The village of Peptonneau was small, having less than a thousand inhabitants, its houses being of stone, and built close together in the manner of the gregarious Latin. Most striking of these structures in their uniformity was one near the center square painted a brilliant red.
In the clear sunshine of that Thirteenth Century July day, the dwelling stood out like a veritable lighthouse, and thither, giving no heed to the leper who passed in the opposite direction, fingerless, noseless, the bell at his neck ringing dolefully, the two peasants complacently padded their barefoot way.
A tall, lean, but well-thewed individual in leather jerkin and girdle, lounged in front of the house of red. With cynical eyes he viewed the approach of the peasants.
“In five minutes, M. Capeluche,” announced Jacques, a trifle breathlessly, “a coach and riders will arrive.”
“And you, old cock, trot hither from your berry-picking to tell me that bit of famous gossip?”
“Ay! I’m an old cock, and many years have passed o’er my head, Monsieur, but it is a head not destined to be removed by a Capeluche, nor yet by the son of a Capeluche.”
“Sirrah! Daily I give thanks to the Holy Virgin,” retorted the headsman, “that the delicate skill of a Capeluche is not for the hairy necks of such canaille as you.”
“Who knows,” sturdily replied Jacques, “as to the quality or quantity of hair on the neck of one who draws near in yonder coach?”
The grunt that left the headsman betrayed his interest. He peered down the road.
“What do you mean by that?”