-past seven in the morning under the
cool trees. So, then, she must be dead, and he must be face to face with
a crime. At this thought a cold shiver ran through his frame, although
he was an old soldier. And then a murder was such a rare thing in
the country, and, above all, the murder of a child, that he could not
believe his 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 the
district; but, not being able to get a look at her face, he could not
guess her name. He stooped forward in order to take off the handkerchief
which covered her face, then paused, with outstretched hand, restrained
by an idea that occurred to him.

Had he the right to disarrange anything in the condition of the corpse
before the official investigation? He pictured justice to himself as a
kind of general whom nothing escapes and who attaches as much importance
to a lost button as to the stab of a knife in the stomach. Perhaps under
this 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 by
an awkward hand.

Then he raised himself with the intention of hastening toward the
mayor's residence, but again another thought held him back. If the
little girl were still alive, by any chance, he could not leave her
lying there in this way. He sank on his knees very gently, a little
distance from her, through precaution, and extended his hand toward her
foot. It was icy cold, with the terrible coldness of death which leaves
us no longer in doubt. The letter carrier, as he touched her, felt his
heart in his mouth, as he said himself afterward, and his mouth parched.
Rising up abruptly, he rushed off under the trees toward Monsieur
Renardet's house.

He walked on faster than ever, with his stick under his arm, his hands
clenched and his head thrust forward, while his leathern bag, filled
with letters 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
a siege in former days, and at the end of it was a huge tower, twenty
metres high, rising out of the water.

From the top of this fortress one could former