ZOTIQUE'S MISGIVING.
At sunset of the day before the Election, Chamilly came over very tired
from the Institution and ordered tea to be brought out on the lawn.
Little Breboeuf sat with them; the visiting politicians also; and last,
least, and highly delighted at the honor, Francois Vadeboncoeur _dit_ Le
Brun. To-morrow is the election day.
"How do we stand, Zotique?" Chamilly asked, with some air of fatigue.
Zotique's duty of directing the actual carrying out of the campaign made
him an authority on the "feel" of the constituency.
"Breboeuf will give you figures," replied he, reticently, for the
struggle had proved grave. The Curé had almost succeeded, so far, in
keeping his vow.
"Eh bien, ma brebis?"
"From the lists as Zotique has marked them I compute a majority of 28."
"Morbleu,--that's not comfortable!" exclaimed a young editor, fond of
old oaths.
"But these estimations of Mr. Genest's prove surprisingly accurate,"
explained Chamilly.
"A majority of 28, composed as follows:" Breboeuf continued;
"Donnillière, 83 to 44--majority 39; Petite Argentenaye, 96 to
47;--majority 49; St. Dominique, 11 to 19--majority 8; Miséricorde,
majority 47. _Esneval_.--"
"Wait!"
Zotique spoke, and his eyes darkened energetically.
"I cannot guarantee you, Miséricorde."
All looked at each other. There was consternation.
"But surely Benoit has reported on that place," said Chamilly.
"In my absence. He has met me as little as possible. But Cuiller was
seen an hour ago _entering the Circuit Court_."
"Traitors!" breathed de la Lande.
"I do not trust this American. Unless I was ever mistaken, he and Benoit
are goods and effects of Libergent, and we must save Miséricorde without
letting those know, of perish. Let one go over; you cannot, and I
cannot, nor any of the prominent, but let us send our François here, let
him discover how it stands, and be back within two hours, so that we can
work there, if needful, the rest of the night. This is the only
salvation."
"I will go," cried François cheerfully, and picking up his hat, started
rapidly away. Josephte came in at the gates as he was passing out; she
bowed to him, and moved by us into the house, wrapped in the composure
of one mourning at heart.
On hurried François, blithely unconscious of any dark prospect on his
hopes of Josephte, but in visions, as he walked, of a little snow-white
cottage known to him, with only one window in front, green-shuttered,
but a dear little opening in the attic gable, and a leafy honey suckle
creeping over the door way.