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, Monsieur 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, Monsieur 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 anxious and sunken, with black circles round them, his hair was unbrushed, his beard untrimmed, his necktie unfastened.  It was evident that he had not been in bed.

The postman asked: 

“Are you ill, Monsieur 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 chicanery employed at elections.

He asked: 

“To whom is it addressed, this letter of yours?”

“To Monsieur Putoin, the magistrate—­you know, my friend, Monsieur Putoin!”

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 either committing a grave offence or of making an enemy 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, Monsieur le Maire.  As long as it is for the magistrate, I can’t.”

A dreadful pang wrung Renardet’s heart and he murmured: 

“Why, you know me well.  You are even able to recognize my handwriting.  I tell you I want that paper.”

“I can’t.”

“Look here, Mederic, you know that I’m incapable of deceiving you—­I tell you I want it.”

“No, I can’t.”

A tremor of rage passed through Renardet’s soul.

“Damn it all, take care!  You know that I never trifle and that I could get you out of your job, my good fellow, and without much delay, either, And then, I am the mayor of the district, after all; and I now order you to give me back that paper.”

The postman answered firmly: