few fierce struggles in his own breast.

"You seem to look forward to death with great cheerfulness,
Mademoiselle."

The large eyes were raised to him with a look of surprise at the
irritation of his tone.

"I think," she said gently, "that one does not look forward to, but
_beyond_ it." She stopped and hesitated, still watching his face, and
then spoke hurriedly and diffidently:--

"Monsieur, it seems impertinent to make such suggestions to you, who
have doubtless a full fund of consolation; but I remember, when a child,
going to hear the preaching of a monk who was famous for his eloquence.
He said that his text was from the Scriptures--it has been in my mind
all to-day--'_There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary
be at rest._' The man is becoming impatient. Adieu! Monsieur. A thousand
thanks and a thousand blessings."

She offered her cheek, on which there was not a ray of increased color,
and Monsieur the Viscount stooped and kissed it, with a thick mist
gathering in his eyes, through which he could not see her face.

"Adieu! Valerie!"

"Adieu! Louis!"

So they met, and so they parted; and as Monsieur the Viscount went back
to his prison, he flattered himself that the last link was broken for
him in the chain of earthly interests.

When he reached the cell he was tired, and lay down, and in a few
seconds a soft scrambling over the floor announced the return of
Monsieur Crapaud from his hiding place. With one wrinkled leg after
another he clambered on to the stone, and Monsieur the Viscount started
when he saw him.

"Friend Crapaud! I had actually forgotten thee. I fancied I had said
adieu for the last time;" and he gave a choked sigh, which Monsieur
Crapaud could not be expected to understand. In about five minutes he
sprang up suddenly. "Monsieur Crapaud, I have not long to live, and no
time must be lost in making my will." Monsieur Crapaud was too wise to
express any astonishment; and his master began to hunt for a
tidy-looking stone (paper and cambric were both at an end). They were
all rough and dirty; but necessity had made the Viscount inventive, and
he took a couple and rubbed them together till he had polished both.
Then he pulled out the little pencil, and for the next half hour wrote
busily. When it was done he lay down, and read it to his friend. This
was Monsieur the Viscount's last will and testament:--

"_To my successor in this cell._

"To you w