there is something in the popular orator that carries them away and they really believe that a golden epoch is coming—­when there will be no rich and no poor and plenty and equality for all.  They don’t care a bit what form of government they live under as long as their crops are good, and they can have regular work and no war.  The political agitators understand that very well.  They never lay any stress on Royalist or Bonapartist, or even a military candidate.  The “People’s Candidate” is always their cry—­one of themselves who understands them and will give them all they want.  They are disappointed always.  The ministers and deputies change, but their lives don’t, and run on in the same groove; but they are just as sanguine each time there is an election, convinced that, at last, the promised days of high pay and little work are coming.

I tried to reason with a nice, respectable man one day, the village mason—­one of the most fiery orators at the cafe, over his dominoes, but in everyday life a sober, hard-working man, with a sickly wife and several children, who are all clothed and generally looked after by us.  His favourite theme was the owners of chateaux and big houses who lived in luxury and thought nothing of the poor.

I said to him, “Why do you listen to all those foolish speeches that are made in the cafes?  You know it isn’t true half they say.  Whenever you come and ask for anything for your wife and your children, it is always given to you.  You know quite well whenever any one is ill in the village, they always come here for wine, old linen, or bouillon.”

“Oh, oui, Madame is good, but Madame does not understand.”

“But it is you, mon ami, who don’t understand.  Once the election is over, and they have got your vote, no one will think about you any more.”

“Oh, yes, Madame, everything will be divided—­there will be no more big houses, every one will have a garden and rabbits—­not all for the rich.  It is not right; Madame knows it is not right.”  It was quite useless talking to him.

Women in France never take the active part in elections that they do in England.  It interested me so much when we were living in England to see many of the great ladies doing all they could for their candidate, driving all over the country, with his colours on servants and horses, a big bill in the windows of their carriages with “Vote for A.” on it.  In the drawing-room windows of a well-known society leader there were two large bills—­“VOTE FOR A.”  I asked W. one day, when he was standing for the Senate, if he would like me to drive all about the country with his colours and “VOTE FOR WADDINGTON” on placards in the windows of the carriage; but he utterly declined any such intervention on my part, thought a few breakfasts at the chateau and a quiet talk over coffee and cigars would be more to the purpose.  He never took much trouble over his elections the last years—­meetings and speeches in all the small towns and “banquets de pompiers” were things of the past.  He said the people had seen him “a l’oeuvre” and that no speeches would change a vote.