from him death.

But from whom could he ask this terrible service? From whom? He cast
about in his thoughts among his friends whom he knew intimately. The
doctor? No, he would talk about it afterwards, most certainly. And
suddenly a fantastic idea entered his mind. He would write to the
examining magistrate, who was on terms of close friendship with him and
would denounce himself as the perpetrator of the crime. He would in this
letter confess everything, revealing how his soul had been tortured, how
he had resolved to die, how he had hesitated about carrying out his
resolution, and what means he had employed to strengthen his failing
courage. And in the name of their old friendship he would implore of the
other to destroy the letter as soon as he had ascertained that the
culprit had inflicted justice on himself. Renardet might rely on this
magistrate, he knew him to be sure, discreet, incapable of even an idle
word. He was one of those men who have an inflexible conscience
governed, directed, regulated by their reason alone.

Scarcely had he formed this project when a strange feeling of joy took
possession of his heart. He was calm now. He would write his letter
slowly, then at daybreak he would deposit it in the box nailed to the
wall in his office, then he would ascend his tower to watch for the
postman's arrival, and when the man in the blue blouse showed himself,
he would cast himself head foremost on the rocks on which the
foundations rested. He would take care to be seen first by the workmen
who had cut down his wood. He could then climb to the step some distance
up which bore the flag staff displayed on fete days. He would smash this
pole with a shake and precipitate it along with him.

Who would suspect that it was not an accident? And he would be killed
completely, having regard 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 begging of his friend, his old friend, to be careful that
there should never be any stain on his memory.

When he had finished his letter, he saw that the day had dawned.

He closed and sealed it, wrote the address; then he descended with light
steps, hurried towards the little white box fastened to t