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