"The postman arrived just now," returned Baptiste with a most
tranquil air, "and I carried the letters to madame, who was in the
drawing-room. Hardly had I turned on my heels when I heard a shriek,
and the noise of someone falling to the floor." Baptiste spoke
slowly, taking artful pains to prolong his master's anguish.

"Speak! go on!" cried the mayor, exasperated. "Speak, won't you?"

"I naturally opened the drawing-room door again. What did I see?
madame, at full length on the floor. I called for help; the
chambermaid, cook, and others came hastening up, and we carried
madame to her bed. Justine said that it was a letter from
Mademoiselle Laurence which overcame my mistress--"

At each word Baptiste hesitated, reflected; his eyes, giving the
lie to his solemn face, betrayed the great satisfaction he felt in
relating his master's misfortunes.

His master was full of consternation. As it is with all of us,
when we know not exactly what ill is about to befall us, he dared
not ask any questions. He stood still, crushed; lamenting, instead
of hastening home. M. Plantat profited by the pause to question
the servant, with a look which Baptiste dared not disobey.

"What, a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence? Isn't she here, then?"

"No, sir: she went away a week ago, to pass a month with one of her
aunts."