“Come and see her!” cried Savarus, seizing a candle, and leading the Abbé into the handsome room where hung the portrait of the Duchesse d’Argaiolo, which he lighted up.
“She is one of those women who are born to reign!” said the Vicar-General, understanding how great an affection Albert showed him by this mark of confidence. “But there is pride on that brow; it is implacable; she would never forgive an insult! It is the Archangel Michael, the angel of Execution, the inexorable angel—‘All or nothing’ is the motto of this type of angel. There is something divinely pitiless in that head.”
“You have guessed well,” cried Savarus. “But, my dear Abbé, for more than twelve years now she had reigned over my life, and I have not a thought for which to blame myself—”
“Ah! if you could only say the same of God!” said the priest with simplicity. “Now, to talk of your affairs. For ten days I have been at work for you. If you are a real politician, this time you will follow my advice. You would not be where you are now if you would have gone to the Wattevilles when I first told you. But you must go there tomorrow; I will take you in the evening. The Rouxey estates are in danger; the case must be defended within three days. The election will not be over in three days. They will take good care not to appoint examiners the first day. There will be several voting days, and you will be elected by ballot—”
“How can that be?” asked Savarus.
“By winning the Rouxey lawsuit you will gain eighty Legitimist votes; add them to the thirty I can command, and you have a hundred and ten. Then, as twenty remain to you of the Boucher committee, you will have a hundred and thirty in all.”
“Well,” said Albert, “we must get seventy-five more.”
“Yes,” said the priest, “since all the rest are Ministerial. But, my son, you have two hundred votes, and the Préfecture no more than a hundred and eighty.”
“I have two hundred votes?” said Albert, standing stupid with amazement, after starting to his feet as if shot up by a spring.
“You have those of Monsieur de Chavoncourt,” said the Abbé.
“How?” said Albert.
“You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavoncourt.”
“Never!”
“You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavoncourt,” the priest repeated coldly.
“But you see—she is inexorable,” said Albert, pointing to Francesca.
“You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavoncourt,” said the Abbé calmly for the third time.
This time Albert understood. The Vicar-General would not be implicated in a scheme which at last smiled on the despairing politician. A word more would have compromised the priest’s dignity and honor.
“Tomorrow evening at the Hôtel de Rupt you will meet Madame de Chavoncourt and her second daughter. You can thank her beforehand for what she is going to do for you, and tell her that your gratitude is unbounded, that you are hers body and soul, that henceforth your future is that of her family. You are quite disinterested, for you have so much confidence in yourself that you regard the nomination as deputy as a sufficient fortune.
“You will have a struggle with Madame de Chavoncourt; she will want you to pledge your word. All your future life, my son, lies in that evening. But, understand clearly, I have nothing to do with it. I am answerable only for Legitimist voters; I have secured Madame de Watteville, and that means all the aristocracy of Besançon. Amédée de Soulas and Vauchelles, who will both vote for you, have won over the young men; Madame de Watteville will get the old ones. As to my electors, they are infallible.”
“And who on earth has gained over Madame de Chavoncourt?” asked Savarus.
“Ask me no questions,” replied the Abbé. “Monsieur de Chavoncourt, who has three daughters to marry, is not capable of increasing his wealth. Though Vauchelles marries the eldest without anything from her father, because her old aunt is to settle something on her, what is to become of the two others? Sidonie is sixteen, and your ambition is as good as a gold mine. Someone has told Madame de Chavoncourt that she will do better by getting her daughter married than by sending her husband to waste his money in Paris. That someone manages Madame de Chavoncourt, and Madame de Chavoncourt manages her husband.”
“That is enough, my dear Abbé. I understand. When once I am returned as deputy, I have somebody’s fortune to make, and by making it large enough I shall be released from my promise. In me you have a son, a man who will owe his happiness to you. Great heavens! what have I done to deserve so true a friend?”
“You won a triumph for the Chapter,” said the Vicar-General, smiling. “Now, as to all this, be as secret as the tomb. We are nothing, we have done nothing. If we were known to have meddled in election matters, we should be eaten up alive by the Puritans of the Left—who do worse—and blamed by some of our own party, who want everything. Madame de Chavoncourt has no suspicion of my share in all this. I have confided in no one but Madame de Watteville, whom we may trust as we trust ourselves.”
“I will bring the Duchess to you to be blessed!” cried Savarus.
After seeing out the old priest, Albert went to bed in the swaddling clothes of power.
Next evening, as may well be supposed, by nine o’clock Madame la Baronne de Watteville’s rooms were crowded by the aristocracy of Besançon in convocation extraordinary. They were discussing the exceptional step of going to the poll, to oblige the daughter of the Rupts. It was known that the former Master of Appeals, the
