Renardet got a start, a sensation of pain shot through his breast, and he rushed towards the winding staircase to get back his letter, to demand it back from the postman. Little did 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?"