As he got into the car, the youngster of the night before appeared with a letter.
“From ‘The Cub-Slut’; please read it right away.”
“Give it to me; I will read it.”
“She told me you were to read it right away.”
“Yes, man, yes.”
Cæsar took the letter and put it distractedly into his pocket. The motor started and Cæsar did not read the note. At eight in the morning he was on his way to Cidones. The polls had been established legally.
It was raining gently. As he drew near Cidones, the sun appeared. The river was turbid and mud-coloured. Thick grey fog-clouds were rolling about the plain; when they gathered below the hill where Cæsar stood, they gave it the appearance of an island in the middle of the sea. From the chimneys of the town the smoke came out like hanks of spun silver, and bells were ringing through this Sunday morning calm.
Cæsar stopped at an inn which was a little outside the town. The blacksmith, an old Liberal, came out to receive him. The old man had been suffering with rheumatism for some while. “How goes it?” Cæsar asked him.
“Very well. I have been to vote for you.”
“And your health?”