For the space of a minute Jacques followed in silence, his old nut-cracker face full of preliminary guile. Then he pushed forward.
“It is a fine day, good father,” he shouted.
In surprise the old man surveyed him.
“Ay, a fine day, Jacques, you godless one,” he replied in the toneless voice of the deaf.
“But the clemency of the weather is not for the delectation of the young beauty from Fontainebleau now lodged in Peptonneau.”
The Abbé Kérouec inclined his head. He was exceedingly deaf and had not heard.
Jacques swore heartily. At the top of his lungs he shouted:
“Bad weather for her who dies at seven this evening by the hand of M. Capeluche.”
The light of comprehension came into the features of the ancient Abbé.
“Ah, my good fellow, you mistake. I come to M. Capeluche’s dwelling on a more gracious mission than to shrive the soul of one condemned by the King’s Writ.”