to fall from the tall trees, whirling
round and round to the ground, and the sky could be seen through the
bare branches. Sometimes, when a gust of wind swept over the tree tops,
the slow, continuous rain suddenly grew heavier and became a rough storm
that covered the moss with a thick yellow carpet that made a kind of
creaking sound beneath one's feet.

And the sound of the falling leaves seemed like a wail and the leaves
themselves like tears shed by these great, sorrowful trees, that wept in
the silence of the bare and empty wood, this dreaded and deserted wood
where wandered lonely the soul, the little soul of little Louise Roque.

The Brindille, swollen by the storms, rushed on more quickly, yellow and
angry, between its dry banks, bordered by two thin, bare, willow hedges.

And here was Renardet suddenly resuming his walks under the trees. Every
day, at sunset, he came out of his house, descended the front steps
slowly and entered the wood in a dreamy fashion, with his hands in his
pockets, and paced over the damp soft moss, while a legion of rooks from
all the neighboring haunts came thither to rest in the tall trees and
then 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 would
go back to the house and sink into his armchair in front of the glowing
hearth, 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 the
corner 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
one by one, as an army loses its soldiers.

Renardet no longer walked up, and down. He remained from morning till
night, contemplating, motionless, with his hands behind his back, the
slow destruction of his wood. When a tree fell he placed his foot on it
as if it were a corpse. Then he raised his eyes to the next with a kind
of secret, calm impatience, as if he expected, hoped for something at
the end of this slaughter.

Meanwhile they were approaching the place where little Louise Roque had
been found. They came to it one evening in the twilight.

As it was dark, the sky being overcast, the woodcutters wanted to stop
their work, putting