It was Jacques' turn to be surprised.
"Ha! Say you that Mile. Bonacieux is not to die this eve?"
The Abbe’s eyes showed that he understood.
"That I say, indeed, Jacques. You and I be old men and we have seen much, but never before has anyone in our generation in all France and her possessions witnessed that which is about to occur in modest little Peptonneau."
"And what is that?" sharply demanded Jacques.
"The wedding of M. Capeluche, the headsman, to Mlle. Bonacieux, the condemned."
Jacques threw back his head and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"That indeed is droll!" he shouted. "M. le Headsman weds a woman and then immediately cuts off her head."
The owl-like eyes of the Abbé regarded Jacques solemnly.
"You do not know the full import of what I have told you. Jacques."
The old peasant sobered instantly.
"What's that?"
"Then you have never heard of the Merovingian statute which provides that the headsman may marry a condemned woman, if he is able and willing, and thereby save her life?"
"Ah! Ah! Ah!" came from Jacques, his small eyes opening and shutting with lightning rapidity. "Thus it proceeds, eh? M. le Headsman surrenders to the charms of the beautiful Mlle. Bonacieux. He plans to take her to wife. Is not the situation amusing?"
Suddenly he shook the arm of the old Abbé.
"But it can not be, Abbé Kérouec," he exclaimed vociferously. "I knew the worthy M. Capeluche at Fontainebleau. He was a friend of mine, and the father of the headsman in Peptonneau, and he confided in me that on a certain occasion a lady-in-waiting one day brought her child to the dwelling in red, whereupon the Capeluche sword rattled furiously in its closet, which meant, of an absolute surety, that the child, unless its neck was pricked by the point of the sword, would some day die by that sword. That woman bore the name of Bonacieux, and now, after eighteen years, old Jacques lives to see Mlle. Bonacieux, the child grown to womanhood, awaiting her death under the famous sword in the hands of a Capeluche."
Jacques paused for breath. The old Abbé had endeavored to follow the harangue of the peasant.
"Understand? A portent!" shouted Jacques, in desperation. "Mlle. Bonacieux is to die tonight by the sword of the headsman, Capeluche."
"Nay! Nay! Jacques," in turn exclaimed the Abbé. "I know not of what you prate, save that it be Godless. But there will be a wedding in Peptonneau this eve, and no woman will die by the hand of Capeluche."
A THRONG had gathered before the house in red by the time the Abbé and his companion Jacques made their way along the village street. The Comte met them. He was in doublet and hose of violet color with aiguillettes of same, having the customary slashes through which the shirt appeared. The dress was handsome, albeit it gave evidence of having been but recently taken from a traveler’s box, which had left it in
creases.
"We have little time," he said.
He left them, but returned presently with Mlle. Bonacieux, and at sight of her unusual beauty, accompanied by so graceful a figure as the Comte, a murmur of appreciation stirred the rustic spectators.
With the Abbé preceding them, the little party passed into the red dwelling. M. Capeluche, in the cloak of his office, stood awaiting them. The Abbé he treated with marked deference, a manner that sat oddly on him.
