here is a stone that
one may call a stone. Who will send this into the fish-pond? It will
make a fountain of itself."

The children drew round him as, with ruffles turned back, he tugged
and pulled at a large dirty looking stone, which was half-buried in
the earth by the wall. "Up it comes!" said the Viscount, at length;
and sure enough, up it came; but underneath it, his bright eyes
shining out of his dirty wrinkled body--horror of horrors!--there lay
a toad. Now, even in England, toads are not looked upon with much
favour, and a party of English children would have been startled by
such a discovery. But with French people, the dread of toads is
ludicrous in its intensity. In France toads are believed to have
teeth, to bite, and to spit poison; so my hero and his young guests
must be excused for taking flight at once with a cry of dismay. On the
next terrace, however, they paused, and seeing no signs of the enemy,
crept slowly back again. The little Viscount (be it said) began to
feel ashamed of himself, and led the way, with his hand upon the
miniature sword which hung at his side. All eyes were fixed upon the
fatal stone, when from behind it was seen slowly to push forth, first
a dirty wrinkled leg, then half a dirty wrinkled head, with one
gleaming eye. It was too much; with cries of, "It is he! he comes! he
spits! he pursues us!" the young guests of the chateau fled in good
earnest, and never stopped until they reached the fountain and the
fish-pond.

But Monsieur the Viscount stood his ground. At the sudden apparition
the blood rushed to his heart, and made him very white, then it
flooded back again and made him very red, and then he fairly drew his
sword, and shouting, "_Vive la France!_" rushed upon the enemy. The
sword if small was sharp, and stabbed the poor toad would most
undoubtedly have been, but for a sudden check received by the valiant
little nobleman. It came in the shape of a large heavy hand that
seized Monsieur the Viscount with the grasp of a giant, while a voice
which could only have belonged to the owner of such a hand said in
slow deep tones,

"_Que faites-vous?_" ("What are you doing?")

It was the tutor, who had been pacing up and down the terrace with a
book, and who now stood holding the book in his right hand, and our
hero in his left.

Monsieur the Viscount's tutor was a remarkable man. If he had not been
so, he would hardly have been tolerated at the chateau, since he was
not par