“And for three months I have had no letter from her!  What has become of her?  I have not written for two months, but I warned her.  Is she ill?  Oh, my love!  My life!  Will you ever know what I have gone through?  What a wretched constitution is mine!  Have I an aneurism?” he asked himself, feeling his heart beat so violently that its pulses seemed audible in the silence like little grains of sand dropping on a big drum.

At this moment three distinct taps sounded on his door; Albert hastened to open it, and almost fainted with joy at seeing the Vicar-General’s cheerful and triumphant mien.  Without a word, he threw his arms round the Abbe de Grancey, held him fast, and clasped him closely, letting his head fall on the old man’s shoulder.  He was a child again; he cried as he had cried on hearing that Francesca Soderini was a married woman.  He betrayed his weakness to no one but to this priest, on whose face shone the light of hope.  The priest had been sublime, and as shrewd as he was sublime.

“Forgive me, dear Abbe, but you come at one of those moments when the man vanishes, for you are not to think me vulgarly ambitious.”

“Oh!  I know,” replied the Abbe.  “You wrote ’Ambition for love’s sake!’—­Ah! my son, it was love in despair that made me a 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.