little bit away
from her through precaution, and extended his hand towards her feet. It
was icy cold, with the terrible coldness which makes the dead flesh
frightful, and which leaves us no longer in doubt. The letter-carrier,
as he touched her, felt his heart in his mouth, as he said to himself
afterwards and his lips were parched with dry spittle. Rising up
abruptly he rushed off under the trees towards M. Renardet's house.

He walked on in double-quick time, with his stick under his arm, his
hands clenched, and his head thrust forward, and his leathern bag,
filled with letters and newspapers, kept regularly flapping at his side.

The Mayor's residence was at the end of the wood which he used as a
park, and one side of it was washed by a little pool formed at this spot
by the Brindelle.

It was a big, square house of gray stone, very old, which had stood many
a siege in former days, and at the end of it was a huge tower, twenty
meters high, built in the water.

From the top of this fortress the entire country around it could be seen
in olden times. It was called the Fox's tower, without anyone knowing
exactly why; 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 formed part of the upper middle class all but noble to be met
with so often in the provinces before the Revolution.

The postman dashed into the kitchen where the servants were taking
breakfast, and exclaimed:

"Is the Mayor up? I want to speak to him at once."

Mederic was recognized as a man of weight and authority, and it was soon
understood that something serious had happened.

As soon as word was brought to M. Renardet, he ordered the postman to be
sent up to him. Pale and out of breath, with his cap in his hand,
Mederic found the Mayor seated in front of a long table covered with
scattered papers.

He was a big, tall man, heavy and red-faced, strong as an ox and was
greatly liked in the district, though of an excessively violent
disposition. Very nearly forty years old, and a widower for the past six
months, he lived on his estate like a country gentleman. His choleric
temperament had often brought him into trouble, from which the
magistrates of Rouy-le-Tors, like indulgent and prudent friends, had
extricated him. Had he not one day thrown the conductor of the diligence
from the top of his se