Then, he raised himself with the intention of hastening towards the Mayor's residence, but again another thought held him back. If the little girl was still alive, by any chance, he could not leave her lying there in this way. He sank on his knees very gently, a little bit away from her through precaution, and extended his hand towards her feet. It was icy cold, with the terrible coldness which makes the dead flesh frightful, and which leaves us no longer in doubt. The letter-carrier, as he touched her, felt his heart in his mouth, as he said to himself afterwards and his lips were parched with dry spittle. Rising up abruptly he rushed off under the trees towards M. Renardet's house.
He walked on in double-quick time, with his stick under his arm, his hands clenched, and his head thrust forward, and his leathern bag, filled with letters and newspapers, kept regularly flapping at his side.
The Mayor's residence was at the end of the wood which he used as a park, and one side of it was washed by a little pool formed at this spot by the Brindelle.
It was a big, square house of gray stone, very old, which had stood many a siege in former days, and at the end of it was a huge tower, twenty meters high, built in the water.
From the top of this fortress the entire country around it could be seen in olden times. It was called the Fox's tower, without anyone 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 provinces 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 weight and authority, and it was soon understood that something serious had happened.
As soon as word was brought to M. 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 in front of a long table covered with scattered papers.
He was a big, tall man, heavy and red-faced, strong as an ox and was greatly liked in the district, though of an excessively violent disposition. Very nearly 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 Rouy-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 was near crushing his retriever, Micmac? Had he not broken the ribs of a gamekeeper, who abused him for having, with a gun in his hand, passed through a neighbor's property? Had he not even caught by the collar the sub-prefect, who stopped in the village in the course of an administrative round described by M. Renardet as an electioneering round; for he was against the government, according to his family tradition.