The difficulties of M. le Président, the impertinent disregard of his rank in the State shown by the very men he has called to power, is a favourite theme of playwrights and novelists. In _L’Habit Vert_, the brilliant, satirical comedy by MM. de Flers and de Caillavet, just produced at the Variétés theatre, a Cabinet Minister submits an important political telegram for the President’s official approbation. “Yes, that will do; send it off immediately,” says M. le Président. “That’s all right; it was sent half-an-hour ago,” replies the Minister. Then, in that famous comedy, _Le Roi_, which so rejoiced the heart of King Edward the Seventh, the French Premier to one of his colleagues: “Cormeau, the Minister of Commerce, has just resigned. Nearly a Ministerial Crisis, but we have escaped it. Telephone the name of Cormeau’s successor, and that all is well, to the Press, the Chamber, the Senate, the Palace of Justice, and—ah yes, I forgot—to the President of the Republic.” On the top of all this, M. le Président, although practically in the hands of Messieurs les Ministres, is held responsible by the public for the possible blunders and follies and sins of the Cabinet. Salary, £40,000 a year, with all kinds of substantial “perquisites.” Residences: the Palace of the Élysée and the Château de Rambouillet. Ironical official title: Chief of the State. Result: Morocco, Floods, or the Dreyfus Affair, helplessness and worry, collapse of the respiratory organ. But, thank heaven! M. le Président recovereth his breath when the time comes for another to take his place: and he himself may drift into a dressing-gown and carpet slippers and exclaim of his successor, by the tranquil, unofficial fireside: “Ce pauvre——!” Successor at the Élysée. Who will he be? Of course, after the lofty and admirable statesmanship he has exhibited throughout the Balkan conflict, M. Poincaré, the Prime Minister, is hailed by the man in the street as the future Chief of the State? But elegant M. Paul Deschanel, of the French Academy, President of the Chamber of Deputies, and a would-be President of the Republic for the last fourteen years, is also mentioned; and impetuous, despotic, sallow-faced M. Georges Clemenceau, in spite of his recent delirious ups and downs, has hosts of followers. Solid M. Ribot is stated to be an eager candidate. M. Léon Bourgeois (who did such fine work at The Hague Peace Conference) would probably be elected, were there a Madame Bourgeois to “receive” officially at the Élysée. After that, M. Delcassé, M. Lépine, M. Briand, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, M. Dranem the comic singer, “Monte Carlo Wells.” But I am anticipating events. I am also in peril of appearing incoherent; so let me hasten to declare that the last-named candidates for the Presidency of the Third Republic are but the gay “selections” of that inveterate gossip in a certain boulevard newspaper. And, that made clear, let us for the moment leave the emptiness of