Little Louise Roque
The former soldier, Mederic Rompel, familiarly called Mederic by thecountry folks, left the post office of Roiiy-le-Tors at the usual hour.After passing through the village with his long stride, he cut across themeadows of Villaume and reached the bank of the Brindille, following thepath along the water's edge to the village of Carvelin, where hecommenced to deliver his letters. He walked quickly, following thecourse of the narrow river, which frothed, murmured and boiled in itsgrassy bed beneath an arch of willows.Mederic went on without stopping, with only this thought in his mind: "Myfirst letter is for the Poivron family, then I have one for MonsieurRenardet; so I must cross the wood."His blue blouse, fastened round his waist by a black leather belt, movedin a quick, regular fashion above the green hedge of willow trees, andhis stout stick of holly kept time with his steady tread.He crossed the Brindille on a bridge consisting of a tree trunk, with ahandrail of rope, fastened at either end to a stake driven into theground.The wood, which belonged to Monsieur Renardet, the mayor of Carvelin andthe largest landowner in the district, consisted of huge old trees,straight as pillars and extending for about half a league along the leftbank of the stream which served as a boundary to this immense dome offoliage. Alongside the water large shrubs had grown up in the sunlight,but under the trees one found nothing but moss, thick, soft and yielding,from which arose, in the still air, an odor of dampness and of dead wood.Mederic slackened his pace, took off his black cap adorned with red laceand wiped his forehead, for it was by this time hot in the meadows,though it was not yet eight o'clock in the morning.He had just recovered from the effects of the heat and resumed his quickpace when he noticed at the foot of a tree a knife, a child's smallknife. When he picked it up he discovered a thimble and also aneedlecase not far away.Having taken up these objects, he thought: "I'll entrust them to themayor," and he resumed his journey, but now he kept his eyes open,expecting to find something else.All of a sudden he stopped short, as if he had struck against a woodenbarrier. Ten paces in front of him lay stretched on her back on the mossa little girl, perfectly nude, her face covered with a handkerchief. Shewas about twelve years old.Meredic advanced on tiptoe, as if he apprehended some danger, and heglanced toward the spot uneasily.What was this? No doubt she was asleep. Then he reflected that a persondoes not go to sleep naked at half-past seven in the morning under thecool trees. So, then, she must be dead, and he must be face to face witha crime. At this thought a cold shiver ran through his frame, althoughhe was an old soldier. And then a murder was such a rare thing in thecountry, and, above all, the murder of a child, that he could not believehis eyes. But she had no wound-nothing save a spot of blood on her leg.How, then, had she been killed?He stopped close to her and gazed at her, while he leaned on his stick.Certainly he must know her, for he knew all the inhabitants of thedistrict; but, not being able to get a look at her face, he could notguess her name. He stooped forward in order to take off the handkerchiefwhich covered her face, then paused, with outstretched hand, restrainedby an idea that occurred to him.Had he the right to disarrange anything in the condition of the corpsebefore the official investigation? He pictured justice to himself as akind of general whom nothing escapes and who attaches as much importanceto a lost button as to the stab of a knife in the stomach. Perhaps underthis handkerchief evidence could be found to sustain a charge of murder;in fact, if such proof were there it might lose its value if touched byan awkward hand.Then he raised himself with the intention of hastening toward the mayor'sresidence, but again another thought held him back. If the little girlwere still alive, by any chance, he could not leave her lying there inthis way. He sank on his knees very gently, a little distance from her,through precaution, and extended his hand toward her foot. It was icycold, with the terrible coldness of death which leaves us no longer indoubt. The letter carrier, as he touched her, felt his heart in hismouth, as he said himself afterward, and his mouth parched. Rising upabruptly, he rushed off under the trees toward Monsieur Renardet's house.He walked on faster than ever, with his stick under his arm, his handsclenched and his head thrust forward, while his leathern bag, filled withletters and newspapers, kept flapping at his side.The mayor's residence was at the end of the wood which served as a park,and one side of it was washed by the Brindille.It was a big square house of gray stone, very old, and had stood many asiege in former days, and at the end of it was a huge tower, twentymetres high, rising out of the water.From the top of this fortress one could formerly see all the surroundingcountry. It was called the Fox's tower, without any one knowing exactlywhy; and from this appellation, no doubt, had come the name Renardet,borne by the owners of this fief, which had remained in the same family,it was said, for more than two hundred years. For the Renardets formedpart of the upper middle class, all but noble, to be met with so often inthe province before the Revolution.The postman dashed into the kitchen, where the servants were takingbreakfast, and exclaimed:"Is the mayor up? I want to speak to him at once."Mederic was recognized as a man of standing and authority, and theyunderstood that something serious had happened.As soon as word was brought to Monsieur Renardet, he ordered the postmanto be sent up to him. Pale and out of breath, with his cap in his hand,Mederic found the mayor seated at a long table covered with scatteredpapers.He was a large, tall man, heavy and red-faced, strong as an ox, and wasgreatly liked in the district, although of an excessively violentdisposition. Almost forty years old and a widower for the past sixmonths, he lived on his estate like a country gentleman. His cholerictemperament had often brought him into trouble from which the magistratesof Roiiy-le-Tors, like indulgent and prudent friends, had extricated him.Had he not one day thrown the conductor of the diligence from the top ofhis seat because he came near running over his retriever, Micmac? Had henot broken the ribs of a gamekeeper who abused him for having, gun inhand, passed through a neighbor's property? Had he not even caught bythe collar the sub-prefect, who stopped over in the village during anadministrative circuit, called by Monsieur Renardet an electioneeringcircuit, for he was opposed to the government, in accordance with familytraditions.The mayor asked:"What's the matter now, Mederic?""I found a little girl dead in your wood."Renardet rose to his feet, his face the color of brick."What do you say--a little girl?""Yes, m'sieu, a little girl, quite naked, on her back, with blood on her,dead--quite dead!"The mayor gave vent to an oath:"By God, I'd make a bet it is little Louise Roque! I have just learnedthat she did not go home to her mother last night. Where did you findher?"The postman described the spot, gave full details and offered to conductthe mayor to the place.But Renardet became brusque:"No, I don't need you. Send the watchman, the mayor's secretary and thedoctor to me at once, and resume your rounds. Quick, quick, go and tellthem to meet me in the wood."The letter carrier, a man used to discipline, obeyed and withdrew, angryand grieved at not being able to be present at the investigation.The mayor, in his turn, prepared to go out, took his big soft hat andpaused for a few seconds on the threshold of his abode. In front of himstretched a wide sward, in which were three large beds of flowers in fullbloom, one facing the house and the others at either side of it. Fartheron the outlying trees of the wood rose skyward, while at the left, beyondthe Brindille, which at that spot widened into a pond, could be seen longmeadows, an entirely green flat sweep of country, intersected by trenchesand hedges of pollard willows.To the right, behind the stables, the outhouses and all the buildingsconnected with the property, might be seen the village, which waswealthy, being mainly inhabited by cattle breeders.Renardet slowly descended the steps in front of his house, and, turningto the left, gained the water's edge, which he followed at a slow pace,his hand behind his back. He walked on, with bent head, and from time totime glanced round in search of the persons he had sent for.When he stood beneath the trees he stopped, took off his hat and wipedhis forehead as Mederic had done, for the burning sun was darting itsfiery rays on the earth. Then the mayor resumed his journey, stoppedonce more and retraced his steps. Suddenly, stooping down, he steepedhis handkerchief in the stream that glided along at his feet and spreadit over his head, under his hat. Drops of water flowed down his templesover his ears, which were always purple, over his strong red neck, andmade their way, one after the other, under his white shirt collar.As nobody had appeared, he began tapping with his foot, then he calledout:"Hello! Hello!"A voice at his right answered:"Hello! Hello!"And the doctor appeared under the trees. He was a thin little man, anex-military surgeon, who passed in the neighborhood for a very skillfulpractitioner. He limped, having been wounded while in the service, andhad to use a stick to assist him in walking.Next came the watchman and the mayor's secretary, who, having been sentfor at the same time, arrived together. They looked scared, and hurriedforward, out of breath, walking and running alternately to hasten theirprogress, and moving their arms up and down so vigorously that theyseemed to do more work with them than with their legs.Renardet said to the doctor:"You know what the trouble is about?""Yes, a child found dead in the wood by Mederic.""That's quite correct. Come on!"They walked along, side by side, followed by the two men.Their steps made no sound on the moss. Their eyes were gazing ahead infront of them.Suddenly the doctor, extending his arm, said:"See, there she is!"Far ahead of them under the trees they saw something white on which thesun gleamed down through the branches. As they approached they graduallydistinguished a human form lying there, its head toward the river, theface covered and the arms extended as though on a crucifix."I am fearfully warm," said the mayor, and stooping down, he again soakedhis handkerchief in the water and placed it round his forehead.The doctor hastened his steps, interested by the discovery. As soon asthey were near the corpse, he bent down to examine it without touchingit. He had put on his pince-nez, as one does in examining some curiousobject, and turned round very quietly.He said, without rising:"Violated and murdered, as we shall prove presently. This little girl,moreover, is almost a woman--look at her throat."The doctor lightly drew away the handkerchief which covered her face,which looked black, frightful, the tongue protruding, the eyes bloodshot.He went on:"By heavens! She was strangled the moment the deed was done."He felt her neck."Strangled with the hands without leaving any special trace, neither themark of the nails nor the imprint of the fingers. Quite right. It islittle Louise Roque, sure enough!"He carefully replaced the handkerchief."There's nothing for me to do. She's been dead for the last hour atleast. We must give notice of the matter to the authorities."Renardet, standing up, with his hands behind his back, kept staring witha stony look at the little body exposed to view on the grass. Hemurmured:"What a wretch! We must find the clothes."The doctor felt the hands, the arms, the legs. He said:"She had been bathing no doubt. They ought to be at the water's edge."The mayor thereupon gave directions:"Do you, Principe" (this was his secretary), "go and find those clothesfor me along the stream. You, Maxime" (this was the watchman), "hurry ontoward Rouy-le-Tors and bring with you the magistrate with the gendarmes.They must be here within an hour. You understand?"The two men started at once, and Renardet said to the doctor:"What miscreant could have done such a deed in this part of the country?"The doctor murmured:"Who knows? Any one is capable of that. Every one in particular andnobody in general. No matter, it must be some prowler, some workman outof employment. Since we have become a Republic we meet only this kind ofperson along the roads."Both of them were Bonapartists.The mayor went on:"Yes, it can only be a stranger, a passer-by, a vagabond without hearthor home."The doctor added, with the shadow of a smile on his face:"And without a wife. Having neither a good supper nor a good bed, hebecame reckless. You can't tell how many men there may be in the worldcapable of a crime at a given moment. Did you know that this little girlhad disappeared?"And with the end of his stick he touched one after the other thestiffened fingers of the corpse, resting on them as on the keys of apiano."Yes, the mother came last night to look for me about nine o'clock, thechild not having come home at seven to supper. We looked for her alongthe roads up to midnight, but we did not think of the wood. However, weneeded daylight to carry out a thorough search.""Will you have a cigar?" said the doctor."Thanks, I don't care to smoke. This thing affects me so."They remained standing beside the corpse of the young girl, so pale onthe dark moss. A big blue fly was walking over the body with his lively,jerky movements. The two men kept watching this wandering speck.The doctor said:"How pretty it is, a fly on the skin! The ladies of the last century hadgood reason to paste them on their faces. Why has this fashion goneout?"The mayor seemed not to hear, plunged as he was in deep thought.But, all of a sudden, he turned round, surprised by a shrill noise. Awoman in a cap and blue apron was running toward them under the trees.It was the mother, La Roque. As soon as she saw Renardet she began toshriek:"My little girl! Where's my little girl?" so distractedly that she didnot glance down at the ground. Suddenly she saw the corpse, stoppedshort, clasped her hands and raised both her arms while she uttered asharp, heartrending cry--the cry of a wounded animal. Then she rushedtoward the body, fell on her knees and snatched away the handkerchiefthat covered the face. When she saw that frightful countenance, blackand distorted, she rose to her feet with a shudder, then sinking to theground, face downward, she pressed her face against the ground anduttered frightful, continuous screams on the thick moss.Her tall, thin frame, with its close-clinging dress, was palpitating,shaken with spasms. One could see her bony ankles and her dried-upcalves covered with coarse blue stockings shaking horribly. She wasdigging the soil with her crooked fingers, as though she were trying tomake a hole in which to hide herself.The doctor, much affected, said in a low tone:"Poor old woman!"Renardet felt a strange sensation. Then he gave vent to a sort of loudsneeze, and, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he began to weepinternally, coughing, sobbing and blowing his nose noisily.He stammered:"Damn--damn--damned pig to do this! I would like to seem himguillotined."Principe reappeared with his hands empty. He murmured:"I have found nothing, M'sieu le Maire, nothing at all anywhere."The mayor, alarmed, replied in a thick voice, drowned in tears:"What is that you could not find?""The little girl's clothes.""Well--well--look again, and find them--or you''ll have to answer to me."The man, knowing that the mayor would not brook opposition, set forthagain with hesitating steps, casting a timid side glance at the corpse.Distant voices were heard under the trees, a confused sound, the noise ofan approaching crowd, for Mederic had, in the course of his rounds,carried the news from door to door. The people of the neighborhood,dazed at first, had gossiped about it in the street, from one thresholdto another. Then they gathered together. They talked over, discussedand commented on the event for some minutes and had now come to see forthemselves.They arrived in groups, a little faltering and uneasy through fear of thefirst impression of such a scene on their minds. When they saw the bodythey stopped, not daring to advance, and speaking low. Then they grewbolder, went on a few steps, stopped again, advanced once more, andpresently formed around the dead girl, her mother, the doctor andRenardet a close circle, restless and noisy, which crowded forward at thesudden impact of newcomers. And now they touched the corpse. Some ofthem even bent down to feel it with their fingers. The doctor kept themback. But the mayor, waking abruptly out of his torpor, flew into arage, and seizing Dr. Labarbe's stick, flung himself on his townspeople,stammering:"Clear out--clear out--you pack of brutes--clear out!"And in a second the crowd of sightseers had fallen back two hundredpaces.Mother La Roque had risen to a sitting posture and now remained weeping,with her hands clasped over her face.The crowd was discussing the affair, and young lads' eager eyes curiouslyscrutinized this nude young form. Renardet perceived this, and, abruptlytaking off his coat, he flung it over the little girl, who was entirelyhidden from view beneath the large garment.The secretary drew near quietly. The wood was filled with people, and acontinuous hum of voices rose up under the tangled foliage of the talltrees.The mayor, in his shirt sleeves, remained standing, with his stick in hishands, in a fighting attitude. He seemed exasperated by this curiosityon the part of the people and kept repeating:"If one of you come nearer I'll break his head just as I would a dog's."The peasants were greatly afraid of him. They held back. Dr. Labarbe,who was smoking, sat down beside La Roque and spoke to her in order todistract her attention. The old woman at once removed her hands from herface and replied with a flood of tearful words, emptying her grief incopious talk. She told the whole story of her life, her marriage, thedeath of her man, a cattle drover, who had been gored to death, theinfancy of her daughter, her wretched existence as a widow withoutresources and with a child to support. She had only this one, her littleLouise, and the child had been killed--killed in this wood. Then shefelt anxious to see her again, and, dragging herself on her knees towardthe corpse, she raised up one corner of the garment that covered her;then she let it fall again and began wailing once more. The crowdremained silent, eagerly watching all the mother's gestures.But suddenly there was a great commotion at the cry of "The gendarmes!the gendarmes!"Two gendarmes appeared in the distance, advancing at a rapid trot,escorting their captain and a little gentleman with red whiskers, who wasbobbing up and down like a monkey on a big white mare.The watchman had just found Monsieur Putoin, the magistrate, at themoment when he was mounting his horse to take his daily ride, for heposed as a good horseman, to the great amusement of the officers.He dismounted, along with the captain, and pressed the hands of the mayorand the doctor, casting a ferret-like glance on the linen coat beneathwhich lay the corpse.When he was made acquainted with all the facts, he first gave orders todisperse the crowd, whom the gendarmes drove out of the wood, but whosoon reappeared in the meadow and formed a hedge, a big hedge of excitedand moving heads, on the other side of the stream.The doctor, in his turn, gave explanations, which Renardet noted down inhis memorandum book. All the evidence was given, taken down andcommented on without leading to any discovery. Maxime, too, came backwithout having found any trace of the clothes.This disappearance surprised everybody; no one could explain it except onthe theory of theft, and as her rags were not worth twenty sous, eventhis theory was inadmissible.The magistrate, the mayor, the captain and the doctor set to worksearching in pairs, putting aside the smallest branch along the water.Renardet said to the judge:"How does it happen that this wretch has concealed or carried away theclothes, and has thus left the body exposed, in sight of every one?"The other, crafty and sagacious, answered:"Ha! ha! Perhaps a dodge? This crime has been committed either by abrute or by a sly scoundrel. In any case, we'll easily succeed infinding him."The noise of wheels made them turn their heads round. It was the deputymagistrate, the doctor and the registrar of the court who had arrived intheir turn. They resumed their search, all chatting in an animatedfashion.Renardet said suddenly:"Do you know that you are to take luncheon with me?"Every one smilingly accepted the invitation, and the magistrate, thinkingthat the case of little Louise Roque had occupied enough attention forone day, turned toward the mayor."I can have the body brought to your house, can I not? You have a roomin which you can keep it for me till this evening?"The other became confused and stammered:"Yes--no--no. To tell the truth, I prefer that it should not come into myhouse on account of--on account of my servants, who are already talkingabout ghosts in--in my tower, in the Fox's tower. You know--I could nolonger keep a single one. No--I prefer not to have it in my house."The magistrate began to smile."Good! I will have it taken at once to Roily for the legal examination."And, turning to his deputy, he said:"I can make use of your trap, can I not?""Yes, certainly."They all came back to the place where the corpse lay. Mother La Roque,now seated beside her daughter, was holding her hand and was staringright before her with a wandering, listless eye.The two doctors endeavored to lead her away, so that she might notwitness the dead girl's removal, but she understood at once what theywanted to do, and, flinging herself on the body, she threw both armsround it. Lying on top of the corpse, she exclaimed:"You shall not have it--it's mine--it's mine now. They have killed herfor me, and I want to keep her--you shall not have her----"All the men, affected and not knowing how to act, remained standingaround her. Renardet fell on his knees and said to her:"Listen, La Roque, it is necessary, in order to find out who killed her.Without this, we could not find out. We must make a search for the manin order to punish him. When we have found him we'll give her up to you.I promise you this."This explanation bewildered the woman, and a feeling of hatred manifesteditself in her distracted glance."So then they'll arrest him?""Yes, I promise you that."She rose up, deciding to let them do as they liked, but when the captainremarked:"It is surprising that her clothes were not found," a new idea, which shehad not previously thought of, abruptly entered her mind, and she asked:"Where are her clothes? They're mine. I want them. Where have theybeen put?"They explained to her that they had not been found. Then she demandedthem persistently, crying and moaning."They're mine--I want them. Where are they? I want them!"The more they tried to calm her the more she sobbed and persisted in herdemands. She no longer wanted the body, she insisted on having theclothes, as much perhaps through the unconscious cupidity of a wretchedbeing to whom a piece of silver represents a fortune as through maternaltenderness.And when the little body, rolled up in blankets which had been broughtout from Renardet's house, had disappeared in the vehicle, the old womanstanding under the trees, sustained by the mayor and the captain,exclaimed:"I have nothing, nothing, nothing in the world, not even her little cap--her little cap."The cure, a young priest, had just arrived. He took it on himself toaccompany the mother, and they went away together toward the village.The mother's grief was modified by the sugary words of the clergyman, whopromised her a thousand compensations. But she kept repeating: "If I hadonly her little cap." This idea now dominated every other.Renardet called from the distance:"You will lunch with us, Monsieur l'Abbe--in an hour's time."The priest turned his head round and replied:"With pleasure, Monsieur le Maire. I'll be with you at twelve."And they all directed their steps toward the house, whose gray front,with the large tower built on the edge of the Brindille, could be seenthrough the branches.The meal lasted a long time. They talked about the crime. Everybody wasof the same opinion. It had been committed by some tramp passing thereby mere chance while the little girl was bathing.Then the magistrates returned to Rouy, announcing that they would returnnext day at an early hour. The doctor and the cure went to theirrespective homes, while Renardet, after a long walk through the meadows,returned to the wood, where he remained walking till nightfall with slowsteps, his hands behind his back.He went to bed early and was still asleep next morning when themagistrate entered his room. He was rubbing his hands together with aself-satisfied air."Ha! ha! You are still sleeping! Well, my dear fellow, we have newsthis morning."The mayor sat up in his bed."What, pray?""Oh! Something strange. You remember well how the mother clamoredyesterday for some memento of her daughter, especially her little cap?Well, on opening her door this morning she found on the threshold herchild's two little wooden shoes. This proves that the crime wasperpetrated by some one from the district, some one who felt pity forher. Besides, the postman, Mederic, brought me the thimble, the knife andthe needle case of the dead girl. So, then, the man in carrying off theclothes to hide them must have let fall the articles which were in thepocket. As for me, I attach special importance to the wooden shoes, asthey indicate a certain moral culture and a faculty for tenderness on thepart of the assassin. We will, therefore, if you have no objection, goover together the principal inhabitants of your district."The mayor got up. He rang for his shaving water and said:"With pleasure, but it will take some time, and we may begin at once."M. Putoin sat astride a chair.Renardet covered his chin with a white lather while he looked at himselfin the glass. Then he sharpened his razor on the strop and continued:"The principal inhabitant of Carvelin bears the name of Joseph Renardet,mayor, a rich landowner, a rough man who beats guards and coachmen--"The examining magistrate burst out laughing."That's enough. Let us pass on to the next.""The second in importance is Pelledent, his deputy, a cattle breeder, anequally rich landowner, a crafty peasant, very sly, very close-fisted onevery question of money, but incapable in my opinion of havingperpetrated such a crime.""Continue," said M. Putoin.Renardet, while proceeding with his toilet, reviewed the characters ofall the inhabitants of Carvelin. After two hours' discussion theirsuspicions were fixed on three individuals who had hitherto borne a shadyreputation--a poacher named Cavalle, a fisherman named Paquet, who caughttrout and crabs, and a cattle drover named Clovis.
IIThe search for the perpetrator of the crime lasted all summer, but he wasnot discovered. Those who were suspected and arrested easily provedtheir innocence, and the authorities were compelled to abandon theattempt to capture the criminal.But this murder seemed to have moved the entire country in a singularmanner. There remained in every one's mind a disquietude, a vague fear,a sensation of mysterious terror, springing not merely from theimpossibility of discovering any trace of the assassin, but also andabove all from that strange finding of the wooden shoes in front of LaRoque's door the day after the crime. The certainty that the murdererhad assisted at the investigation, that he was still, doubtless, livingin the village, possessed all minds and seemed to brood over theneighborhood like a constant menace.The wood had also become a dreaded spot, a place to be avoided andsupposed to be haunted.Formerly the inhabitants went there to spend every Sunday afternoon.They used to sit down on the moss at the feet of the huge tall trees orwalk along the water's edge watching the trout gliding among the weeds.The boy's used to play bowls, hide-and-seek and other games where theground had been cleared and levelled, and the girls, in rows of four orfive, would trip along, holding one another by the arms and screamingsongs with their shrill voices. Now nobody ventured there for fear offinding some corpse lying on the ground.Autumn arrived, the leaves began to fall from the tall trees, whirlinground and round to the ground, and the sky could be seen through the barebranches. Sometimes, when a gust of wind swept over the tree tops, theslow, continuous rain suddenly grew heavier and became a rough storm thatcovered the moss with a thick yellow carpet that made a kind of creakingsound beneath one's feet.And the sound of the falling leaves seemed like a wail and the leavesthemselves like tears shed by these great, sorrowful trees, that wept inthe silence of the bare and empty wood, this dreaded and deserted woodwhere wandered lonely the soul, the little soul of little Louise Roque.The Brindille, swollen by the storms, rushed on more quickly, yellow andangry, between its dry banks, bordered by two thin, bare, willow hedges.And here was Renardet suddenly resuming his walks under the trees. Everyday, at sunset, he came out of his house, descended the front stepsslowly and entered the wood in a dreamy fashion, with his hands in hispockets, and paced over the damp soft moss, while a legion of rooks fromall the neighboring haunts came thither to rest in the tall trees andthen flew off like a black cloud uttering loud, discordant cries.Night came on, and Renardet was still strolling slowly under the trees;then, when the darkness prevented him from walking any longer, he wouldgo back to the house and sink into his armchair in front of the glowinghearth, stretching his damp feet toward the fire.One morning an important bit of news was circulated through the district;the mayor was having his wood cut down.Twenty woodcutters were already at work. They had commenced at thecorner nearest to the house and worked rapidly in the master's presence.And each day the wood grew thinner, losing its trees, which fell down oneby one, as an army loses its soldiers.Renardet no longer walked up, and down. He remained from morning tillnight, contemplating, motionless, with his hands behind his back, theslow destruction of his wood. When a tree fell he placed his foot on itas if it were a corpse. Then he raised his eyes to the next with a kindof secret, calm impatience, as if he expected, hoped for something at theend of this slaughter.Meanwhile they were approaching the place where little Louise Roque hadbeen found. They came to it one evening in the twilight.As it was dark, the sky being overcast, the woodcutters wanted to stoptheir work, putting off till next day the fall of an enormous beech tree,but the mayor objected to this and insisted that they should at once lopand cut down this giant, which had sheltered the crime.When the lopper had laid it bare and the woodcutters had sapped its base,five men commenced hauling at the rope attached to the top.The tree resisted; its powerful trunk, although notched to the centre,was as rigid as iron. The workmen, all together, with a sort ofsimultaneous motion,' strained at the rope, bending backward and utteringa cry which timed and regulated their efforts.Two woodcutters standing close to the giant remained with axes in theirgrip, like two executioners ready to strike once more, and Renardet,motionless, with his hand on the trunk, awaited the fall with an uneasy,nervous feeling.One of the men said to him:"You are too near, Monsieur le Maire. When it falls it may hurt you."He did not reply and did not move away. He seemed ready to catch thebeech tree in his open arms and to cast it on the ground like a wrestler.All at once, at the base of the tall column of wood there was a rentwhich seemed to run to the top, like a painful shock; it bent slightly,ready to fall, but still resisting. The men, in a state of excitement,stiffened their arms, renewed their efforts with greater vigor, and, justas the tree came crashing down, Renardet suddenly made a forward step,then stopped, his shoulders raised to receive the irresistible shock, themortal shock which would crush him to the earth.But the beech tree, having deviated a little, only rubbed against hisloins, throwing him on his face, five metres away.The workmen dashed forward to lift him up. He had already arisen to hisknees, stupefied, with bewildered eyes and passing his hand across hisforehead, as if he were awaking from an attack of madness.When he had got to his feet once more the men, astonished, questionedhim, not being able to understand what he had done. He replied infaltering tones that he had been dazed for a moment, or, rather, he hadbeen thinking of his childhood days; that he thought he would have timeto run under the tree, just as street boys rush in front of vehiclesdriving rapidly past; that he had played at danger; that for the pasteight days he felt this desire growing stronger within him, askinghimself each time a tree began to fall whether he could pass beneath itwithout being touched. It was a piece of stupidity, he confessed, butevery one has these moments of insanity and these temptations to boyishfolly.He made this explanation in a slow tone, searching for his words, andspeaking in a colorless tone.Then he went off, saying:"Till to-morrow, my friends-till to-morrow."As soon as he got back to his room he sat down at his table which hislamp lighted up brightly, and, burying his head in his hands, he began tocry.He remained thus for a long time, then wiped his eyes, raised his headand looked at the clock. It was not yet six o'clock.He thought:"I have time before dinner."And he went to the door and locked it. He then came back, and, sittingdown at his table, pulled out the middle drawer. Taking from it arevolver, he laid it down on his papers in full view. The barrel of thefirearm glittered, giving out gleams of light.Renardet gazed at it for some time with the uneasy glance of a drunkenman. Then he rose and began to pace up and down the room.He walked from one end of the apartment to the other, stopping from timeto time, only to pace up and down again a moment afterward. Suddenly heopened the door of his dressing-room, steeped a towel in the waterpitcher and moistened his forehead, as he had done on the morning of thecrime.Then he, began walking up and down again. Each time he passed the tablethe gleaming revolver attracted his glance, tempted his hand, but he keptwatching the clock and reflected:"I have still time."It struck half-past six. Then he took up the revolver, opened his mouthwide with a frightful grimace and stuck the barrel into it as if hewanted to swallow it. He remained in this position for some secondswithout moving, his finger on the trigger. Then, suddenly seized with ashudder of horror, he dropped the pistol on the carpet.He fell back on his armchair, sobbing:"I cannot. I dare not! My God! my God! How can I have the courage tokill myself?'"There was a knock at the door. He rose up, bewildered. A servant said:"Monsieur's dinner is ready."He replied:"All right. I'm coming down."Then he picked up the revolver, locked it up again in the drawer andlooked at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece to see whether hisface did not look too much troubled. It was as red as usual, a littleredder perhaps. That was all. He went down and seated himself at table.He ate slowly, like a man who wants to prolong the meal, who does notwant to be alone.Then he smoked several pipes in the hall while the table was beingcleared. After that he went back to his room.As soon as he had locked himself in he looked, under the bed, opened allthe closets, explored every corner, rummaged through all the furniture.Then he lighted the candles on the mantelpiece, and, turning roundseveral times, ran his eye all over the apartment with an anguish ofterror that distorted his face, for he knew well that he would see her,as he did every night--little Louise Roque, the little girl he hadattacked and afterward strangled.Every night the odious vision came back again. First he seemed to hear akind of roaring sound, such as is made by a threshing machine or thedistant passage of a train over a bridge. Then he commenced to gasp, tosuffocate, and he had to unbutton his collar and his belt. He movedabout to make his blood circulate, he tried to read, he attempted tosing. It was in vain. His thoughts, in spite of himself, went back tothe day of the murder and made him begin it all over again in all itsmost secret details, with all the violent emotions he had experiencedfrom the first minute to the last.He had felt on rising that morning, the morning of the horrible day, alittle dizziness and headache, which he attributed to the heat, so thathe remained in his room until breakfast time.After the meal he had taken a siesta, then, toward the close of theafternoon, he had gone out to breathe the fresh, soothing breeze underthe trees in the wood.But, as soon as he was outside, the heavy, scorching air of the plainoppressed him still more. The sun, still high in the heavens, poureddown on the parched soil waves of burning light. Not a breath of windstirred the leaves. Every beast and bird, even the grasshoppers, weresilent. Renardet reached the tall trees and began to walk over the mosswhere the Brindille produced a slight freshness of the air beneath theimmense roof of branches. But he felt ill at ease. It seemed to himthat an unknown, invisible hand was strangling him, and he scarcelythought of anything, having usually few ideas in his head. For the lastthree months only one thought haunted him, the thought of marrying again.He suffered from living alone, suffered from it morally and physically.Accustomed for ten years past to feeling a woman near him, habituated toher presence every moment, he had need, an imperious and perplexing needof such association. Since Madame Renardet's death he had sufferedcontinually without knowing why, he had suffered at not feeling her dressbrushing past him, and, above all, from no longer being able to calm andrest himself in her arms. He had been scarcely six months a widower andhe was already looking about in the district for some young girl or somewidow he might marry when his period of mourning was at an end.He had a chaste soul, but it was lodged in a powerful, herculean body,and carnal imaginings began to disturb his sleep and his vigils. Hedrove them away; they came back again; and he murmured from time to time,smiling at himself:"Here I am, like St. Anthony."Having this special morning had several of these visions, the desiresuddenly came into his breast to bathe in the Brindille in order torefresh himself and cool his blood.He knew of a large deep pool, a little farther down, where the people ofthe neighborhood came sometimes to take a dip in summer. He went there.Thick willow trees hid this clear body of water where the current restedand went to sleep for a while before starting on its way again.Renardet, as he appeared, thought he heard a light sound, a faintplashing which was not that of the stream on the banks. He softly putaside the leaves and looked. A little girl, quite naked in thetransparent water, was beating the water with both hands, dancing aboutin it and dipping herself with pretty movements. She was not a child norwas she yet a woman. She was plump and developed, while preserving anair of youthful precocity, as of one who had grown rapidly. He no longermoved, overcome with surprise, with desire, holding his breath with astrange, poignant emotion. He remained there, his heart beating as ifone of his sensuous dreams had just been realized, as if an impure fairyhad conjured up before him this young creature, this little rustic Venus,rising from the eddies of the stream as the real Venus rose from thewaves of the sea.Suddenly the little girl came out of the water, and, without seeing him,came over to where he stood, looking for her clothes in order to dressherself. As she approached gingerly, on account of the sharp-pointedstones, he felt himself pushed toward her by an irresistible force, by abestial transport of passion, which stirred his flesh, bewildered hismind and made him tremble from head to foot.She remained standing some seconds behind the willow tree which concealedhim from view. Then, losing his reason entirely, he pushed aside thebranches, rushed on her and seized her in his arms. She fell, tooterrified to offer any resistance, too terror-stricken to cry out. Heseemed possessed, not understanding what he was doing.He woke from his crime as one wakes from a nightmare. The child burstout weeping."Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue!" he said. "I'll give you money."But she did not hear him and went on sobbing."Come now, hold your tongue! Do hold your tongue! Keep quiet!" hecontinued.She kept shrieking as she tried to free herself. He suddenly realizedthat he was ruined, and he caught her by the neck to stop her mouth fromuttering these heartrending, dreadful screams. As she continued tostruggle with the desperate strength of a being who is seeking to flyfrom death, he pressed his enormous hands on the little throat swollenwith screaming, and in a few seconds he had strangled her, so furiouslydid he grip her. He had not intended to kill her, but only to make herkeep quiet.Then he stood up, overwhelmed with horror.She lay before him, her face bleeding and blackned. He was about to rushaway when there sprang up in his agitated soul the mysterious andundefined instinct that guides all beings in the hour of danger.He was going to throw the body into the water, but another impulse drovehim toward the clothes, which he made into a small package. Then, as hehad a piece of twine in his pocket, he tied it up and hid it in a deepportion of the stream, beneath the trunk of a tree that overhung theBrindille.Then he went off at a rapid pace, reached the meadows, took a wide turnin order to show himself to some peasants who dwelt some distance away atthe opposite side of the district, and came back to dine at the usualhour, telling his servants all that was supposed to have happened duringhis walk.He slept, however, that night; he slept with a heavy, brutish sleep likethe sleep of certain persons condemned to death. He did not open hiseyes until the first glimmer of dawn, and he waited till his usual hourfor riding, so as to excite no suspicion.Then he had to be present at the inquiry as to the cause of death. Hedid so like a somnambulist, in a kind of vision which showed him men andthings as in a dream, in a cloud of intoxication, with that sense ofunreality which perplexes the mind at the time of the greatestcatastrophes.But the agonized cry of Mother Roque pierced his heart. At that momenthe had felt inclined to cast himself at the old woman's feet and toexclaim:"I am the guilty one!"But he had restrained himself. He went back, however, during the nightto fish up the dead girl's wooden shoes, in order to place them on hermother's threshold.As long as the inquiry lasted, as long as it was necessary to leadjustice astray he was calm, master of himself, crafty and smiling. Hediscussed quietly with the magistrates all the suppositions that passedthrough their minds, combated their opinions and demolished theirarguments. He even took a keen and mournful pleasure in disturbing theirinvestigations, in embroiling their ideas, in showing the innocence ofthose whom they suspected.But as soon as the inquiry was abandoned he became gradually nervous,more excitable than he had been before, although he mastered hisirritability. Sudden noises made him start with fear; he shuddered atthe slightest thing and trembled sometimes from head to foot when a flyalighted on his forehead. Then he was seized with an imperious desirefor motion, which impelled him to take long walks and to remain up wholenights pacing up and down his room.It was not that he was goaded by remorse. His brutal nature did not lenditself to any shade of sentiment or of moral terror. A man of energy andeven of violence, born to make war, to ravage conquered countries and tomassacre the vanquished, full of the savage instincts of the hunter andthe fighter, he scarcely took count of human life. Though he respectedthe Church outwardly, from policy, he believed neither in God nor thedevil, expecting neither chastisement nor recompense for his acts inanother life. His sole belief was a vague philosophy drawn from all theideas of the encyclopedists of the last century, and he regarded religionas a moral sanction of the law, the one and the other having beeninvented by men to regulate social relations. To kill any one in a duel,or in war, or in a quarrel, or by accident, or for the sake of revenge,or even through bravado would have seemed to him an amusing and cleverthing and would not have left more impression on his mind than a shotfired at a hare; but he had experienced a profound emotion at the murderof this child. He had, in the first place, perpetrated it in the heat ofan irresistible gust of passion, in a sort of tempest of the senses thathad overpowered his reason. And he had cherished in his heart, in hisflesh, on his lips, even to the very tips of his murderous fingers a kindof bestial love, as well as a feeling of terrified horror, toward thislittle girl surprised by him and basely killed. Every moment histhoughts returned to that horrible scene, and, though he endeavored todrive this picture from his mind, though he put it aside with terror,with disgust, he felt it surging through his soul, moving about in him,waiting incessantly for the moment to reappear.Then, as evening approached, he was afraid of the shadow falling aroundhim. He did not yet know why the darkness seemed frightful to him, buthe instinctively feared it, he felt that it was peopled with terrors.The bright daylight did not lend itself to fears. Things and beings werevisible then, and only natural things and beings could exhibit themselvesin the light of day. But the night, the impenetrable night, thicker thanwalls and empty; the infinite night, so black, so vast, in which onemight brush against frightful things; the night, when one feels that amysterious terror is wandering, prowling about, appeared to him toconceal an unknown threatening danger, close beside him.What was it?He knew ere long. As he sat in his armchair, rather late one eveningwhen he could not sleep, he thought he saw the curtain of his windowmove. He waited, uneasily, with beating heart. The drapery did notstir; then, all of a sudden, it moved once more. He did not venture torise; he no longer ventured to breathe, and yet he was brave. He hadoften fought, and he would have liked to catch thieves in his house.Was it true that this curtain did move? he asked himself, fearing thathis eyes had deceived him. It was, moreover, such a slight thing, agentle flutter of drapery, a kind of trembling in its folds, less than anundulation caused by the wind.Renardet sat still, with staring eyes and outstretched neck. He sprangto his feet abruptly, ashamed of his fear, took four steps, seized thedrapery with both hands and pulled it wide apart. At first he sawnothing but darkened glass, resembling plates of glittering ink. Thenight, the vast, impenetrable night, stretched beyond as far as theinvisible horizon. He remained standing in front of this illimitableshadow, and suddenly he perceived a light, a moving light, which seemedsome distance away.Then he put his face close to the window pane, thinking that a personlooking for crabs might be poaching in the Brindille, for it was pastmidnight, and this light rose up at the edge of the stream, under thetrees. As he was not yet able to see clearly, Renardet placed his handsover his eyes, and suddenly this light became an illumination, and hebeheld little Louise Roque naked and bleeding on the moss. He recoiled,frozen with horror, knocked over his chair and fell over on his back. Heremained there some minutes in anguish of mind; then he sat up and beganto reflect. He had had a hallucination--that was all, a hallucinationdue to the fact that a night marauder was walking with a lantern in hishand near the water's edge. What was there astonishing, besides, in thecircumstance that the recollection of his crime should sometimes bringbefore him the vision of the dead girl?He rose from the ground, swallowed a glass of wine and sat down again.He was thinking:"What am I to do if this occurs again?"And it would occur; he felt it; he was sure of it. Already his glancewas drawn toward the window; it called him; it attracted him. In orderto avoid looking at it, he turned his chair round. Then he took a bookand tried to read, but it seemed to him that he presently heard somethingstirring behind him, and he swung round his armchair on one foot.The curtain was moving again; unquestionably, it moved this time. Hecould no longer have any doubt about it.He rushed forward and grasped it so violently that he pulled it down withits pole. Then he eagerly glued his face to the glass. He saw nothing.All was black outside, and he breathed with the joy of a man whose lifehas just been saved.Then he went back to his chair and sat down again, but almost immediatelyhe felt a longing to look out once more through the window. Since thecurtain had fallen down, the window made a sort of gap, fascinating andterrible, on the dark landscape. In order not to yield to this dangeroustemptation, he undressed, blew out the light and closed his eyes.Lying on his back motionless, his skin warm and moist, he awaited sleep.Suddenly a great gleam of light flashed across his eyelids. He openedthem, believing that his dwelling was on fire. All was black as before,and he leaned on his elbow to try to distinguish the window which hadstill for him an unconquerable attraction. By dint of, straining hiseyes he could perceive some stars, and he rose, groped his way across theroom, discovered the panes with his outstretched hands, and placed hisforehead close to them. There below, under the trees, lay the body ofthe little girl gleaming like phosphorus, lighting up the surroundingdarkness.Renardet uttered a cry and rushed toward his bed, where he lay tillmorning, his head hidden under the pillow.From that moment his life became intolerable. He passed his days inapprehension of each succeeding night, and each night the vision cameback again. As soon as he had locked himself up in his room he strove toresist it, but in vain. An irresistible force lifted him up and pushedhim against the window, as if to call the phantom, and he saw it at once,lying first in the spot where the crime was committed in the position inwhich it had been found.Then the dead girl rose up and came toward him with little steps just asthe child had done when she came out of the river. She advanced quietly,passing straight across the grass and over the bed of withered flowers.Then she rose up in the air toward Renardet's window. She came towardhim as she had come on the day of the crime. And the man recoiled beforethe apparition--he retreated to his bed and sank down upon it, knowingwell that the little one had entered the room and that she now wasstanding behind the curtain, which presently moved. And until daybreakhe kept staring at this curtain with a fixed glance, ever waiting to seehis victim depart.But she did not show herself any more; she remained there behind thecurtain, which quivered tremulously now and then.And Renardet, his fingers clutching the clothes, squeezed them as he hadsqueezed the throat of little Louise Roque.He heard the clock striking the hours, and in the stillness the pendulumkept ticking in time with the loud beating of his heart. And hesuffered, the wretched man, more than any man had ever suffered before.Then, as soon as a white streak of light on the ceiling announced theapproaching day, he felt himself free, alone at last, alone in his room;and he went to sleep. He slept several hours--a restless, feverish sleepin which he retraced in dreams the horrible vision of the past night.When he went down to the late breakfast he felt exhausted as afterunusual exertion, and he scarcely ate anything, still haunted as he wasby the fear of what he had seen the night before.He knew well, however, that it was not an apparition, that the dead donot come back, and that his sick soul, his soul possessed by one thoughtalone, by an indelible remembrance, was the only cause of his torture,was what brought the dead girl back to life and raised her form beforehis eyes, on which it was ineffaceably imprinted. But he knew, too, thatthere was no cure, that he would never escape from the savage persecutionof his memory, and he resolved to die rather than to endure thesetortures any longer.Then he thought of how he would kill himself, It must be something simpleand natural, which would preclude the idea of suicide. For he clung tohis reputation, to the name bequeathed to him by his ancestors; and ifhis death awakened any suspicion people's thoughts might be, perhaps,directed toward the mysterious crime, toward the murderer who could notbe found, and they would not hesitate to accuse him of the crime.A strange idea came into his head, that of allowing himself to be crushedby the tree at the foot of which he had assassinated little Louise Roque.So he determined to have the wood cut down and to simulate an accident.But the beech tree refused to crush his ribs.Returning to his house, a prey to utter despair, he had snatched up hisrevolver, and then did not dare to fire it.The dinner bell summoned him. He could eat nothing, and he went upstairsagain. And he did not know what to do. Now that he had escaped thefirst time, he felt himself a coward. Presently he would be ready,brave, decided, master of his courage and of his resolution; now he wasweak and feared death as much as he did the dead girl.He faltered:"I dare not venture it again--I dare not venture it."Then he glanced with terror, first at the revolver on the table and nextat the curtain which hid his window. It seemed to him, moreover, thatsomething horrible would occur as soon as his life was ended. Something?What? A meeting with her, perhaps. She was watching for him; she waswaiting for him; she was calling him; and it was in order to seize him inher turn, to draw him toward the doom that would avenge her, and to leadhim to die, that she appeared thus every night.He began to cry like a child, repeating:"I will not venture it again--I will not venture it."Then he fell on his knees and murmured:"My God! my God!" without believing, nevertheless, in God. And he nolonger dared, in fact, to look at his window, where he knew theapparition was hiding, nor at his table, where his revolver gleamed.When he had risen up he said:"This cannot last; there must be an end of it"The sound of his voice in the silent room made a chill of fear passthrough his limbs, but as he could not bring himself to come to adetermination, as he felt certain that his finger would always refuse topull the trigger of his revolver, he turned round to hide his head underthe bedclothes and began to reflect.He would have to find some way in which he could force himself to die, toplay some trick on himself which would not permit of any hesitation onhis part, any delay, any possible regrets. He envied condemned criminalswho are led to the scaffold surrounded by soldiers. Oh! if he could onlybeg of some one to shoot him; if after confessing his crime to a truefriend who would never divulge it he could procure death at his hand.But from whom could he ask this terrible service? From whom? He thoughtof all the people he knew. The doctor? No, he would talk about itafterward, most probably. And suddenly a fantastic idea entered hismind. He would write to the magistrate, who was on terms of closefriendship with him, and would denounce himself as the perpetrator of thecrime. He would in this letter confess everything, revealing how hissoul had been tortured, how he had resolved to die, how he had hesitatedabout carrying out his resolution and what means he had employed tostrengthen his failing courage. And in the name of their old friendshiphe would implore of the other to destroy the letter as soon as he hadascertained that the culprit had inflicted justice on himself. Renardetcould rely on this magistrate; he knew him to be true, discreet,incapable of even an idle word. He was one of those men who have aninflexible conscience, governed, directed, regulated by their reasonalone.Scarcely had he formed this project when a strange feeling of joy tookpossession of his heart. He was calm now. He would write his letterslowly, then at daybreak he would deposit it in the box nailed to theoutside wall of his office; then he would ascend his tower to watch forthe postman's arrival; and when the man in the blue blouse had gone away,he would cast himself head foremost on the rocks on which the foundationsrested, He would take care to be seen first by the workmen who had cutdown his wood. He could climb to the projecting stone which bore theflagstaff displayed on festivals, He would smash this pole with a shakeand carry it along with him as he fell.Who would suspect that it was not an accident? And he would be killedoutright, owing to his weight and the height of the tower.Presently he got out of bed, went over to the table and began to write.He omitted nothing, not a single detail of the crime, not a single detailof the torments of his heart, and he ended by announcing that he hadpassed sentence on himself, that he was going to execute the criminal,and begged his friend, his old friend, to be careful that there shouldnever be any stain on his memory.When he had finished this letter he saw that the day had dawned.He closed, sealed it and wrote the address. Then he descended with lightsteps, hurried toward the little white box fastened to the outside wallin the corner of the farmhouse, and when he had thrown into it thisletter, which made his hand tremble, he came back quickly, drew the boltsof the great door and climbed up to his tower to wait for the passing ofthe postman, who was to bear away his death sentence.He felt self-possessed now. Liberated! Saved!A cold dry wind, an icy wind passed across his face. He inhaled iteagerly with open mouth, drinking in its chilling kiss. The sky was red,a wintry red, and all the plain, whitened with frost, glistened under thefirst rays of the sun, as if it were covered with powdered glass.Renardet, standing up, his head bare, gazed at the vast tract of countrybefore him, the meadows to the left and to the right the village whosechimneys were beginning to smoke in preparation for the morning meal. Athis feet he saw the Brindille flowing amid the rocks, where he would soonbe crushed to death. He felt new life on that beautiful frosty morning.The light bathed him, entered his being like a new-born hope. A thousandrecollections assailed him, recollections of similar mornings, of rapidwalks on the hard earth which rang beneath his footsteps, of happy daysof shooting on the edges of pools where wild ducks sleep. All the goodthings that he loved, the good things of existence, rushed to his memory,penetrated him with fresh desires, awakened all the vigorous appetites ofhis active, powerful body.And he was about to die! Why? He was going to kill himself stupidlybecause he was afraid of a shadow-afraid of nothing! He was still richand in the prime of life. What folly! All he needed was distraction,absence, a voyage in order to forget.This night even he had not seen the little girl because his mind waspreoccupied and had wandered toward some other subject. Perhaps he wouldnot see her any more? And even if she still haunted him in this house,certainly she would not follow him elsewhere! The earth was wide, thefuture was long.Why should he die?His glance travelled across the meadows, and he perceived a blue spot inthe path which wound alongside the Brindille. It was Mederic coming tobring letters from the town and to carry away those of the village.Renardet gave a start, a sensation of pain shot through his breast, andhe rushed down the winding staircase to get back his letter, to demand itback from the postman. Little did it matter to him now whether he wasseen, He hurried across the grass damp from the light frost of theprevious night and arrived in front of the box in the corner of thefarmhouse exactly at the same time as the letter carrier.The latter had opened the little wooden door and drew forth the fourpapers deposited there by the inhabitants of the locality.Renardet said to him:"Good-morrow, Mederic.""Good-morrow, Monsieur le Maire.""I say, Mederic, I threw a letter into the box that I want back again.I came to ask you to give it back to me.""That's all right, Monsieur le Maire--you'll get it."And the postman raised his eyes. He stood petrified at the sight ofRenardet's face. The mayor's cheeks were purple, his eyes were anxiousand sunken, with black circles round them, his hair was unbrushed, hisbeard untrimmed, his necktie unfastened. It was evident that he had notbeen in bed.The postman asked:"Are you ill, Monsieur le Maire?"The other, suddenly comprehending that his appearance must be unusual,lost countenance and faltered:"Oh! no-oh! no. Only I jumped out of bed to ask you for this letter.I was asleep. You understand?"He said in reply:"What letter?""The one you are going to give back to me."Mederic now began to hesitate. The mayor's attitude did not strike himas natural. There was perhaps a secret in that letter, a politicalsecret. He knew Renardet was not a Republican, and he knew all thetricks and chicanery employed at elections.He asked:"To whom is it addressed, this letter of yours?""To Monsieur Putoin, the magistrate--you know, my friend, MonsieurPutoin!"The postman searched through the papers and found the one asked for.Then he began looking at it, turning it round and round between hisfingers, much perplexed, much troubled by the fear of either committing agrave offence or of making an enemy of the mayor.Seeing his hesitation, Renardet made a movement for the purpose ofseizing the letter and snatching it away from him. This abrupt actionconvinced Mederic that some important secret was at stake and made himresolve to do his duty, cost what it may.So he flung the letter into his bag and fastened it up, with the reply:"No, I can't, Monsieur le Maire. As long as it is for the magistrate, Ican't."A dreadful pang wrung Renardet's heart and he murmured:"Why, you know me well. You are even able to recognize my handwriting.I tell you I want that paper.""I can't.""Look here, Mederic, you know that I'm incapable of deceiving you--I tellyou I want it.""No, I can't."A tremor of rage passed through Renardet's soul."Damn it all, take care! You know that I never trifle and that I couldget you out of your job, my good fellow, and without much delay, either,And then, I am the mayor of the district, after all; and I now order youto give me back that paper."The postman answered firmly:"No, I can't, Monsieur le Maire."Thereupon Renardet, losing his head, caught hold of the postman's arms inorder to take away his bag; but, freeing himself by a strong effort, andspringing backward, the letter carrier raised his big holly stick.Without losing his temper, he said emphatically:"Don't touch me, Monsieur le Maire, or I'll strike. Take care, I'm onlydoing my duty!"Feeling that he was lost, Renardet suddenly became humble, gentle,appealing to him like a whimpering child:"Look here, look here, my friend, give me back that letter and I'llrecompense you--I'll give you money. Stop! stop! I'll give you ahundred francs, you understand--a hundred francs!"The postman turned on his heel and started on his journey.Renardet followed him, out of breath, stammering:"Mederic, Mederic, listen! I'll give you a thousand francs, youunderstand--a thousand francs."The postman still went on without giving any answer.Renardet went on:"I'll make your fortune, you understand--whatever you wish--fiftythousand francs--fifty thousand francs for that letter! What does itmatter to you? You won't? Well, a hundred thousand--I say--a hundredthousand francs. Do you understand? A hundred thousand francs--ahundred thousand francs."The postman turned back, his face hard, his eye severe:"Enough of this, or else I'll repeat to the magistrate everything youhave just said to me."Renardet stopped abruptly. It was all over. He turned back and rushedtoward his house, running like a hunted animal.Then, in his turn, Mederic stopped and watched his flight withstupefaction. He saw the mayor reenter his house, and he waited still,as if something astonishing were about to happen.In fact, presently the tall form of Renardet appeared on the summit ofthe Fox's tower. He ran round the platform like a madman. Then heseized the flagstaff and shook it furiously without succeeding inbreaking it; then, all of a sudden, like a diver, with his two handsbefore him, he plunged into space.Mederic rushed forward to his assistance. He saw the woodcutters goingto work and called out to them, telling them an accident had occurred.At the foot of the walls they found a bleeding body, its head crushed ona rock. The Brindille surrounded this rock, and over its clear, calmwaters could be seen a long red thread of mingled brains and blood.
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
