At the least touch on these
gates, electric bells will ring throughout the castle.
One Thursday in September, a letter-carrier presented himself at
the gate at the head of the bridge, and, as usual, it was the
Baron himself who partially opened the heavy portal. He
scrutinized the man as minutely as if he were a stranger, although
the honest face and twinkling eyes of the postman had been
familiar to the Baron for many years. The man laughed, as he
said:
"It is only I, Monsieur le Baron. It is not another man wearing
my cap and blouse."
"One can never tell," muttered the Baron.
The man handed him a number of newspapers, and then said:
"And now, Monsieur le Baron, here is something new."
"Something new?"
"Yes, a letter. A registered letter."
Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the
baron never received any letters, and the one now presented to him
immediately aroused within him a feeling of suspicion and
distrust. It was like an evil omen. Who was this mysterious
correspondent that dared to disturb the tranquility of his
retreat?
"You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron."
He signed; then took the letter, waited until the postman had
disappeared beyond the bend in the road, and, after walking
nervously to and fro for a few minutes, he leaned against the
parapet of the bridge and opened the envelope.
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