“And you a chemist!” I observed scornfully.

“Listen, Monsieur Darrel,” squeaked Le Bihan; “you know yourself that the Purple Emperor was a scientific man.  Now suppose I should tell you that he always refused to include in his collection a Death’s Messenger?”

“A what?” I exclaimed.

“You know what I mean—­that moth that flies by night; some call it the Death’s Head, but in St. Gildas we call it ‘Death’s Messenger.’”

“Oh!” said I, “you mean that big sphinx moth that is commonly known as the ‘death’s-head moth.’  Why the mischief should the people here call it death’s messenger?”

“For hundreds of years it has been known as death’s messenger in St. Gildas,” said Max Fortin.  “Even Froissart speaks of it in his commentaries on Jacques Sorgue’s Chronicles.  The book is in your library.”

“Sorgue?  And who was Jacques Sorgue?  I never read his book.”

“Jacques Sorgue [Transcriber’s note:  the original reads “Sorque”] was the son of some unfrocked priest—­I forget.  It was during the crusades.”

“Good Heavens!” I burst out, “I’ve been hearing of nothing but crusades and priests and death and sorcery ever since I kicked that skull into the gravel pit, and I am tired of it, I tell you frankly.  One would think we lived in the dark ages.  Do you know what year of our Lord it is, Le Bihan?”

“Eighteen hundred and ninety-six,” replied the mayor.

“And yet you two hulking men are afraid of a death’s-head moth.”

“I don’t care to have one fly into the window,” said Max Fortin; “it means evil to the house and the people in it.”

“God alone knows why he marked one of his creatures with a yellow death’s head on the back,” observed Le Bihan piously, “but I take it that he meant it as a warning; and I propose to profit by it,” he added triumphantly.

“See here, Le Bihan,” I said; “by a stretch of imagination one can make out a skull on the thorax of a certain big sphinx moth.  What of it?”

“It is a bad thing to touch,” said the mayor wagging his head.

“It squeaks when handled,” added Max Fortin.

“Some creatures squeak all the time,” I observed, looking hard at Le Bihan.

“Pigs,” added the mayor.

“Yes, and asses,” I replied.  “Listen, Le Bihan:  do you mean to tell me that you saw that skull roll uphill yesterday?”

The mayor shut his mouth tightly and picked up his hammer.

“Don’t be obstinate,” I said; “I asked you a question.”

“And I refuse to answer,” snapped Le Bihan.  “Fortin saw what I saw; let him talk about it.”

I looked searchingly at the little chemist.

“I don’t say that I saw it actually roll up out of the pit, all by itself,” said Fortin with a shiver, “but—­but then, how did it come up out of the pit, if it didn’t roll up all by itself?”

“It didn’t come up at all; that was a yellow cobblestone that you mistook for the skull again,” I replied.  “You were nervous, Max.”