ng so; but now, the sound of
the precious metal awoke no feeling of satisfaction within his heart
as it used to do, but rung in his ears with a funereal sound. He
thought it foretold his doom.

He continued thus for weeks, a miserable, ill-humoured, irritated
and troubled man.

The month of August came, warm almost to suffocation. Mr. Rougeant
often felt cold. He would sit for hours before the fire, his feet
stretched at full length, his hands buried in his pockets, and his
drooping chin resting on his bosom. His eyes were closed.

As he sat thus one afternoon, a flood of anger roused him up; he
rose, waxed warm, his tottering steps feverishly paced the room for
a time, then sunk back into his chair, a passion-beaten, exhausted
and perspiring man.

He had strange thoughts sometimes. Willingly would he "have shuffled
off his mortal coil; but that the dread of something after death,
that undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveller returns,
puzzled his will, and made him rather bear the ills he had, than fly
to others that he knew not of."

One day, Mrs. Dorant, whom he had engaged to look after the house,
found him meditatively examining a piece of rope, which he held in
his hand. She was alarmed and beckoned to her husband, who was near.

He went up to his employer, who, directly he saw that he was being
observed, threw the rope away from him excitedly.

"You look ill, Mr. Rougeant," said Jacques, as he scrutinized the
pale face and haggard look of the farmer.

"So I am," was the answer.

"Shall I fetch a doctor, or----."

"Go about your work," angrily commanded Mr. Rougeant.

Jacques did as he was bid. He, however, watched the farmer. Every
morning, he expected to find him hanging from a beam. But as time
passed on, Mr. Rougeant seemed to improve.

He had, in fact, abandoned the horrible thought of putting an end to
his existence.

He continued thus to live for more than four years; when his health
once more gave way.

At the thought of death, he shuddered. To die alone, with no friend
to close his eyelids, to die like a dog, ay worse, to leave behind
him the reward of his labours and thrift to persons who had defied
him, was intolerable.

For they had had the impudence to tell him at the solicitor's
office that he could not make a will giving his property to others;
he could not disinherit his daughter.

All this vexed him. He sank on the _jonquiere_ exclaiming "Alas!"

CHAPTER XX