“You put it so bluntly, M. le Headsman,” she sighed. “There can be compensations on either hand. If, for instance, the headsman surrenders his celibacy to a pretty woman, it is not inconceivable that she may reciprocate by surrendering her jewels to him.”
“On condition?”
In sincere surprise, Mlle. Bonacieux glanced up.
“Your perspicacity is gratifying, Monsieur,” she exclaimed. “The condition, suggested by you, is that immediately after the ceremony Madam Capeluche be released and permitted to journey back to Fontainebleau with the Comte de Mousqueton.”
The gleaming eyes of the man told much—or little. He approached the reclining beauty.
“Mlle. Bonacieux,” he said. “The Merovingian statute is still law, being, in fact, the very writ that directs my hand in your case.”
For an instant he stood over her.
“The Abbé Kérouec,” he added harshly, “will wed us two tomorrow, five minutes before seven in the evening, the hour fixed by the writ for your death.”
Shortly after six o’clock next evening old Jacques stole from the Angoulème wood and fell in step immediately behind a man garbed in a long close-fitting black coat with skirts that fell to his feet. This individual was making his way with painful slowness along the road to Peptonneau.