"Come in, Monsieur Darrel," he said; "the mayor and I are packing up
the effects of the Purple Emperor and of the poor Red Admiral." "The collections?" I asked, entering the room. "You must be very
careful in packing those butterfly cases; the slightest jar might break
wings and antennæ, you know." Le Bihan shook hands with me and pointed to the great pile of boxes. "They're all cork lined," he said, "but Fortin and I are putting felt
around each box. The Entomological Society of Paris pays the freight." The combined collections of the Red Admiral and the Purple Emperor made
a magnificent display. I lifted and inspected case after case set with gorgeous butterflies
and moths, each specimen carefully labelled with the name in Latin. There were cases filled with crimson tiger moths all aflame with
colour; cases devoted to the common yellow butterflies; symphonies in
orange and pale yellow; cases of soft gray and dun-coloured sphinx
moths; and cases of garish nettle-bred butterflies of the numerous
family of _Vanessa_. All alone in a great case by itself was pinned the purple emperor, the
Apatura Iris, that fatal specimen that had given the Purple Emperor his
name and quietus. I remembered the butterfly, and stood looking at it with bent eyebrows. Le Bihan glanced up from the floor where he was nailing down the lid of
a box full of cases. "It is settled, then," said he, "that madame, your wife, gives the
Purple Emperor's entire collection to the city of Paris?" I nodded. "Without accepting anything for it?" "It is a gift," I said. "Including the purple emperor there in the case? That butterfly is
worth a great deal of money," persisted Le Bihan. "You don't suppose that we would wish to sell that specimen, do you?" I answered a trifle sharply. "If I were you I should destroy it," said the mayor in his high-pitched
voice. "That would be nonsense," said I--"like your burying the brass cylinder
and scroll yesterday." "It was not nonsense," said Le Bihan doggedly, "and I should prefer not
to discuss the subject of the scroll." I looked at Max Fortin, who immediately avoided my eyes. "You are a pair of superstitious old women," said I, digging my hands
into my pockets; "you swallow every nursery tale that is invented." "What of it?" said Le Bihan sulkily; "there's more truth than lies in
most of 'em." "Oh!" I sneered, "does the Mayor of St. Gildas and St. Julien believe
in the Loup-garou?" "No, not in the Loup-garou." "In what, then--Jeanne-la-Flamme?" "That," said Le Bihan with conviction, "is history." "The devil it is!" said I; "and perhaps, monsieur the mayor, your faith
in giants is unimpaired?" "There were giants--everybody knows it," growled Max Fortin. "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 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." "A--a very curious cobblestone, Monsieur Darrel," said Fortin. "I also was a victim to the same hallucination," I continued, "and I
regret to say that I took the trouble to roll two innocent cobblestones
into the gravel pit, imagining each time that it was the skull I was
rolling." "It was," observed Le Bihan with a morose shrug. "It just shows," said I, ignoring the mayor's remark, "how easy it is
to fix up a train of coincidences so that the result seems to savour
of the supernatural. Now, last night my wife imagined that she saw a
priest in a mask peer in at her window----"

Fortin and Le Bihan scrambled hastily from their knees, dropping hammer
and nails. "W-h-a-t--what's that?" demanded the mayor. I repeated what I had said. Max Fortin turned livid. "My God!" muttered Le Bihan, "the Black Priest is in St. Gildas!" "D-don't you--you know the old prophecy?" stammered Fortin; "Froissart
quotes it from Jacques Sorgue:

  'When the Black Priest rises from the dead,
  St. Gildas folk shall shriek in bed;
  When the Black Priest rises from his grave,
  May the good God St. Gildas save!'" "Aristide Le Bihan," I said angrily, "and you, Max Fortin, I've got
enough of this nonsense! Some foolish lout from Bannalec has been in
St. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old fools like you. If you have
nothing better to talk about than nursery legends I'll wait until you
come to your senses. Good-morning." And I walked out, more disturbed
than I cared to acknowledge to myself. The day had become misty and overcast. Heavy, wet clouds hung in the
east.