A bloody riot took place yesterday in Paris.  Questioned as to the employment of such guilty and desperate means of opposition, one of our candidates, Monsieur de Sallenauve, answered thus:  “Riots will always be found to serve the interests of the government; for this reason the police are invariably accused of inciting them.  True resistance, that which I stand for, will always be legal resistance, pursued by legal means, by the press, by the tribune, and with Patience—­that great force granted to the oppressed and to the vanquished.”

These words, you will remember, madame, were those in which Sallenauve answered his questioners at the preparatory meeting.  Then followed in large letters:—­

  THE RIOT HAS BEEN SUPPRESSED. WHO WILL PROFIT BY IT?

That sheet of paper did marvels; it completely foiled the efforts of Monsieur de Trailles, who, throwing off the mask, had spent his day in perorating, in white gloves, on the market-place and from the steps of the electoral college.

This evening the result is known; namely, two hundred and one votes cast:  two for Beauvisage; twenty-nine for Simon Giguet; one hundred and seventy for Sallenauve.

Consequently, Monsieur Charles de Sallenauve is proclaimed Deputy.

PART III

MONSIEUR DE SALLENAUVE

I

THE SORROWS OF MONSIEUR DE TRAILLES

During the evening which followed the election in which he had played a part so humiliating to his vanity, Maxime de Trailles returned to Paris.  It might be supposed that in making, on his arrival, a rapid toilet and ordering his carriage to be instantly brought round, he was hastening to pay a visit to the Comte de Rastignac, minister of Public Works, to whom he must have desired to render an account of his mission, and explain as best he could the reasons of its ill-success.

But another and more pressing interest seemed to claim him.

“To Colonel Franchessini’s,” he said to his coachman.

Arriving at the gate of one of the prettiest hotels in the quartier Breda, and nodding to the concierge, he received an affirmative sign, which meant, “Monsieur is at home”; and at the same time a valet appeared on the portico to receive him.

“Is the colonel visible?” he asked.

“He has just gone into madame’s room.  Does monsieur wish me to call him?”

“No, I’ll wait for him in the study.”

Then, like one familiar with the house, and without waiting for the servant to usher him, he entered a large room on the ground-floor, which looked into a garden, and was filled with a miscellaneous collection of articles testifying to the colonel’s habits and tastes.  Books, charts, and maps certainly justified the word “study”; but, as a frantic sportsman and member of the Jockey Club, the colonel had allowed this sanctum of mental labor and