original short stories-3-第11部分

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determination；　as　he　felt　certain　that　his　finger　would　always　refuse　to
pull　the　trigger　of　his　revolver；　he　turned　round　to　hide　his　head　under
the　bedclothes　and　began　to　reflect。

He　would　have　to　find　some　way　in　which　he　could　force　himself　to　die；　to
play　some　trick　on　himself　which　would　not　permit　of　any　hesitation　on
his　part；　any　delay；　any　possible　regrets。　　He　envied　condemned　criminals
who　are　led　to　the　scaffold　surrounded　by　soldiers。　　Oh！　if　he　could　only
beg　of　some　one　to　shoot　him；　if　after　confessing　his　crime　to　a　true
friend　who　would　never　divulge　it　he　could　procure　death　at　his　hand。
But　from　whom　could　he　ask　this　terrible　service？　　From　whom？　　He　thought
of　all　the　people　he　knew。　　The　doctor？　　No；　he　would　talk　about　it
afterward；　most　probably。　　And　suddenly　a　fantastic　idea　entered　his
mind。　　He　would　write　to　the　magistrate；　who　was　on　terms　of　close
friendship　with　him；　and　would　denounce　himself　as　the　perpetrator　of　the
crime。　　He　would　in　this　letter　confess　everything；　revealing　how　his
soul　had　been　tortured；　how　he　had　resolved　to　die；　how　he　had　hesitated
about　carrying　out　his　resolution　and　what　means　he　had　employed　to
strengthen　his　failing　courage。　　And　in　the　name　of　their　old　friendship
he　would　implore　of　the　other　to　destroy　the　letter　as　soon　as　he　had
ascertained　that　the　culprit　had　inflicted　justice　on　himself。　　Renardet
could　rely　on　this　magistrate；　he　knew　him　to　be　true；　discreet；
incapable　of　even　an　idle　word。　　He　was　one　of　those　men　who　have　an
inflexible　conscience；　governed；　directed；　regulated　by　their　reason
alone。

Scarcely　had　he　formed　this　project　when　a　strange　feeling　of　joy　took
possession　of　his　heart。　　He　was　calm　now。　　He　would　write　his　letter
slowly；　then　at　daybreak　he　would　deposit　it　in　the　box　nailed　to　the
outside　wall　of　his　office；　then　he　would　ascend　his　tower　to　watch　for
the　postman's　arrival；　and　when　the　man　in　the　blue　blouse　had　gone　away；
he　would　cast　himself　head　foremost　on　the　rocks　on　which　the　foundations
rested；　He　would　take　care　to　be　seen　first　by　the　workmen　who　had　cut
down　his　wood。　　He　could　climb　to　the　projecting　stone　which　bore　the
flagstaff　displayed　on　festivals；　He　would　smash　this　pole　with　a　shake
and　carry　it　along　with　him　as　he　fell。

Who　would　suspect　that　it　was　not　an　accident？　　And　he　would　be　killed
outright；　owing　to　his　weight　and　the　height　of　the　tower。

Presently　he　got　out　of　bed；　went　over　to　the　table　and　began　to　write。
He　omitted　nothing；　not　a　single　detail　of　the　crime；　not　a　single　detail
of　the　torments　of　his　heart；　and　he　ended　by　announcing　that　he　had
passed　sentence　on　himself；　that　he　was　going　to　execute　the　criminal；
and　begged　his　friend；　his　old　friend；　to　be　careful　that　there　should
never　be　any　stain　on　his　memory。

When　he　had　finished　this　letter　he　saw　that　the　day　had　dawned。

He　closed；　sealed　it　and　wrote　the　address。　　Then　he　descended　with　light
steps；　hurried　toward　the　little　white　box　fastened　to　the　outside　wall
in　the　corner　of　the　farmhouse；　and　when　he　had　thrown　into　it　this
letter；　which　made　his　hand　tremble；　he　came　back　quickly；　drew　the　bolts
of　the　great　door　and　climbed　up　to　his　tower　to　wait　for　the　passing　of
the　postman；　who　was　to　bear　away　his　death　sentence。

He　felt　self…possessed　now。　　Liberated！　　Saved！

A　cold　dry　wind；　an　icy　wind　passed　across　his　face。　　He　inhaled　it
eagerly　with　open　mouth；　drinking　in　its　chilling　kiss。　　The　sky　was　red；
a　wintry　red；　and　all　the　plain；　whitened　with　frost；　glistened　under　the
first　rays　of　the　sun；　as　if　it　were　covered　with　powdered　glass。

Renardet；　standing　up；　his　head　bare；　gazed　at　the　vast　tract　of　country
before　him；　the　meadows　to　the　left　and　to　the　right　the　village　whose
chimneys　were　beginning　to　smoke　in　preparation　for　the　morning　meal。　　At
his　feet　he　saw　the　Brindille　flowing　amid　the　rocks；　where　he　would　soon
be　crushed　to　death。　　He　felt　new　life　on　that　beautiful　frosty　morning。
The　light　bathed　him；　entered　his　being　like　a　new…born　hope。　　A　thousand
recollections　assailed　him；　recollections　of　similar　mornings；　of　rapid
walks　on　the　hard　earth　which　rang　beneath　his　footsteps；　of　happy　days
of　shooting　on　the　edges　of　pools　where　wild　ducks　sleep。　　All　the　good
things　that　he　loved；　the　good　things　of　existence；　rushed　to　his　memory；
penetrated　him　with　fresh　desires；　awakened　all　the　vigorous　appetites　of
his　active；　powerful　body。

And　he　was　about　to　die！　　Why？　　He　was　going　to　kill　himself　stupidly
because　he　was　afraid　of　a　shadow…afraid　of　nothing！　　He　was　still　rich
and　in　the　prime　of　life。　　What　folly！　　All　he　needed　was　distraction；
absence；　a　voyage　in　order　to　forget。

This　night　even　he　had　not　seen　the　little　girl　because　his　mind　was
preoccupied　and　had　wandered　toward　some　other　subject。　　Perhaps　he　would
not　see　her　any　more？　　And　even　if　she　still　haunted　him　in　this　house；
certainly　she　would　not　follow　him　elsewhere！　　The　earth　was　wide；　the
future　was　long。

Why　should　he　die？

His　glance　travelled　across　the　meadows；　and　he　perceived　a　blue　spot　in
the　path　which　wound　alongside　the　Brindille。　　It　was　Mederic　coming　to
bring　letters　from　the　town　and　to　carry　away　those　of　the　village。

Renardet　gave　a　start；　a　sensation　of　pain　shot　through　his　breast；　and
he　rushed　down　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　damp　from　the　light　frost　of　the
previous　night　and　arrived　in　front　of　the　box　in　the　corner　of　the
farmhouse　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；　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　Maireyou'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　magistrateyou　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　youI　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：

〃No；　I　can't；　Monsieur　le　Maire。〃

Thereupon　Renardet；　losing　his　head；　caught　hold　of　the　postman's　arms　in
order　to　take　away　his　bag；　but；　freeing　himself　by　a　strong　effort；　and
springing　backward；　the　letter　carrier　raised　his　big　holly　stick。
Without　losing　his　temper；　he　said　emphatically：

〃Don't　touch　me；　Monsieur　le　Maire；　or　I'll　strike。　　Take　care；　I'm　only
doing　my　duty！〃

Feeling　that　he　was　lost；　Renardet　suddenly　became　humble；　gentle；
appealing　to　him　like　a　whimpering　child：

〃Look　here；　look　here；　my　friend；　give　me　back　that　letter　and　I'll
recompense　youI'll　give　you　money。　　Stop！　stop！　　I'll　give　you　a
hundred　francs；　you　understanda　hundred　francs！〃

The　postman　turned　on　his　heel　and　started　on　his　journey。

Renardet　followed　him；　out　of　breath；　stammering：

〃Mederic；　Mederic；　listen！　　I'll　give　you　a　thousand　francs；　you
understanda　thousand　francs。〃

The　postman　still　went　on　without　giving　any　answer。

Renardet　went　on：

〃I'll　make　your　fortune；　you　understandwhatever　you　wishfifty
thousand　francsfifty　thousand　francs　for　that　letter！　　What　does　it
matter　to　you？　　You　won't？　　Well；　a　hundred　thousandI　saya　hundred
thousand　francs。　　Do　you　understand？　　A　hundred　thousand　francsa
hundred　thousand　francs。〃

The　postman　turned　back；　his　face　hard；　his　eye　severe：

〃Enough　of　this；　or　else　I'll　repeat　to　the　magistrate　everything　you
have　just　said　to　me。〃

Renardet　stopped　abruptly。　　It　was　all　over。　　He　turned　back　and　rushed
toward　his　house；　running　like　a　hunted　animal。

Then；　in　his　turn；　Mederic　stopped　and　watched　his　flight　with
stupefaction。　　He　saw　the　mayor　reenter　his　house；　and　he　waited　still；
as　if　something　astonishing　were　about　to　happen。

In　fact；　presently　the　tall　form　of　Renardet　appeared　o