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He thrust his hands into his pockets, and tapped the ground nervously with his foot, shrugging his shoulders a little. The priest took off his hat and made the sacred gesture, his lips moving. Armand caught off his hat also, and said: “You pray–for him?”

“For the peace of a good man’s soul.”

“He did not confess; he had no rites of the Church; he had refused you many years.”

“My son, he had a confessor.”

Armand raised his eyebrows. “They told me of no one.”

“It was the Angel of Patience.”

They walked on again for a time without a word. At last the Cure said: “You will remain here?”

“I cannot tell. This ‘here’ is a small world, and the little life may fret me. Nor do I know what I have of this,”–he waved his hands towards the house,–“or of my father’s property. I may need to be a wanderer again.”

“God forbid! Have you not seen the will?”

“I have got no farther than his grave,” was the sombre reply.

The priest sighed. They paced the walk again in silence. At last the Cure said: “You will make the place cheerful, as it once was.”

“You are persistent,” replied the young man, smiling. “Whoever lives here should make it less gloomy.”

“We shall soon know who is to live here. See, there is Monsieur Garon, and Monsieur Medallion also.”

“The Avocat to tell secrets, the auctioneer to sell them–eh?” Armand went forward to the gate. Like most people, he found Medallion interesting, and the Avocat and he were old friends.

“You did not send for me, monsieur,” said the Avocat timidly, “but I thought it well to come, that you might know how things are; and Monsieur Medallion came because he is a witness to the will, and, in a case”–here the little man coughed nervously–“joint executor with Monsieur le Cure.”

They entered the house. In a business-like way Armand motioned them to chairs, opened the curtains, and rang the bell. The old housekeeper appeared, a sorrowful joy in her face, and Armand said: “Give us a bottle of the white-top, Sylvie, if there is any left.”

“There is plenty, monsieur,” she said; “none has been drunk these twelve years.”

The Avocat coughed, and said hesitatingly to Armand: “I asked Parpon the dwarf to come, monsieur. There is a reason.”

Armand raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Very good,” he said. “When will he be here?”

“He is waiting at the Louis Quinze hotel.”

“I will send for him,” said Armand, and gave the message to Sylvie, who was entering the room.

After they had drunk the wine placed before them, there was silence for a moment, for all were wondering why Parpon should be remembered in the Seigneur’s Will.

“Well,” said Medallion at last, “a strange little dog is Parpon. I could surprise you about him–and there isn’t any reason why I should keep the thing to myself. One day I was up among the rocks, looking for a strayed horse. I got tired, and lay down in the shade of the Rock of Red Pigeons–you know it. I fell asleep. Something waked me. I got up and heard the finest singing you can guess: not like any I ever heard; a wild, beautiful, shivery sort of thing. I listened for a long time. At last it stopped. Then something slid down the rock. I peeped out, and saw Parpon toddling away.”

The Cure stared incredulously, the Avocat took off his glasses and tapped his lips musingly, Armand whistled softly.

“So,” said Armand at last, “we have the jewel in the toad’s head. The clever imp hid it all these years–even from you, Monsieur le Cure.”

“Even from me,” said the Cure, smiling. Then, gravely: “It is strange, the angel in the stunted body.”

“Are you sure it’s an angel?” said Armand.

“Who ever knew Parpon do any harm?” queried the Cure.

“He has always been kind to the poor,” put in the Avocat.

“With the miller’s flour,” laughed Medallion: “a pardonable sin.” He sent a quizzical look at the Cure. “Do you remember the words of Parpon’s song?” asked Armand.