The dinner being given in honor of Saint-Ursula’s installation, which could not be celebrated by a banquet in the convent, Sallenauve had a fine opportunity for the following toast:—­

“To the Mother of the poor; the noble and saintly spirit which, for fifty years, has shone on Champagne, and to which we owe the vast number of distinguished and accomplished women who adorn this beautiful region of our country.”

If you know, as I do, madame, what a forlorn, beggarly region Champagne is, you would say, or something like it, that Sallenauve is a rascally fellow, and that the passion to enter the legislature makes a man capable of shocking deceit.  Was it worth while, in fact, for a man who usually respects himself to boldly tell a lie of criminal dimensions, when a moment later a little unforeseen circumstance occurred which did more than all the speeches ever uttered to commend him to the sympathy of the electors?

You told me, madame, that your son Armand found a strong likeness to the portraits of Danton in our friend Sallenauve; and it seems that the boy’s remark was true, for several persons present who had known the great revolutionist during his lifetime made the same observation.  Laurent Goussard, who, as I told you in a former letter, was Danton’s friend, was also, in a way, his brother-in-law; for Danton, who was something of a gallant, had been on close terms for several years with the miller’s sister.  Well, the likeness must be striking, for after dinner, while we were taking our coffee, the worthy Goussard, whose head was a little warmed by the fumes of wine, came up to Sallenauve and asked him whether he was certain he had made no mistake about his father, and could honestly declare that Danton had nothing to do with his making.

Sallenauve took the matter gaily, and answered arithmetically,—­

“Danton died April 5, 1794.  To be his son, I must have been born no later than January, 1795, which would make me forty-four years old to-day.  But the register of my birth, and I somewhat hope my face, make me out exactly thirty.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Laurent Goussard; “figures demolish my idea; but no matter,—­we’ll vote for you all the same.”

I think the man is right; this chance resemblance is likely to have great weight in the election.  You must remember, madame, that, in spite of the fatal facts which cling about his memory, Danton is not an object of horror and execration in Arcis, where he was born and brought up.  In the first place time has purged him; his grand character and powerful intellect remain, and the people are proud of their compatriot.  In Arcis they talk of Danton as in Marseilles they talk of Cannebiere.  Fortunate, therefore, is our candidate’s likeness to this demigod, the worship of whom is not confined to the town, but extends to the surrounding country.

These voters extra muros are sometimes curiously simple-minded, and obvious contradictions trouble them not at all.  Some agents sent into the adjacent districts have used this fancied resemblance; and as in a rural propaganda the object is less to strike fair than to strike hard, Laurent Goussard’s version, apocryphal as it is, is hawked about the country villages with a coolness that admits of no contradiction.