"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 jonquière exclaiming "Alas!"