While Berthe was getting up votes for me on her side, I was busy on my own, and when the bell rang, announcing, as we thought, Monsieur le Curé, I had a pretty good poll. The buzz of talk subsided suddenly; the high functionaries broke away from the humbler participants, and took their places at the green table, near the _fauteuils_, waiting for the curé and the vicaire. Some of the very young mothers looked eager and flurried. One in particular, who was a rival candidate with me, seemed terribly nervous. She was about seventeen. Two young mothers on either side of her were speaking words of encouragement and trying to keep up her hopes. “You must pray hard for my success,” I heard her say to one of them; “the poor old grandfather will break his heart if Jeannette is refused. He can’t take her into Les Vieillards, even if it were not against the rules, because he hasn’t a crust of bread to give her. He has nothing but what the _sœurs_ give him for himself. Oh! do pray hard that I may succeed!” “Let us say another Pater and Ave before Monsieur le Curé comes in,” suggested her companions; and the three friends lowered their voices, and sent up their pure young hearts together in a last appeal to the Father of the fatherless in behalf of the little orphan. The door opened. It was not Monsieur le Curé. “_Ah, bonjour, cher ange!_” exclaimed Madame de Bérac, embracing Berthe with effusion, and talking as low as if she were “receiving” in her own _salon_. “What a charming surprise to meet you! I came to vote for Marguerite’s _protégée_, and see how my _dévouement_ is crowned!” I expressed my satisfaction at virtue’s proving in this case its own reward. “But why have I not seen you before?” inquired Berthe. “I did not even know you were in town.” “I hardly know it yet myself,” replied Madame de Bérac. “I only arrived last night. Marguerite wrote to me imploring me to be here if I could in time to vote for her. _Chère aimée_,” she continued, turning to me, “till you reminded me of it, I actually forgot I was a member at all!” “Well, now that you are in town, you mean to stay?” said Berthe. “_Hélas_, I only remain a week.” “But you said you meant to spend the carnival here?” “When I said so, I believed it.” “And what has changed your plans?” I inquired. Madame shrugged her shoulders. “My husband has been so impolite as to tell me that he has no money! One cannot stay in Paris without money.” “_Quel homme!_” exclaimed Berthe, with a look of pity and disgust.