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 formerly see all the surrounding country.  It was called the Fox’s tower, without any one 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 province 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 standing and authority, and they understood that something serious had happened.

As soon as word was brought to Monsieur 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 at a long table covered with scattered papers.

He was a large, tall man, heavy and red-faced, strong as an ox, and was greatly liked in the district, although of an excessively violent disposition.  Almost 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 Roily-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 seat because he came near running over his retriever, Micmac?  Had he not broken the ribs of a gamekeeper who abused him for having, gun in hand, passed through a neighbor’s property?  Had he not even caught by the collar the sub-prefect, who stopped over in the village during an administrative circuit, called by Monsieur Renardet an electioneering circuit, for he was opposed to the government, in accordance with family traditions.