It is small, with one window.

The floor and walls are bare, and it contains no furniture; but on the floor is a worn-out pallet, by which lies a stone, and on that a broken pitcher, and in a little frame against the wall is preserved a crumpled bit of paper like the fly-leaf of some little book, on which is a half-effaced inscription, which can be deciphered by Monsieur the Viscount if by no one else.

Above the window is written in large letters, a date and the word REMEMBER.
Monsieur the Viscount is not likely to forget, but he is afraid of himself and of prosperity lest it should spoil him.
It is evening, and Monsieur the Viscount is strolling along the terrace with Madame on his arm.

He has only one to offer her, for where the other should be an empty sleeve is pinned to his breast, on which a bit of ribbon is stirred by the breeze.

Monsieur the Viscount has not been idle since we saw him last; the faith that taught him to die, has taught him also how to live--an honourable, useful life.
It is evening, and the air comes up perfumed from a bed of violets by which Monsieur the Viscount is kneeling.