Election day is always a very important day in France. The village farmers and labourers put on their best clothes--usually a black coat, silk hat and white shirt--and take themselves solemnly to the Mairie where the voting takes place. For weeks beforehand agents and lecturers come from Paris and bamboozle the simple village people with newspapers, money and wonderful promises. It is astounding how easily the French peasant believes all that the political agents tell him and all that he reads in the cheap papers, for, as a rule--taken en masse--they are very intelligent and at the same time suspicious (méfiants), manage their own little affairs very well and are rarely taken in; but there is something in the popular orator that carries them away and they really believe that a golden epoch is coming--when there will be no rich and no poor and plenty and equality for all. They don't care a bit what form of government they live under as long as their crops are good, and they can have regular work and no war. The political agitators understand that very well. They never lay any stress on Royalist or Bonapartist, or even a military candidate. The "People's Candidate" is always their cry--one of themselves who understands them and will give them all they want. They are disappointed _always_. The ministers and deputies change, but their lives don't, and run on in the same groove; but they are just as sanguine each time there is an election, convinced that, at last, the promised days of high pay and little work are coming. I tried to reason with a nice, respectable man one day, the village mason--one of the most fiery orators at the café, over his dominoes, but in everyday life a sober, hard-working man, with a sickly wife and several children, who are all clothed and generally looked after by us. His favourite theme was the owners of châteaux and big houses who lived in luxury and thought nothing of the poor. I said to him, "Why do you listen to all those foolish speeches that are made in the cafés? You know it isn't true half they say. Whenever you come and ask for anything for your wife and your children, it is always given to you. You know quite well whenever any one is ill in the village, they always come here for wine, old linen, or bouillon." "Oh, oui, Madame is good, but Madame does not understand." "But it is you, mon ami, who don't understand. Once the election is over, and they have got your vote, no one will think about you any more." "Oh, yes, Madame, everything will be divided--there will be no more big houses, every one will have a garden and rabbits--not all for the rich. It is not right; Madame knows it is not right." It was quite useless talking to him.