (so, at least, he declared afterwards) a special salute from the smiling, delighted President.