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 chicaneries employed at elections.
He asked:
"To whom is it addressed, this letter of yours?"
"To M. Putoin, the examining magistrate—you know my friend, M. Putoin, well!"
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 committing a grave offense or of making an enemy for himself of the Mayor.