“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!”