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96 of us, M. le Headsman," she commented.

"There are many persons in your position who would so regard it," bluntly agreed the headsman.

"I shall not dissemble, M. le Headsman. I do not desire to die tomorrow."

"Is it for this that you have sent for me?"

The woman laughed.

"Yes, and no, Monsieur," she returned. "It has but recently been mentioned to me that an ancient law is still in effect and has a certain bearing"

She paused, glancing with studied carelessness at the headsman.

"The Comte de Mousqueton is a very clever fellow," remarked Capeluche, dryly. "What is it he has to say of this old law?"

"That it seems a pity to miss a perfectly legitimate opportunity both to accomplish a humanitarian act and so defeat the machinations of an interfering Italian Cardinal."

Capeluche's features for the first time relaxed into a smile.

"And Mlle. Bonacieux, therefore, of the two evils—death or a headsman—is willing to choose the latter?"

"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."

HORTLY after six o'clock next evening old Jacques stole from the Angouléme 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.

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."