stone which
bore the flagstaff displayed on festivals, He would smash this pole with
a shake and carry it along with him as he fell.

Who would suspect that it was not an accident? And he would be killed
outright, 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
detail of the torments of his heart, and he ended by announcing that
he had passed sentence on himself, that he was going to execute the
criminal, and begged his friend, his old friend, to be careful that
there should never 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 light
steps, hurried toward the little white box fastened to the outside wall
in the corner of the farmhouse, and when he had thrown into it this
letter, which made his hand tremble, he came back quickly, drew the
bolts of the great door and climbed up to his tower to wait for the
passing of the 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 it
eagerly with open mouth, drinking in its chilling kiss. The sky was red,
a wintry red, and all the plain, whitened with frost, glistened under
the first rays of the sun, as if it were covered with powdered glass.

Renardet, standing up, his head bare, gazed at the vast tract of country
before him, the meadows to the left and to the right the village whose
chimneys were beginning to smoke in preparation for the morning meal.
At his feet he saw the Brindille flowing amid the rocks, where he would
soon be 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
thousand recollections assailed him, recollections of similar mornings,
of rapid walks on the hard earth which rang beneath his footsteps, of
happy days of shooting on the edges of pools where wild ducks sleep. All
the good things that he loved, the good things of existence, rushed to
his memory, penetrated him with fresh desires, awakened all the vigorous
appetites of his active, powerful body.

And he was about to die! Why? He was going to kill himself stupidly
because he was afraid of a shadow-afraid of nothing! He was still rich
and in the prime of lif