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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 standing and authority, and they understood that something serious had happened. As soon as word was brought to Monsieur Renardet, he ordered the postman to be sent up to him.
It was in regard to this very tittle that De Maupassant had a disagreement with Audran and Boucheron director of the Bouffes Parisiens in October, 1890 They had given this title to an operetta about to be played at the Bouffes. The former soldier, Mederic Rompel, familiarly called Mederic by the country folks, left the post office of Roily-le-Tors at the usual hour.
This proves that the crime was perpetrated by some one from the district, some one who felt pity for her. Besides, the postman, Mederic, brought me the thimble, the knife and the needle case of the dead girl. So, then, the man in carrying off the clothes to hide them must have let fall the articles which were in the pocket.
The man, knowing that the mayor would not brook opposition, set forth again with hesitating steps, casting a timid side glance at the corpse. Distant voices were heard under the trees, a confused sound, the noise of an approaching crowd, for Mederic had, in the course of his rounds, carried the news from door to door.
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, M'sieur le Maire. From the moment it goes to the magistrate, I can't." A dreadful pang wrung Renardet's heart, and he murmured: "Why, you know me well.
Renardet said to the doctor: "You know what the trouble is about?" "Yes, a child found dead in the wood by Mederic." "That's quite correct. Come on." They walked on side by side, followed by the two men. Their steps made no noise on the moss, their eyes were gazing downward right in front of them. The doctor hastened his steps, interested by the discovery.
The Mayor asked: "What's the matter now, Mederic?" "I found a little girl dead in your wood." Renardet rose up, with his face the color of brick. "Do you say a little girl?" "Yes, m'sieur, a little girl, quite naked, on her back, with blood on her, dead quite dead!" The Mayor gave vent to an oath: "My God, I'd make a bet 'tis little Louise Roqué!
The young partners found difficulty in tiding over the waiting time, and so in the following April the firm was dissolved and Wilfrid Laurier became a partner of Médéric Lanctot, one of the most brilliant and impetuous writers and speakers of a time when brilliancy and passion seem to have been scattered with lavish hand, a man of amazing energy and resource, but fated by his unbalanced judgment utterly to wreck his own career.
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.
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 you I 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 don't go in for chaffing, and that I could get you out of your job, my good fellow, and without much delay either.
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