et'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.

"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