id it matter to him now whether
he was seen. He hurried across the grass moistened by the light frost of
the previous night, and he arrived in front of the box in the corner of
the farm-house exactly at the same time as the letter carrier.

The latter had opened the little wooden door, and drew forth the four
papers deposited there by the inhabitants of the locality.

Renardet said to him:

"Good morrow, Mederic."

"Good morrow, M'sieu le Maire."

"I say, Mederic, I threw a letter into the box that I want back again. I
came to ask you to give it back to me."

"That's all right, M'sieur le Maire--you'll get it."

And the postman raised his eyes. He stood petrified at the sight of
Renardet's face. The Mayor's cheeks were purple, his eyes were glaring
with black circles round them as if they were sunk in his head, his hair
was all tangled, his beard untrimmed, his necktie unfastened. It was
evident that he had not gone to bed.

The postman asked:

"Are you ill, M'sieur le Maire?"

The other, suddenly comprehending that his appearance must be unusual,
lost countenance, and faltered--

"Oh! no--oh! no. Only I jumped out of bed to ask you for this letter. I
was asleep. You understand?"

He said in reply:

"What letter?"

"The one you are going to give back to me."

Mederic now began to hesitate. The Mayor's attitude did not strike him
as natural. There was perhaps a secret in that letter, a political
secret. He knew Renardet was not a Republican, and he knew all the
tricks and chicaneries employed at elections.

He asked:

"To whom is it addressed, this letter of yours?"

"To M. Putoin, the examining magistrate--you know my friend, M. Putoin,
well!"

The postman searched through the papers, and found the one asked for.
Then he began looking at it, turning it round and round between his
fingers, much perplexed, much troubled by the fear of committing a
grave offense or of making an enemy for himself of the Mayor.

Seeing his hesitation, Renardet made a movement for the purpose of
seizing the letter and snatching it away from him. This abrupt action
convinced Mederic that some important secret was at stake and made him
resolve to do his duty, cost what it may.

So he flung the letter into his bag and fastened it up, with the reply:

"No, I can't, M'sieur le Maire. From the moment it goes to the
magistrate, I can't."

A dreadful pang wrung Renardet's heart, and he murmured:

"Why, you know me wel