Monsieur the Preceptor laughed heartily.  “You are misled by a vulgar error.  Toads do not bite—­they have no teeth; neither do they spit poison.”

“You are wrong, Monsieur,” said the Viscount; “I have seen their teeth myself.  Claude Mignon, at the lodge, has two terrible ones, which he keeps in his pocket as a charm.”

“I have seen them,” said the tutor, “in Monsieur Claude’s pocket.  When he can show me similar ones in a toad’s head I will believe.  Meanwhile, I must beg of you, Monsieur, to put up your sword.  You must not kill this poor animal, which is quite harmless, and very useful in a garden—­it feeds upon many insects and reptiles which injure the plants.”

“It shall not be useful, in this garden,” said the little Viscount, fretfully.  “There are plenty of gardeners to destroy the insects, and, if needful, we can have more.  But the toad shall not remain.  My mother would faint if she saw so hideous a beast among her beautiful flowers.”

“Jacques!” roared the tutor to a gardener who was at some distance.  Jacques started as if a clap of thunder had sounded in his ear, and approached with low bows.  “Take that toad, Jacques, and carry it to the potager.  It will keep the slugs from your cabbages.”

Jacques bowed low and lower, and scratched his head, and then did reverence again with Asiatic humility, but at the same time moved gradually backwards, and never even looked at the toad.

“You also have seen the contents of Monsieur Claude’s pocket?” said the tutor, significantly, and quitting his hold of the Viscount, he stooped down, seized the toad in his huge finger and thumb, and strode off in the direction of the potager, followed at a respectful distance by Jacques, who vented his awe and astonishment in alternate bows and exclamations at the astounding conduct of the incomprehensible Preceptor.

“What is the use of such ugly beasts?” said the Viscount to his tutor, on his return from the potager.  “Birds and butterflies are pretty, but what can such villains as these toads have been made for?”

“You should study natural history, Monsieur—­” began the priest, who was himself a naturalist.

“That is what you always say,” interrupted the Viscount, with the perverse folly of ignorance; “but if I knew as much as you do, it would not make me understand why such ugly creatures need have been made.”

“Nor,” said the priest, firmly, “is it necessary that you should understand it, particularly if you do not care to inquire.  It is enough for you and me if we remember Who made them, some six thousand years before either of us was born.”

With which Monsieur the Preceptor (who had all this time kept his place in the little book with his big thumb) returned to the terrace, and resumed his devotions at the point where they had been interrupted which exercise he continued till he was joined by the Cure of the village, and the two priests relaxed in the political and religious gossip of the day.