The headsman paused, scowling.
“Where, M. Capeluche, are we to lodge the prisoner in the interim?”
A sardonic smile suddenly played on the features of Capeluche.
“In Peptonneau, Comte de Mousqueton,” he said, “you will please to understand that since the days of the plague there has been no inn.”
The glance of the Man in Scarlet now shifted to the dilapidated, unoccupied structures on either side of his own dwelling.
“These are the only vacant houses in Peptonneau, their emptiness, of a truth, due to the fact that they stand next the dwelling of red. Of these two you may choose freely, sir.”
The crowd dispersed.
“Ho! Ho!” broke in a familiar voice. “There’ll be no hair on the neck of Mlle. Bonacieux to dull the edge of M. Capeluche’s good sword.”