VII.

RECONCILIATION.

Mr. Rougeant's condition continued to aggravate. The thought of
death struck his heart with terror. Behind him, he left a life of
selfishness and bigotry. No good deed, no act of self-denial to
soften the pangs of a stricken conscience.

Before him, everything seemed dark, mysterious, awe-inspiring,
despairing; for aught he knew, a just chastisement awaited him.

He had toiled for gold; he had obtained it. What a man soweth that
shall he also reap.

In spite of his avarice and the knowledge that a consultation to the
doctor would cost him something, Mr. Rougeant's terror overcoming
all these; he resolved to see a physician.

He did not send Jacques to fetch one, the visit of the medical man
would have cost him too much; he drove thither in his phaeton.

The doctor who was consulted said the disease was of long standing.

He gave Mr. Rougeant a bottle of medicine for which the latter
grudgingly paid three francs, and told the farmer to come and see
him again in a few days.

As Mr. Rougeant was descending the Rohais, his old horse trotting
slowly and joggedly, an unwelcome thought flashed across his mind.
"I must be in the vicinity of their house," he said to himself,
then he made a gesture with his right hand. "Bah! what have I to do
with them."

He felt very lonely, his spirits were depressed, the doctor's
remarks did not tend to enliven him.

He heard a cry. He thought he recognized the voice of his little
Adele.

Was he dreaming? He roused himself. His horse had stopped short. He
looked to see what was the matter. In front of his horse, a child
lay crying. What a flood of memories that childish wail had the
effect of forcing upon him.

He jumped off his vehicle, picked up the child and asked: "Are you
hurt?" He intended to have spoken softly, but his voice seemed to
have completely lost that power or any approach to it. The child
looked up half afraid, and did not answer. "Are you hurt, my little
man?" he again asked, endeavouring to soften his voice. Vain
attempt; he only succeeded in speaking low.

The "little man" who, by the by, was a girl, ceased crying, looked
at his interlocutor and answered: "No."

The child had only been knocked down by the horse's knee whilst
crossing the road; and thanks to the sagacity of the old mare, had
escaped unhurt.

Mr. Rougeant again bent towards the child: "Where do you live?" he
questioned.

"Vere," said the child with such a vagu