I was present once at one of these public ceremonies; it was the election of the Maréchal de Noblesse, a kind of officer chosen in each province from among the landed proprietors. His duties are various, but the most important one is his guardianship of orphans whose fathers have died intestate: he is a kind of provincial lord-chancellor, and, next to the governor, is the most important personage in the county. The election is perfectly free, and supposed to be entirely unbiassed by the government authorities: even the governor himself is not allowed to be present or to have the least voice in the matter. The ceremony takes place once in three years, and is looked forward to with as much interest and anxiety as the choice of a member of parliament could be with us, and perhaps even more so, for it is the only opportunity the people here have of making a _free election_ of anything. On the morning of the election the carriages of the pamestchicks or landowners rolled into the town from all parts of the province. Innumerable gentlemen descended therefrom and entered the assembly-rooms, in which the extraordinary event was to take place, with all the _manière affairée_, the bustle, the importance, the seriousness, and the chattering of the members of a “Constitution République” or a Congress. Two or three were gravely consulting upon somebody’s pretensions to the honour; two or three in another place were laughing him and his pretensions to scorn. The noise was so great that I could only catch a word or two here and there, which, rising above the din, reached the ladies up in the gallery. “We won’t have him, he’s a rogue”—“A most amiable man”—“Don’t let S——ff speak”—“Hold your tongue, S——ff is the man”—“Hush! N——toff is going to make a speech”—“Speak more loudly, we can’t hear”—“What does he say?” and so on.