It is evening, and Monsieur the Viscount is strolling along the terrace with Madame on his arm.  He has only one to offer her, for where the other should be an empty sleeve is pinned to his breast, on which a bit of ribbon is stirred by the breeze.  Monsieur the Viscount has not been idle since we saw him last; the faith that taught him to die, has taught him also how to live—­an honourable, useful life.

It is evening, and the air comes up perfumed from a bed of violets by which Monsieur the Viscount is kneeling.  Madame (who has a fair face and ashen hair) stands by him with her little hand on his shoulder, and her large eyes upon the violets.

“My friend! my friend! my friend!” It is Monsieur the Viscount’s voice, and at the sound of it, there is a rustle among the violets that sends the perfume high into the air.  Then from the parted leaves come forth first a dirty wrinkled leg, then a dirty wrinkled head with gleaming eyes, and Monsieur Crapaud crawls with self-satisfied dignity on to Monsieur the Viscount’s outstretched hand.

So they stay laughing and chatting, and then Monsieur the Viscount bids his friend good-night, and holds him towards Madame that she may do the same.  But Madame (who did not enjoy Monsieur Crapaud’s society in prison) cannot be induced to do more than scratch his head delicately with the tip of her white finger.  But she respects him greatly, at a distance, she says.  Then they go back along the terrace, and are met by a man-servant in Monsieur the Viscount’s livery.  Is it possible that this is Antoine, with his shock head covered with powder?

Yes; that grating voice, which no mental change avails to subdue, is his, and he announces that Monsieur le Cure has arrived.  It is the old Cure of the village (who has survived the troubles of the Revolution), and many are the evenings he spends at the chateau, and many the times in which the closing acts of a noble life are recounted to him, the life of his old friend whom he hopes ere long to see—­of Monsieur the Preceptor.  He is kindly welcomed by Monsieur and by Madame, and they pass on together into the chateau.  And when Monsieur the Viscount’s steps have ceased to echo from the terrace, Monsieur Crapaud buries himself once more among the violets.

* * * * *

Monsieur the Viscount is dead, and Madame sleeps also at his side; and their possessions have descended to their son.

Not the least valued among them is a case with a glass front and sides, in which, seated upon a stone is the body of a toad stuffed with exquisite skill, from whose head gleam eyes of genuine topaz.  Above it in letters of gold is a date, and this inscription:—­

     “MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT’S FRIEND.”

     ADIEU!

THE YEW-LANE GHOSTS

CHAPTER I.

     “Cowards are cruel.”  OLD PROVERB.