Albert Savarus

* * * * *

Rosalie spent the winter of 1834-35 torn by secret tumults; but in the spring, in the month of April, when she reached the age of nineteen, she sometimes thought that it would be a fine thing to triumph over a Duchesse d’Argaiolo.  In silence and solitude the prospect of this struggle had fanned her passion and her evil thoughts.  She encouraged her romantic daring by making plan after plan.  Although such characters are an exception, there are, unfortunately, too many Rosalies in the world, and this story contains a moral that ought to serve them as a warning.

In the course of this winter Albert de Savarus had quietly made considerable progress in Besancon.  Confident of success, he now impatiently awaited the dissolution of the Chamber.  Among the men of the moderate party he had won the suffrages of one of the makers of Besancon, a rich contractor, who had very wide influence.

Wherever they settled the Romans took immense pains, and spent enormous sums to have an unlimited supply of good water in every town of their empire.  At Besancon they drank the water from Arcier, a hill at some considerable distance from Besancon.  The town stands in a horseshoe circumscribed by the river Doubs.  Thus, to restore an aqueduct in order to drink the same water that the Romans drank, in a town watered by the Doubs, is one of those absurdities which only succeed in a country place where the most exemplary gravity prevails.  If this whim could be brought home to the hearts of the citizens, it would lead to considerable outlay; and this expenditure would benefit the influential contractor.

Albert Savaron de Savarus opined that the water of the river was good for nothing but to flow under the suspension bridge, and that the only drinkable water was that from Arcier.  Articles were printed in the Review which merely expressed the views of the commercial interest of Besancon.  The nobility and the citizens, the moderates and the legitimists, the government party and the opposition, everybody, in short, was agreed that they must drink the same water as the Romans, and boast of a suspension bridge.  The question of the Arcier water was the order of the day at Besancon.  At Besancon—­as in the matter of the two railways to Versailles—­as for every standing abuse—­there were private interests unconfessed which gave vital force to this idea.  The reasonable folk in opposition to this scheme, who were indeed but few, were regarded as old women.  No one talked of anything but of Savaron’s two projects.  And thus, after eighteen months of underground labor, the ambitious lawyer had succeeded in stirring to its depths the most stagnant town in France, the most unyielding to foreign influence, in finding the length of its foot, to use a vulgar phrase, and exerting a preponderant influence without stirring from his own room.  He had solved the singular problem of how to be powerful without being popular.

In the course of this winter he won seven lawsuits for various priests of Besancon.  At moments he could breathe freely at the thought of his coming triumph.  This intense desire, which made him work so many interests and devise so many springs, absorbed the last strength of his terribly overstrung soul.  His disinterestedness was lauded, and he took his clients’ fees without comment.  But this disinterestedness was, in truth, moral usury; he counted on a reward far greater to him than all the gold in the world.

In the month of October 1834 he had brought, ostensibly to serve a merchant who was in difficulties, with money lent him by Leopold Hannequin, a house which gave him a qualification for election.  He had not seemed to seek or desire this advantageous bargain.

“You are really a remarkable man,” said the Abbe de Grancey, who, of course, had watched and understood the lawyer.  The Vicar-General had come to introduce to him a Canon who needed his professional advice.  “You are a priest who has taken the wrong turning.”  This observation struck Savarus.

Rosalie, on her part, had made up her mind, in her strong girl’s head, to get Monsieur de Savarus into the drawing-room and acquainted with the society of the Hotel de Rupt.  So far she had limited her desires to seeing and hearing Albert.  She had compounded, so to speak, and a composition is often no more than a truce.

Les Rouxey, the inherited estate of the Wattevilles, was worth just ten thousand francs a year; but in other hands it would have yielded a great deal more.  The Baron in his indifference—­for his wife was to have, and in fact had, forty thousand francs a year—­left the management of les Rouxey to a sort of factotum, an old servant of the Wattevilles named Modinier.  Nevertheless, whenever the Baron and his wife wished to go out of the town, they went to les Rouxey, which is very picturesquely situated.  The chateau and the park were, in fact, created by the famous Watteville, who in his active old age was passionately attached to this magnificent spot.

Between two precipitous hills—­little peaks with bare summits known as the great and the little Rouxey—­in the heart of a ravine where the torrents from the heights, with the Dent de Vilard at their head, come tumbling to join the lovely upper waters of the Doubs, Watteville had a huge dam constructed, leaving two cuttings for the overflow.  Above this dam he made a beautiful lake, and below it two cascades; and these, uniting a few yards below the falls, formed a lovely little river to irrigate the barren, uncultivated valley, and these two hills he enclosed in a ring fence, and built himself a retreat on the dam, which he widened to two acres by accumulating above it all the soil which had to be removed to make a channel for the river and the irrigation canals.

When the Baron de Watteville thus obtained the lake above his dam he was owner of the two hills, but not of the upper valley thus flooded, through which there had been at all times a right-of-way to where it ends in a horseshoe under the Dent de Vilard.  But this ferocious old man was so widely dreaded, that so long as he lived no claim was urged by the inhabitants of Riceys, the little village on the further side of the Dent de Vilard.  When the Baron died, he left the slopes of the two Rouxey hills joined by a strong wall, to protect from inundation the two lateral valleys opening into the valley of Rouxey, to the right and left at the foot of the Dent de Vilard.  Thus he died the master of the Dent de Vilard.

His heirs asserted their protectorate of the village of Riceys, and so maintained the usurpation.  The old assassin, the old renegade, the old Abbe Watteville, ended his career by planting trees and making a fine road over the shoulder of one of the Rouxey hills to join the highroad.  The estate belonging to this park and house was extensive, but badly cultivated; there were chalets on both hills and neglected forests of timber.  It was all wild and deserted, left to the care of nature, abandoned to chance growths, but full of sublime and unexpected beauty.  You may now imagine les Rouxey.

It is unnecessary to complicate this story by relating all the prodigious trouble and the inventiveness stamped with genius, by which Rosalie achieved her end without allowing it to be suspected.  It is enough to say that it was in obedience to her mother that she left Besancon in the month of May 1835, in an antique traveling carriage drawn by a pair of sturdy hired horses, and accompanied her father to les Rouxey.

To a young girl love lurks in everything.  When she rose, the morning after her arrival, Mademoiselle de Watteville saw from her bedroom window the fine expanse of water, from which the light mists rose like smoke, and were caught in the firs and larches, rolling up and along the hills till they reached the heights, and she gave a cry of admiration.

“They loved by the lakes! She lives by a lake!  A lake is certainly full of love!” she thought.

A lake fed by snows has opalescent colors and a translucency that makes it one huge diamond; but when it is shut in like that of les Rouxey, between two granite masses covered with pines, when silence broods over it like that of the Savannas or the Steppes, then every one must exclaim as Rosalie did.

“We owe that,” said her father, “to the notorious Watteville.”

“On my word,” said the girl, “he did his best to earn forgiveness.  Let us go in a boat to the further end; it will give us an appetite for breakfast.”

The Baron called two gardener lads who knew how to row, and took with him his prime minister Modinier.  The lake was about six acres in breadth, in some places ten or twelve, and four hundred in length.  Rosalie soon found herself at the upper end shut in by the Dent de Vilard, the Jungfrau of that little Switzerland.

“Here we are, Monsieur le Baron,” said Modinier, signing to the gardeners to tie up the boat; “will you come and look?”

“Look at what?” asked Rosalie.

“Oh, nothing!” exclaimed the Baron.  “But you are a sensible girl; we have some little secrets between us, and I may tell you what ruffles my mind.  Some difficulties have arisen since 1830 between the village authorities of Riceys and me, on account of this very Dent de Vilard, and I want to settle the matter without your mother’s knowing anything about it, for she is stubborn; she is capable of flinging fire and flames broadcast, particularly if she should hear that the Mayor of Riceys, a republican, got up this action as a sop to his people.”

Rosalie had presence of mind enough to disguise her delight, so as to work more effectually on her father.

“What action?” said she.

“Mademoiselle, the people of Riceys,” said Modinier, “have long enjoyed the right of grazing and cutting fodder on their side of the Dent de Vilard.  Now Monsieur Chantonnit, the Maire since 1830, declares that the whole Dent belongs to his district, and maintains that a hundred years ago, or more, there was a way through our grounds.  You understand that in that case we should no longer have them to ourselves.  Then this barbarian would end by saying, what the old men in the village say, that the ground occupied by the lake was appropriated by the Abbe de Watteville.  That would be the end of les Rouxey; what next?”

“Indeed, my child, between ourselves, it is the truth,” said Monsieur de Watteville simply.  “The land is an usurpation, with no title-deed but lapse of time.  And, therefore, to avoid all worry, I should wish to come to a friendly understanding as to my border line on this side of the Dent de Vilard, and I will then raise a wall.”

“If you give way to the municipality, it will swallow you up.  You ought to have threatened Riceys.”

“That is just what I told the master last evening,” said Modinier.  “But in confirmation of that view I proposed that he should come to see whether, on this side of the Dent or on the other, there may not be, high or low, some traces of an enclosure.”

For a century the Dent de Vilard had been used by both parties without coming to extremities; it stood as a sort of party wall between the communes of Riceys and les Rouxey, yielding little profit.  Indeed, the object in dispute, being covered with snow for six months in the year, was of a nature to cool their ardor.  Thus it required all the hot blast by which the revolution of 1830 inflamed the advocates of the people, to stir up this matter, by which Monsieur Chantonnit, the Maire of Riceys, hoped to give a dramatic turn to his career on the peaceful frontier of Switzerland, and to immortalize his term of office.  Chantonnit, as his name shows, was a native of Neuchatel.

“My dear father,” said Rosalie, as they got into the boat again, “I agree with Modinier.  If you wish to secure the joint possession of the Dent de Vilard, you must act with decision, and get a legal opinion which will protect you against this enterprising Chantonnit.  Why should you be afraid?  Get the famous lawyer Savaron—­engage him at once, lest Chantonnit should place the interests of the village in his hands.  The man who won the case for the Chapter against the town can certainly win that of Watteville versus Riceys!  Besides,” she added, “les Rouxey will some day be mine—­not for a long time yet, I trust.—­ Well, then do not leave me with a lawsuit on my hands.  I like this place, I shall often live here, and add to it as much as possible.  On those banks,” and she pointed to the feet of the two hills, “I shall cut flowerbeds and make the loveliest English gardens.  Let us go to Besancon and bring back with us the Abbe de Grancey, Monsieur Savaron, and my mother, if she cares to come.  You can then make up your mind; but in your place I should have done so already.  Your name is Watteville, and you are afraid of a fight!  If you should lose your case—­well, I will never reproach you by a word!”

“Oh, if that is the way you take it,” said the Baron, “I am quite ready; I will see the lawyer.”

“Besides a lawsuit is really great fun.  It brings some interest into life, with coming and going and raging over it.  You will have a great deal to do before you can get hold of the judges.—­We did not see the Abbe de Grancey for three weeks, he was so busy!”

“But the very existence of the Chapter was involved,” said Monsieur de Watteville; “and then the Archbishop’s pride, his conscience, everything that makes up the life of the priesthood, was at stake.  That Savaron does not know what he did for the Chapter!  He saved it!”

“Listen to me,” said his daughter in his ear, “if you secure Monsieur de Savaron, you will gain your suit, won’t you?  Well, then, let me advise you.  You cannot get at Monsieur Savaron excepting through Monsieur de Grancey.  Take my word for it, and let us together talk to the dear Abbe without my mother’s presence at the interview, for I know a way of persuading him to bring the lawyer to us.”

“It will be very difficult to avoid mentioning it to your mother!”

“The Abbe de Grancey will settle that afterwards.  But just make up your mind to promise your vote to Monsieur Savaron at the next election, and you will see!”

“Go to the election! take the oath?” cried the Baron de Watteville.

“What then!” said she.

“And what will your mother say?”

“She may even desire you to do it,” replied Rosalie, knowing as she did from Albert’s letter to Leopold how deeply the Vicar-General had pledged himself.

Four days after, the Abbe de Grancey called very early one morning on Albert de Savarus, having announced his visit the day before.  The old priest had come to win over the great lawyer to the house of the Wattevilles, a proceeding which shows how much tact and subtlety Rosalie must have employed in an underhand way.

“What can I do for you, Monsieur le Vicaire-General?” asked Savarus.

The Abbe, who told his story with admirable frankness, was coldly heard by Albert.

“Monsieur l’Abbe,” said he, “it is out of the question that I should defend the interests of the Wattevilles, and you shall understand why.  My part in this town is to remain perfectly neutral.  I will display no colors; I must remain a mystery till the eve of my election.  Now, to plead for the Wattevilles would mean nothing in Paris, but here!  —­Here, where everything is discussed, I should be supposed by every one to be an ally of your Faubourg Saint-Germain.”

“What! do you suppose that you can remain unknown on the day of the election, when the candidates must oppose each other?  It must then become known that your name is Savaron de Savarus, that you have held the appointment of Master of Appeals, that you are a man of the Restoration!”

“On the day of the election,” said Savarus, “I will be all I am expected to be; and I intend to speak at the preliminary meetings.”

“If you have the support of Monsieur de Watteville and his party, you will get a hundred votes in a mass, and far more to be trusted than those on which you rely.  It is always possible to produce division of interests; convictions are inseparable.”

“The deuce is in it!” said Savarus.  “I am attached to you, and I could do a great deal for you, Father!  Perhaps we may compound with the Devil.  Whatever Monsieur de Watteville’s business may be, by engaging Girardet, and prompting him, it will be possible to drag the proceedings out till the elections are over.  I will not undertake to plead till the day after I am returned.”

“Do this one thing,” said the Abbe.  “Come to the Hotel de Rupt:  there is a young person of nineteen there who, one of these days, will have a hundred thousand francs a year, and you can seem to be paying your court to her—­”

“Ah! the young lady I sometimes see in the kiosk?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle Rosalie,” replied the Abbe de Grancey.  “You are ambitious.  If she takes a fancy to you, you may be everything an ambitious man can wish—­who knows?  A Minister perhaps.  A man can always be a Minister who adds a hundred thousand francs a year to your amazing talents.”

“Monsieur l’Abbe, if Mademoiselle de Watteville had three times her fortune, and adored me into the bargain, it would be impossible that I should marry her—­”

“You are married?” exclaimed the Abbe.

“Not in church nor before the Maire, but morally speaking,” said Savarus.

“That is even worse when a man cares about it as you seem to care,” replied the Abbe.  “Everything that is not done, can be undone.  Do not stake your fortune and your prospects on a woman’s liking, any more than a wise man counts on a dead man’s shoes before starting on his way.”

“Let us say no more about Mademoiselle de Watteville,” said Albert gravely, “and agree as to the facts.  At your desire—­for I have a regard and respect for you—­I will appear for Monsieur de Watteville, but after the elections.  Until then Girardet must conduct the case under my instructions.  That is the most I can do.”

“But there are questions involved which can only be settled after inspection of the localities,” said the Vicar-General.

“Girardet can go,” said Savarus.  “I cannot allow myself, in the face of a town I know so well, to take any step which might compromise the supreme interests that lie beyond my election.”

The Abbe left Savarus after giving him a keen look, in which he seemed to be laughing at the young athlete’s uncompromising politics, while admiring his firmness.

“Ah!  I would have dragged my father into a lawsuit—­I would have done anything to get him here!” cried Rosalie to herself, standing in the kiosk and looking at the lawyer in his room, the day after Albert’s interview with the Abbe, who had reported the result to her father.  “I would have committed any mortal sin, and you will not enter the Wattevilles’ drawing-room; I may not hear your fine voice!  You make conditions when your help is required by the Wattevilles and the Rupts!—­Well, God knows, I meant to be content with these small joys; with seeing you, hearing you speak, going with you to les Rouxey, that your presence might to me make the place sacred.  That was all I asked.  But now—­now I mean to be your wife.—­Yes, yes; look at her portrait, at her drawing-room, her bedroom, at the four sides of her villa, the points of view from her gardens.  You expect her statue?  I will make her marble herself towards you!—­After all, the woman does not love.  Art, science, books, singing, music, have absorbed half her senses and her intelligence.  She is old, too; she is past thirty; my Albert will not be happy!”

“What is the matter that you stay here, Rosalie?” asked her mother, interrupting her reflections.  “Monsieur de Soulas is in the drawing-room, and he observed your attitude, which certainly betrays more thoughtfulness than is due at your age.”

“Then, is Monsieur de Soulas a foe to thought?” asked Rosalie.

“Then you were thinking?” said Madame de Watteville.

“Why, yes, mamma.”

“Why, no! you were not thinking.  You were staring at that lawyer’s window with an attention that is neither becoming, nor decent, and which Monsieur de Soulas, of all men, ought never to have observed.”

“Why?” said Rosalie.

“It is time,” said the Baroness, “that you should know what our intentions are.  Amedee likes you, and you will not be unhappy as Comtesse de Soulas.”

Rosalie, as white as a lily, made no reply, so completely was she stupefied by contending feelings.  And yet in the presence of the man she had this instant begun to hate vehemently, she forced the kind of smile which a ballet-dancer puts on for the public.  Nay, she could even laugh; she had the strength to conceal her rage, which presently subsided, for she was determined to make use of this fat simpleton to further her designs.

“Monsieur Amedee,” said she, at the moment when her mother was walking ahead of them in the garden, affecting to leave the young people together, “were you not aware that Monsieur Albert Savaron de Savarus is a Legitimist?”

“A Legitimist?”

“Until 1830 he was Master of Appeals to the Council of State, attached to the supreme Ministerial Council, and in favor with the Dauphin and Dauphiness.  It would be very good of you to say nothing against him, but it would be better still if you would attend the election this year, carry the day, and hinder that poor Monsieur de Chavoncourt from representing the town of Besancon.”

“What sudden interest have you in this Savaron?”

“Monsieur Albert Savaron de Savarus, the natural son of the Comte de Savarus—­pray keep the secret of my indiscretion—­if he is returned deputy, will be our advocate in the suit about les Rouxey.  Les Rouxey, my father tells me, will be my property; I intend to live there, it is a lovely place!  I should be broken-hearted at seeing that fine piece of the great de Watteville’s work destroyed.”

“The devil!” thought Amedee, as he left the house.  “The heiress is not such a fool as her mother thinks her.”

Monsieur de Chavoncourt is a Royalist, of the famous 221.  Hence, from the day after the revolution of July, he always preached the salutary doctrine of taking the oaths and resisting the present order of things, after the pattern of the Tories against the Whigs in England.  This doctrine was not acceptable to the Legitimists, who, in their defeat, had the wit to divide in their opinions, and to trust to the force of inertia and to Providence.  Monsieur de Chavoncourt was not wholly trusted by his own party, but seemed to the Moderates the best man to choose; they preferred the triumph of his half-hearted opinions to the acclamation of a Republican who should combine the votes of the enthusiasts and the patriots.  Monsieur de Chavoncourt, highly respected in Besancon, was the representative of an old parliamentary family; his fortune, of about fifteen thousand francs a year, was not an offence to anybody, especially as he had a son and three daughters.  With such a family, fifteen thousand francs a year are a mere nothing.  Now when, under these circumstances, the father of the family is above bribery, it would be hard if the electors did not esteem him.  Electors wax enthusiastic over a beau ideal of parliamentary virtue, just as the audience in the pit do at the representation of the generous sentiments they so little practise.

Madame de Chavoncourt, at this time a woman of forty, was one of the beauties of Besancon.  While the Chamber was sitting, she lived meagrely in one of their country places to recoup herself by economy for Monsieur de Chavoncourt’s expenses in Paris.  In the winter she received very creditably once a week, on Tuesdays, understanding her business as mistress of the house.  Young Chavoncourt, a youth of two-and-twenty, and another young gentleman, named Monsieur de Vauchelles, no richer than Amedee and his school-friend, were his intimate allies.  They made excursions together to Granvelle, and sometimes went out shooting; they were so well known to be inseparable that they were invited to the country together.

Rosalie, who was intimate with the Chavoncourt girls, knew that the three young men had no secrets from each other.  She reflected that if Monsieur de Soulas should repeat her words, it would be to his two companions.  Now, Monsieur de Vauchelles had his matrimonial plans, as Amedee had his; he wished to marry Victoire, the eldest of the Chavoncourts, on whom an old aunt was to settle an estate worth seven thousand francs a year, and a hundred thousand francs in hard cash, when the contract was to be signed.  Victoire was this aunt’s god-daughter and favorite niece.  Consequently, young Chavoncourt and his friend Vauchelles would be sure to warn Monsieur de Chavoncourt of the danger he was in from Albert’s candidature.

But this did not satisfy Rosalie.  She sent the Prefet of the department a letter written with her left hand, signed “A friend to Louis Philippe,” in which she informed him of the secret intentions of Monsieur Albert de Savarus, pointing out the serious support a Royalist orator might give to Berryer, and revealing to him the deeply artful course pursued by the lawyer during his two years’ residence at Besancon.  The Prefet was a capable man, a personal enemy of the Royalist party, devoted by conviction to the Government of July—­in short, one of those men of whom, in the Rue de Grenelle, the Minister of the Interior could say, “We have a capital Prefet at Besancon.”  —­The Prefet read the letter, and, in obedience to its instructions, he burnt it.

Rosalie aimed at preventing Albert’s election, so as to keep him five years longer at Besancon.

At that time an election was a fight between parties, and in order to win, the Ministry chose its ground by choosing the moment when it would give battle.  The elections were therefore not to take place for three months yet.  When a man’s whole life depends on an election, the period that elapses between the issuing of the writs for convening the electoral bodies, and the day fixed for their meetings, is an interval during which ordinary vitality is suspended.  Rosalie fully understood how much latitude Albert’s absorbed state would leave her during these three months.  By promising Mariette—­as she afterwards confessed—­to take both her and Jerome into her service, she induced the maid to bring her all the letters Albert might sent to Italy, and those addressed to him from that country.  And all the time she was pondering these machinations, the extraordinary girl was working slippers for her father with the most innocent air in the world.  She even made a greater display than ever of candor and simplicity, quite understanding how valuable that candor and innocence would be to her ends.

“My daughter grows quite charming!” said Madame de Watteville.

Two months before the election a meeting was held at the house of Monsieur Boucher senior, composed of the contractor who expected to get the work for the aqueduct for the Arcier waters; of Monsieur Boucher’s father-in-law; of Monsieur Granet, the influential man to whom Savarus had done a service, and who was to nominate him as a candidate; of Girardet the lawyer; of the printer of the Eastern Review; and of the President of the Chamber of Commerce.  In fact, the assembly consisted of twenty-seven persons in all, men who in the provinces are regarded as bigwigs.  Each man represented on an average six votes, but in estimating their values they said ten, for men always begin by exaggerating their own influence.  Among these twenty-seven was one who was wholly devoted to the Prefet, one false brother who secretly looked for some favor from the Ministry, either for himself or for some one belonging to him.

At this preliminary meeting, it was agreed that Savaron the lawyer should be named as candidate, a motion received with such enthusiasm as no one looked for from Besancon.  Albert, waiting at home for Alfred Boucher to fetch him, was chatting with the Abbe de Grancey, who was interested in this absorbing ambition.  Albert had appreciated the priest’s vast political capacities; and the priest, touched by the young man’s entreaties, had been willing to become his guide and adviser in this culminating struggle.  The Chapter did not love Monsieur de Chavoncourt, for it was his wife’s brother-in-law, as President of the Tribunal, who had lost the famous suit for them in the lower Court.

“You are betrayed, my dear fellow,” said the shrewd and worthy Abbe, in that gentle, calm voice which old priests acquire.

“Betrayed!” cried the lover, struck to the heart.

“By whom I know not at all,” the priest replied.  “But at the Prefecture your plans are known, and your hand read like a book.  At this moment I have no advice to give you.  Such affairs need consideration.  As for this evening, take the bull by the horns, anticipate the blow.  Tell them all your previous life, and thus you will mitigate the effect of the discovery on the good folks of Besancon.”

“Oh, I was prepared for it,” said Albert in a broken voice.

“You would not benefit by my advice; you had the opportunity of making an impression at the Hotel de Rupt; you do not know the advantage you would have gained—­”

“What?”

“The unanimous support of the Royalists, an immediate readiness to go to the election—­in short, above a hundred votes.  Adding to these what, among ourselves, we call the ecclesiastical vote, though you were not yet nominated, you were master of the votes by ballot.  Under such circumstances, a man may temporize, may make his way—­”

Alfred Boucher when he came in, full of enthusiasm, to announce the decision of the preliminary meeting, found the Vicar-General and the lawyer cold, calm, and grave.

“Good-night, Monsieur l’Abbe,” said Albert.  “We will talk of your business at greater length when the elections are over.”

And he took Alfred’s arm, after pressing Monsieur de Grancey’s hand with meaning.  The priest looked at the ambitious man, whose face at that moment wore the lofty expression which a general may have when he hears the first gun fired for a battle.  He raised his eyes to heaven, and left the room, saying to himself, “What a priest he would make!”

Eloquence is not at the Bar.  The pleader rarely puts forth the real powers of his soul; if he did, he would die of it in a few years.  Eloquence is, nowadays, rarely in the pulpit; but it is found on certain occasions in the Chamber of Deputies, when an ambitious man stakes all to win all, or, stung by a myriad darts, at a given moment bursts into speech.  But it is still more certainly found in some privileged beings, at the inevitable hour when their claims must either triumph or be wrecked, and when they are forced to speak.  Thus at this meeting, Albert Savarus, feeling the necessity of winning himself some supporters, displayed all the faculties of his soul and the resources of his intellect.  He entered the room well, without awkwardness or arrogance, without weakness, without cowardice, quite gravely, and was not dismayed at finding himself among twenty or thirty men.  The news of the meeting and of its determination had already brought a few docile sheep to follow the bell.

Before listening to Monsieur Boucher, who was about to deluge him with a speech announcing the decision of the Boucher Committee, Albert begged for silence, and, as he shook hands with Monsieur Boucher, tried to warn him, by a sign, of an unexpected danger.

“My young friend, Alfred Boucher, has just announced to me the honor you have done me.  But before that decision is irrevocable,” said the lawyer, “I think that I ought to explain to you who and what your candidate is, so as to leave you free to take back your word if my declaration should disturb your conscience!”

This exordium was followed by profound silence.  Some of the men thought it showed a noble impulse.

Albert gave a sketch of his previous career, telling them his real name, his action under the Restoration, and revealing himself as a new man since his arrival at Besancon, while pledging himself for the future.  This address held his hearers breathless, it was said.  These men, all with different interests, were spellbound by the brilliant eloquence that flowed at boiling heat from the heart and soul of this ambitious spirit.  Admiration silenced reflection.  Only one thing was clear—­the thing which Albert wished to get into their heads: 

Was it not far better for the town to have one of those men who are born to govern society at large than a mere voting-machine?  A statesman carries power with him.  A commonplace deputy, however incorruptible, is but a conscience.  What a glory for Provence to have found a Mirabeau, to return the only statesman since 1830 that the revolution of July had produced!

Under the pressure of this eloquence, all the audience believed it great enough to become a splendid political instrument in the hands of their representative.  They all saw in Albert Savaron, Savarus the great Minister.  And, reading the secret calculations of his constituents, the clever candidate gave them to understand that they would be the first to enjoy the right of profiting by his influence.

This confession of faith, this ambitious programme, this retrospect of his life and character was, according to the only man present who was capable of judging of Savarus (he has since become one of the leading men of Besancon), a masterpiece of skill and of feeling, of fervor, interest, and fascination.  This whirlwind carried away the electors.  Never had any man had such a triumph.  But, unfortunately, speech, a weapon only for close warfare, has only an immediate effect.  Reflection kills the word when the word ceases to overpower reflection.  If the votes had then been taken, Albert’s name would undoubtedly have come out of the ballot-box.  At the moment, he was conqueror.  But he must conquer every day for two months.

Albert went home quivering.  The townsfolk had applauded him, and he had achieved the great point of silencing beforehand the malignant talk to which his early career might give rise.  The commercial interest of Besancon had nominated the lawyer, Albert Savaron de Savarus, as its candidate.

Alfred Boucher’s enthusiasm, at first infectious, presently became blundering.

The Prefet, alarmed by this success, set to work to count the Ministerial votes, and contrived to have a secret interview with Monsieur de Chavoncourt, so as to effect a coalition in their common interests.  Every day, without Albert’s being able to discover how, the voters in the Boucher committee diminished in number.

Nothing could resist the slow grinding of the Prefecture.  Three of four clever men would say to Albert’s clients, “Will the deputy defend you and win your lawsuits?  Will he give you advice, draw up your contracts, arrange your compromises?—­He will be your slave for five years longer, if, instead of returning him to the Chamber, you only hold out the hope of his going there five years hence.”

This calculation did Savarus all the more mischief, because the wives of some of the merchants had already made it.  The parties interested in the matter of the bridge and that of the water from Arcier could not hold out against a talking-to from a clever Ministerialist, who proved to them that their safety lay at the Prefecture, and not in the hands of an ambitious man.  Each day was a check for Savarus, though each day the battle was led by him and fought by his lieutenants—­a battle of words, speeches, and proceedings.  He dared not go to the Vicar-General, and the Vicar-General never showed himself.  Albert rose and went to bed in a fever, his brain on fire.

At last the day dawned of the first struggle, practically the show of hands; the votes are counted, the candidates estimate their chances, and clever men can prophesy their failure or success.  It is a decent hustings, without the mob, but formidable; agitation, though it is not allowed any physical display, as it is in England, is not the less profound.  The English fight these battles with their fists, the French with hard words.  Our neighbors have a scrimmage, the French try their fate by cold combinations calmly worked out.  This particular political business is carried out in opposition to the character of the two nations.

The Radical party named their candidate; Monsieur de Chavoncourt came forward; then Albert appeared, and was accused by the Chavoncourt committee and the Radicals of being an uncompromising man of the Right, a second Berryer.  The Ministry had their candidate, a stalking-horse, useful only to receive the purely Ministerial votes.  The votes, thus divided, gave no result.  The Republican candidate had twenty, the Ministry got fifty, Albert had seventy, Monsieur de Chavoncourt obtained sixty-seven.  But the Prefet’s party had perfidiously made thirty of its most devoted adherents vote for Albert, so as to deceive the enemy.  The votes for Monsieur de Chavoncourt, added to the eighty votes—­the real number—­at the disposal of the Prefecture, would carry the election, if only the Prefet could succeed in gaining over a few of the Radicals.  A hundred and sixty votes were not recorded:  those of Monsieur de Grancey’s following and the Legitimists.

The show of hands at an election, like a dress rehearsal at a theatre, is the most deceptive thing in the world.  Albert Savarus came home, putting a brave face on the matter, but half dead.  He had had the wit, the genius, or the good luck to gain, within the last fortnight, two staunch supporters—­Girardet’s father-in-law and a very shrewd old merchant to whom Monsieur de Grancey had sent him.  These two worthy men, his self-appointed spies, affected to be Albert’s most ardent opponents in the hostile camp.  Towards the end of the show of hands they informed Savarus, through the medium of Monsieur Boucher, that thirty voters, unknown, were working against him in his party, playing the same trick that they were playing for his benefit on the other side.

A criminal marching to execution could not suffer as Albert suffered as he went home from the hall where his fate was at stake.  The despairing lover could endure no companionship.  He walked through the streets alone, between eleven o’clock and midnight.  At one in the morning, Albert, to whom sleep had been unknown for the past three days, was sitting in his library in a deep armchair, his face as pale as if he were dying, his hands hanging limp, in a forlorn attitude worthy of the Magdalen.  Tears hung on his long lashes, tears that dim the eyes, but do not fall; fierce thought drinks them up, the fire of the soul consumes them.  Alone, he might weep.  And then, under the kiosk, he saw a white figure, which reminded him of Francesca.

“And for three months I have had no letter from her!  What has become of her?  I have not written for two months, but I warned her.  Is she ill?  Oh, my love!  My life!  Will you ever know what I have gone through?  What a wretched constitution is mine!  Have I an aneurism?” he asked himself, feeling his heart beat so violently that its pulses seemed audible in the silence like little grains of sand dropping on a big drum.

At this moment three distinct taps sounded on his door; Albert hastened to open it, and almost fainted with joy at seeing the Vicar-General’s cheerful and triumphant mien.  Without a word, he threw his arms round the Abbe de Grancey, held him fast, and clasped him closely, letting his head fall on the old man’s shoulder.  He was a child again; he cried as he had cried on hearing that Francesca Soderini was a married woman.  He betrayed his weakness to no one but to this priest, on whose face shone the light of hope.  The priest had been sublime, and as shrewd as he was sublime.

“Forgive me, dear Abbe, but you come at one of those moments when the man vanishes, for you are not to think me vulgarly ambitious.”

“Oh!  I know,” replied the Abbe.  “You wrote ’Ambition for love’s sake my son, it was love in despair that made me a priest in 1786, at the age of two-and-twenty.  In 1788 I was in charge of a parish.  I know life.—­I have refused three bishoprics already; I mean to die at Besancon.”

“Come and see her!” cried Savarus, seizing a candle, and leading the Abbe 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 Abbe, 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 to-morrow; 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 Prefecture 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 Abbe.

“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 Abbe 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.

“To-morrow evening at the Hotel 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 Besancon.  Amedee 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 Abbe.  “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.  Some one 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 some one manages Madame de Chavoncourt, and Madame de Chavoncourt manages her husband.”

“That is enough, my dear Abbe.  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.