Next evening, as may well be supposed, by nine o'clock Madame la
Baronne de Watteville's rooms were crowded by the aristocracy of
Besancon in convocation extraordinary. They were discussing the
exceptional step of going to the poll, to oblige the daughter of the
Rupts. It was known that the former Master of Appeals, the secretary
of one of the most faithful ministers under the Elder Branch, was to
be presented that evening. Madame de Chavoncourt was there with her
second daughter Sidonie, exquisitely dressed, while her elder sister, secure of her lover, had not indulged in any of the arts of the toilet. In country towns these little things are remarked. The Abbe de Grancey's fine and clever head was to be seen moving from group to group, listening to everything, seeming to be apart from it all, but uttering those incisive phrases which sum up a question and direct the issue.
"If the Elder Branch were to return," said he to an old statesman of
seventy, "what politicians would they find?"—"Berryer, alone on his
bench, does not know which way to turn; if he had sixty votes, he
would often scotch the wheels of the Government and upset Ministries!"—"The Duc de Fitz-James is to be nominated at Toulouse."—"You will enable Monsieur de Watteville to win his lawsuit."—"If you vote for Monsieur Savarus, the Republicans will vote with you rather than with the Moderates!" etc., etc.
At nine o'clock Albert had not arrived. Madame de Watteville was
disposed to regard such delay as an impertinence.
"My dear Baroness," said Madame de Chavoncourt, "do not let such
serious issues turn on such a trifle. The varnish on his boots is not
dry—or a consultation, perhaps, detains Monsieur de Savarus."
Rosalie shot a side glance at Madame de Chavoncourt.
"She is very lenient to Monsieur de Savarus," she whispered to her
mother.
"You see," said the Baroness with a smile, "there is a question of a
marriage between Sidonie and Monsieur de Savarus."
Mademoiselle de Watteville hastily went to a window looking out over
the garden.
At ten o'clock Albert de Savarus had not yet appeared. The storm that
threatened now burst. Some of the gentlemen sat down to cards, finding
the thing intolerable. The Abbe de Grancey, who did not know what to
think, went to the window where Rosalie was hidden, and exclaimed
aloud in his amazement, "He must be dead!"
The Vicar-General stepped out into the garden, followed by Monsieur de
Watteville and his daughter, and they all three went up to the kiosk. In Albert's rooms all was dark; not a light was to be seen.
"Jerome!" cried Rosalie, seeing the servant in the yard below. The
Abbe looked at her with astonishment. "Where in the world is your
master?" she asked the man, who came to the foot of the wall.
"Gone—in a post-chaise, mademoiselle."
"He is ruined!" exclaimed the Abbe de Grancey, "or he is happy!"
The joy of triumph was not so effectually concealed on Rosalie's face
that the Vicar-General could not detect it. He affected to see
nothing.
"What can this girl have had to do with this business?" he asked
himself.
They all three returned to the drawing-room, where Monsieur de
Watteville announced the strange, the extraordinary, the prodigious
news of the lawyer's departure, without any reason assigned for his
evasion. By half-past eleven only fifteen persons remained, among them
Madame de Chavoncourt and the Abbe de Godenars, another Vicar-General, a man of about forty, who hoped for a bishopric, the two Chavoncourt girls, and Monsieur de Vauchelles, the Abbe de Grancey, Rosalie, Amedee de Soulas, and a retired magistrate, one of the most influential members of the upper circle of Besancon, who had been very eager for Albert's election. The Abbe de Grancey sat down by the Baroness in such a position as to watch Rosalie, whose face, usually pale, wore a feverish flush.
"What can have happened to Monsieur de Savarus?" said Madame de
Chavoncourt.
At this moment a servant in livery brought in a letter for the Abbe de
Grancey on a silver tray.
"Pray read it," said the Baroness.
The Vicar-General read the letter; he saw Rosalie suddenly turn as
white as her kerchief.