Four days after, the Abbe de Grancey called very early one morning on Albert de Savarus, having announced his visit the day before. The old priest had come to win over the great lawyer to the house of the Wattevilles, a proceeding which shows how much tact and subtlety Rosalie must have employed in an underhand way. “What can I do for you, Monsieur le Vicaire-General?” asked Savarus. The Abbe, who told his story with admirable frankness, was coldly heard by Albert. “Monsieur l’Abbe,” said he, “it is out of the question that I should defend the interests of the Wattevilles, and you shall understand why. My part in this town is to remain perfectly neutral. I will display no colors; I must remain a mystery till the eve of my election. Now, to plead for the Wattevilles would mean nothing in Paris, but here!--Here, where everything is discussed, I should be supposed by every one to be an ally of your Faubourg Saint-Germain.” “What! do you suppose that you can remain unknown on the day of the election, when the candidates must oppose each other? It must then become known that your name is Savaron de Savarus, that you have held the appointment of Master of Appeals, that you are a man of the Restoration!” “On the day of the election,” said Savarus, “I will be all I am expected to be; and I intend to speak at the preliminary meetings.” “If you have the support of Monsieur de Watteville and his party, you will get a hundred votes in a mass, and far more to be trusted than those on which you rely. It is always possible to produce division of interests; convictions are inseparable.” “The deuce is in it!” said Savarus. “I am attached to you, and I could do a great deal for you, Father! Perhaps we may compound with the Devil. Whatever Monsieur de Watteville’s business may be, by engaging Girardet, and prompting him, it will be possible to drag the proceedings out till the elections are over. I will not undertake to plead till the day after I am returned.” “Do this one thing,” said the Abbe. “Come to the Hotel de Rupt: there is a young person of nineteen there who, one of these days, will have a hundred thousand francs a year, and you can seem to be paying your court to her--” “Ah! the young lady I sometimes see in the kiosk?” “Yes, Mademoiselle Rosalie,” replied the Abbe de Grancey. “You are ambitious. If she takes a fancy to you, you may be everything an ambitious man can wish--who knows? A Minister perhaps. A man can always be a Minister who adds a hundred thousand francs a year to your amazing talents.” “Monsieur l’Abbe, if Mademoiselle de Watteville had three times her fortune, and adored me into the bargain, it would be impossible that I should marry her--” “You are married?” exclaimed the Abbe. “Not in church nor before the Maire, but morally speaking,” said Savarus.