“By winning the Rouxey lawsuit you will gain eighty Legitimist votes; add them to the thirty I can command, and you have a hundred and ten.  Then, as twenty remain to you of the Boucher committee, you will have a hundred and thirty in all.”

“Well,” said Albert, “we must get seventy-five more.”

“Yes,” said the priest, “since all the rest are Ministerial.  But, my son, you have two hundred votes, and the Prefecture no more than a hundred and eighty.”

“I have two hundred votes?” said Albert, standing stupid with amazement, after starting to his feet as if shot up by a spring.

“You have those of Monsieur de Chavoncourt,” said the Abbe.

“How?” said Albert.

“You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavoncourt.”

“Never!”

“You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavoncourt,” the priest repeated coldly.

“But you see—­she is inexorable,” said Albert, pointing to Francesca.

“You will marry Mademoiselle Sidonie de Chavoncourt,” said the Abbe calmly for the third time.

This time Albert understood.  The Vicar-General would not be implicated in a scheme which at last smiled on the despairing politician.  A word more would have compromised the priest’s dignity and honor.

“To-morrow evening at the Hotel de Rupt you will meet Madame de Chavoncourt and her second daughter.  You can thank her beforehand for what she is going to do for you, and tell her that your gratitude is unbounded, that you are hers body and soul, that henceforth your future is that of her family.  You are quite disinterested, for you have so much confidence in yourself that you regard the nomination as deputy as a sufficient fortune.

“You will have a struggle with Madame de Chavoncourt; she will want you to pledge your word.  All your future life, my son, lies in that evening.  But, understand clearly, I have nothing to do with it.  I am answerable only for Legitimist voters; I have secured Madame de Watteville, and that means all the aristocracy of Besancon.  Amedee de Soulas and Vauchelles, who will both vote for you, have won over the young men; Madame de Watteville will get the old ones.  As to my electors, they are infallible.”

“And who on earth has gained over Madame de Chavoncourt?” asked Savarus.

“Ask me no questions,” replied the Abbe.  “Monsieur de Chavoncourt, who has three daughters to marry, is not capable of increasing his wealth.  Though Vauchelles marries the eldest without anything from her father, because her old aunt is to settle something on her, what is to become of the two others?  Sidonie is sixteen, and your ambition is as good as a gold mine.  Some one has told Madame de Chavoncourt that she will do better by getting her daughter married than by sending her husband to waste his money in Paris.  That some one manages Madame de Chavoncourt, and Madame de Chavoncourt manages her husband.”