There were two ways of doing it. He could waylay Nicolas as he came from
the house of the old seigneur, could call to him to throw up his hands in
good highwayman fashion, and, well disguised, could get away with the
money without being discovered. Or again, he could follow Nic from the
Seigneury to the Manor, discover where he kept the money, and devise a
plan to steal it.

For some time he had given up smoking; but now, as a sort of celebration
of his plan, he opened his cigar case, and finding two cigars left, took
one out and lighted it.

"By Jove," he said to himself, "thieving is a nice come-down, I must say!
But a man has to live, and I'm sick of charity--sick of it. I've had
enough."

He puffed his cigar briskly, and enjoyed the forbidden and deadly luxury
to the full.

Presently he got up, took his stick, came down-stairs, and passed out
into the garden. The shoulder which had been lacerated by the bear
drooped forward some what, and seemed smaller than the other. Although
he held himself as erect as possible, you still could have laid your hand
in the hollow of his left breast, and it would have done no more than
give it a natural fulness. Perhaps it was a sort of vanity, perhaps a
kind of courage, which made him resolutely straighten himself, in spite
of the deadly weight dragging his shoulder down. He might be melancholy
in secret, but in public he was gay and hopeful, and talked of everything
except himself. On that interesting topic he would permit no discussion.
Yet there often came jugs and jars from friendly people, who never spoke
to him of his disease--they were polite and sensitive, these humble folk