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.