Part 7

Thus stretched out, thus dulled in his observation through the window, d’Artagnan was no longer a man of war, d’Artagnan was no longer an officer of the palace; he was a bourgeois languishing between dinner and supper, between supper and bedtime; one of those brave ossified brains that no longer had room for a single idea, so fiercely did matter lie in wait at the gates of intelligence, and surveil the contraband that might be smuggled in by introducing into the skull a symptom of thought.

We have said that it was night; the shops were lighting up while the windows of the upper apartments were closing; a patrol of watch soldiers made the regular sound of their step heard.

D’Artagnan continued to hear nothing and to look at nothing but the blue corner of his sky.

Two steps from him, quite in the shadow, lying on a sack of maize, Planchet, his belly on the sack, both arms beneath his chin, watched d’Artagnan think, dream, or sleep with open eyes.

The observation had already been going on for a very long time.

Planchet began by doing:

— Hum! hum!

D’Artagnan did not move.

Planchet then saw that he must resort to some more efficacious means: after mature reflection, what he found most ingenious in the present circumstances was to let himself roll from his sack onto the parquet floor, murmuring against himself the word:

— Imbecile!

But, whatever the noise produced by Planchet’s fall, d’Artagnan, who, in the course of his existence, had heard far louder noises, did not appear to care in the least for that one.

Besides, an enormous cart, loaded with stones, emerging from the Rue Saint-Médéric, absorbed the noise of Planchet’s fall in the noise of its wheels.

Planchet, however, believed, as a sign of tacit approval, that he saw him smile imperceptibly at the word imbecile.

Which, emboldening him, made him say:

— Are you sleeping, Monsieur d’Artagnan?

— No, Planchet, I am not even sleeping, replied the musketeer.

— I have the despair, said Planchet, of having heard the word even.

— Well, what? is not that word French, Monsieur Planchet?

— Indeed it is, Monsieur d’Artagnan.

— Well?

— Well! that word distresses me.

— Explain your distress to me, Planchet, said d’Artagnan.

— If you say that you are not even sleeping, it is as if you said that you do not even have the consolation of sleeping. Or better, it is as if you said in other terms: Planchet, I am bored to death.

— Planchet, you know that I am never bored.

— Except today and the day before yesterday.

— Bah!

— Monsieur d’Artagnan, it has been a week since you returned from Fontainebleau; it has been a week since you no longer had your orders to give, nor your company to drill. The noise of muskets, of drums, and of all royalty is lacking to you; besides, I who have carried the musket, I understand that.

— Planchet, replied d’Artagnan, I assure you that I am not bored in the least.

— What are you doing, then, lying there like a dead man?

— My friend Planchet, there was at the siege of La Rochelle, when I was there, when you were there, when we were there finally, there was at the siege of La Rochelle an Arab who was renowned for his way of aiming the culverins. He was a spirited fellow, though he was of a singular color, the color of your olives. Well! this Arab, when he had eaten or worked, lay down as I am lying at this moment, and smoked I know not what magic leaves in a great tube with an amber tip; and, if some chief, happening to pass, reproached him for always sleeping, he would answer tranquilly: “Better to be seated than standing, lying than seated, dead than lying.”

— He was a lugubrious Arab both by his color and by his sayings, said Planchet. I remember him perfectly. He cut off the heads of the Protestants with much satisfaction.

— Precisely, and he embalmed them when they were worth the trouble.

— Yes, and when he worked at that embalming with all his herbs and all his great plants, he looked like a basket-maker making baskets.

— Yes, Planchet, yes, that is exactly it.

— Oh! I too have a memory.

— I do not doubt it; but what do you say of his reasoning?

— Monsieur, I find it perfect on one hand, but stupid on the other.

— Unfold, Planchet, unfold.

— Well! Monsieur, indeed, better to be seated than standing, that is constant especially when one is tired. In certain circumstances — and Planchet smiled with a roguish air — better to be lying than seated. But, as to the last proposition: better to be dead than lying, I declare that I find it absurd; that my indisputable preference is for the bed, and that, if you are not of my opinion, it is because, as I have the honor of telling you, you are bored to death.

— Planchet, do you know M. La Fontaine?

— The pharmacist at the corner of the Rue Saint-Médéric?

— No, the fabulist.

— Ah! master crow?

— Just so; well! I am like his hare.

— He has a hare too, then?

— He has all sorts of animals.

— Well! what does his hare do?

— It muses.

— Ah! ah!

— Planchet, I am like the hare of M. La Fontaine, I muse.

— You muse? said Planchet anxiously.

— Yes; your lodging, Planchet, is dreary enough to prompt meditation; you will agree to that, I hope.

— However, Monsieur, you do have a view of the street.

— Pardieu! that is refreshing, eh?

— It is nonetheless true, Monsieur, that, if you lodged at the back, you would be bored... No, I mean that you would muse even more.

— Faith! I do not know, Planchet.

— Besides, said the grocer, if your musings were of the kind that led you to the restoration of King Charles II.

And Planchet gave a little laugh that was not without meaning.

— Ah! Planchet, my friend, said d’Artagnan, you are becoming ambitious.

— Might there not be some other king to restore, Monsieur d’Artagnan, some other Monck to box up?

— No, my dear Planchet, all the kings are on their thrones... less well perhaps than I am on this chair; but there they are.

And d’Artagnan sighed.

— Monsieur d’Artagnan, said Planchet, you grieve me.

— You are very kind, Planchet.

— I have a suspicion, God forgive me.

— Which?

— Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are growing thin.

— Oh! said d’Artagnan striking his thorax, which resounded like an empty cuirass, that is impossible, Planchet.

— Ah! you see, said Planchet with effusion, it is that if you were to grow thin at my house...

— Well!

— Well! I would do something dreadful.

— Come now!

— Yes.

— What would you do? Let us see.

— I would find whoever is causing your sorrow.

— There, now I have a sorrow.

— Yes, you have one.

— No, Planchet, no.

— I tell you yes, I do; you have a sorrow, and you are growing thin.

— I am growing thin, are you sure?

— Before your very eyes... Malaga! if you grow thin any more, I take up my rapier, and go straight to cut the throat of M. d’Herblay.

— Eh! said d’Artagnan bouncing on his chair, what are you saying there, Planchet? and what is the name of M. d’Herblay doing in your grocery?

— Good! good! get angry if you want, insult me if you want; but, zounds! I know what I know.

D’Artagnan, during this second outburst of Planchet, had placed himself so as not to lose a single one of his glances, that is to say he had sat down, both hands on both knees, his neck stretched toward the worthy grocer.

— Come, explain yourself, he said, and tell me how you could utter a blasphemy of that magnitude. M. d’Herblay, your former chief, my friend, a man of the church, a musketeer turned bishop, you would raise the sword against him, Planchet?

— I would raise the sword against my father when I see you in such a state.

— M. d’Herblay, a gentleman!

— I care very little, I, that he is a gentleman. He makes you dream darkly, that is what I know. And, from dreaming darkly, one grows thin. Malaga! I will not have M. d’Artagnan leave my house thinner than he entered it.

— How does he make me dream darkly? Come, explain, explain.

— For three nights you have had the nightmare.

— I?

— Yes, you, and that, in your nightmare, you repeat: “Aramis! sly Aramis!”

— Ah! did I say that? said d’Artagnan anxiously.

— You said it, on Planchet’s honor!

— And well, after? You know the proverb, my friend. “Every dream is a lie.”

— Not so; for, each time that, for three days, you have gone out, you have not failed to ask me on your return: “Have you seen M. d’Herblay?” or else: “Have you received letters from M. d’Herblay for me?”

— But it seems to me it is quite natural that I should interest myself in that dear friend? said d’Artagnan.

— Granted, but not to the point of wasting away.

— Planchet, I shall fatten up, I give you my word of honor.

— Good! Monsieur, I accept it; for I know that, when you give your word of honor, it is sacred...

— I shall dream no more of Aramis.

— Very good!

— I shall no longer ask you if there are letters from M. d’Herblay.

— Perfectly.

— But you will explain one thing to me.

— Speak, Monsieur.

— I am an observer...

— I know that well...

— And just now you uttered a singular oath...

— Yes.

— Which is not your habit.

— “Malaga!” you mean?

— Exactly.

— It has been my oath since I became a grocer.

— That is right, it is the name of a dried grape.

— It is my oath of ferocity; once I have said “Malaga!” I am no longer a man.

— But finally I did not know that oath of yours.

— That is right, Monsieur, it was given to me.

And Planchet, in pronouncing these words, winked with a little air of cunning that called forth all d’Artagnan’s attention.

— Eh! eh! he went.

Planchet repeated:

— Eh! eh!

— Well! well! Monsieur Planchet.

— Why, Monsieur, said Planchet, I am not like you, I do not spend my life musing.

— You are wrong.

— I mean being bored, Monsieur; we have but a short time to live, why not make the most of it?

— You are an Epicurean philosopher, it would seem, Planchet?

— Why not? The hand is good, one writes and weighs sugar and spices; the foot is sure, one dances or walks; the stomach has teeth, one devours and digests; the heart is not too shriveled; well! Monsieur...

— Well! what, Planchet?

— Ah! there!... said the grocer rubbing his hands.

D’Artagnan crossed one leg over the other.

— Planchet, my friend, he said, you stupefy me with surprise.

— Why?

— Because you reveal yourself to me in an absolutely new light.

Planchet, flattered to the highest degree, continued to rub his hands until he wore off the epidermis.

— Ah! ah! said he, because I am only a beast, you think I shall be an imbecile?

— Well! Planchet, there is a piece of reasoning.

— Follow my thought well, Monsieur. I said to myself, continued Planchet, without pleasure, there is no happiness on earth.

— Oh! how true that is, what you say there, Planchet! interrupted d’Artagnan.

— Now, let us take, if not pleasure — pleasure is not so common a thing — at least consolations.

— And you console yourself?

— Exactly.

— Explain to me your way of consoling yourself.

— I put on a shield to go combat boredom. I regulate my time of patience, and, on the very eve of the day when I feel I am going to be bored, I amuse myself.

— It is no harder than that?

— No.

— And you found that all alone?

— All alone.

— It is miraculous.

— What do you say to it?

— I say that your philosophy has no equal in the world.

— Well then! follow my example.

— It is tempting.

— Do like me.

— I would ask nothing better; but all souls are not of the same temper, and perhaps, if I had to amuse myself like you, I would be horribly bored...

— Bah! try it first.

— What do you do? Come.

— Have you noticed that I am absent?

— Yes.

— In a certain way?

— Periodically.

— That is it, faith! You noticed it?

— My dear Planchet, you understand that, when one sees each other nearly every day, when one is absent, the other misses him? Do I not miss you, you, when I am on campaign?

— Immensely! that is to say I am like a body without a soul.

— This being agreed, let us continue.

— At what time is it that I am absent?

— The 15th and the 30th of each month.

— And I stay outside?

— Sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes four days.

— What did you believe I went to do?

— The receipts.

— And, on returning, you found my face?...

— Quite satisfied.

— You see, you say it yourself, always satisfied. And you attributed this satisfaction?...

— To your business going well; to purchases of rice, prunes, brown sugar, dried pears and molasses going marvelously. You have always been picturesque in character, Planchet; so I was not surprised for an instant to see you opt for grocery, which is one of the most varied and gentlest trades to the character, in that one handles almost all natural and perfumed things.

— That is well said, Monsieur; but what an error is yours!

— How, I err?

— When you believe that I go thus every fifteen days to collect or to buy. Oh! oh! Monsieur, how the devil could you believe such a thing? Oh! oh! oh!

And Planchet began to laugh in a way that inspired in d’Artagnan the most injurious doubts as to his own intelligence.

— I confess, said the musketeer, that I am not at your level.

— Monsieur, it is true.

— How, it is true?

— It must be true since you say it; but note well that this loses you nothing in my esteem.

— Ah! that is fortunate!

— No, you are a man of genius, you; and, when it is a question of war, of surprises, of tactics and of bold strokes, well! the kings are but little things beside you; but, for the repose of the soul, the cares of the body, the sweetmeats of life, if one may say so, ah! Monsieur, do not speak to me of men of genius, they are their own executioners.

— Good! Planchet, said d’Artagnan sparkling with curiosity, there you interest me to the highest degree.

— You are already less bored than a while ago, are you not?

— I was not bored; however, since you have been speaking to me, I amuse myself more.

— Come now! good beginning! I shall cure you.

— I ask nothing better.

— Will you let me try?

— This instant.

— So be it! Do you have horses here?

— Yes: ten, twenty, thirty.

— There is no need of so many; two, that is all.

— They are at your disposal, Planchet.

— Good! I am taking you away.

— When?

— Tomorrow.

— Where?

— Ah! you ask too much.

— Yet you will admit it is important that I know where I am going.

— Do you like the country?

— Indifferently, Planchet.

— Then you like the city?

— It depends.

— Well! I am taking you to a place half city half country.

— Good!

— To a place where you will amuse yourself, I am sure.

— Admirable!

— And, miracle, to a place from which you will return having been bored there.

— I?

— Mortally!

— Then it is to Fontainebleau that you are going?

— To Fontainebleau, exactly!

— You are going to Fontainebleau, you?

— I am going there.

— And what are you going to do at Fontainebleau, good Lord?

Planchet answered d’Artagnan with a wink full of malice.

— You have some land around there, scoundrel!

— Oh! a mere nothing, a hovel.

— I have caught you.

— But it is nice, upon my word!

— I am going to Planchet’s country estate! cried d’Artagnan.

— Whenever you wish.

— Did we not say tomorrow?

— Tomorrow, so be it; and besides, tomorrow is the 14th, that is to say the eve of the day I am afraid of being bored, so then, it is settled.

— Settled.

— You lend me one of your horses?

— The best.

— No, I prefer the gentlest; I was never an excellent horseman, you know, and, in grocery, I have grown rusty still more; and then...

— And then what?

— And then, added Planchet with another wink, and then I do not wish to tire myself.

— And why? dared to ask d’Artagnan.

— Because I would no longer amuse myself, answered Planchet.

And thereupon he rose from his sack of maize, stretching himself and making all his bones crack, one after the other, with a sort of harmony.

— Planchet! Planchet! cried d’Artagnan, I declare there is not on earth a sybarite who can be compared to you. Ah! Planchet, one sees well that we have not yet eaten a barrel of salt together near one another.

— And why is that, Monsieur?

— Because I did not yet know you, said d’Artagnan, and that, decidedly, I come back to believe definitively what I had thought for an instant the day when, at Boulogne, you strangled, or nearly, Lubin, the valet of M. de Wardes; Planchet, it is that you are a man of resource.

Planchet began to laugh with a laugh full of vanity, gave the musketeer good night, and went down into his back shop, which served him as a bedroom.

D’Artagnan resumed his first position on his chair, and his brow, smoothed for an instant, became more pensive than ever.

He had already forgotten the follies and the dreams of Planchet.

“Yes, he said to himself, taking up the thread of his thoughts, interrupted by this agreeable colloquy in which we have just made the public participate; yes, all is there:

“1° to know what Baisemeaux wanted with Aramis;

“2° to know why Aramis gives me no news of himself;

“3° to know where Porthos is.

“In these three points lies the mystery.

“Now, continued d’Artagnan, since our friends confess nothing to us, let us have recourse to our poor intelligence. One does what one can, morbleu! or malaga! as Planchet says.”

Chapter CXLI — The Letter from M. de Baisemeaux

D’Artagnan, faithful to his plan, went the very next morning to pay a visit to M. de Baisemeaux.

It was a day of cleanliness at the Bastille: the cannons were brushed, burnished, the staircases scraped; the turnkeys seemed occupied with the care of polishing their very keys.

As for the soldiers of the garrison, they walked about in their courtyards, under pretext that they were clean enough.

Commandant Baisemeaux received d’Artagnan in a manner more than polite; but he was with him of a reserve so tight, that all d’Artagnan’s finesse could not draw a syllable from him.

The more he kept within his limits, the more d’Artagnan’s distrust grew.

The latter even believed he noticed that the commandant was acting in virtue of a recent recommendation.

Baisemeaux had not been, with d’Artagnan, at the Palais-Royal, the cold and impenetrable man that the latter found in the Baisemeaux of the Bastille.

When d’Artagnan wanted to make him speak of the so pressing money affairs that had brought Baisemeaux in search of Aramis and rendered him expansive despite everything that evening, Baisemeaux pretexted orders to give in the prison itself, and left d’Artagnan to mope so long awaiting him, that our musketeer, certain to obtain not a word more, left the Bastille without Baisemeaux having returned from his inspection.

But he had a suspicion, d’Artagnan, and, once the suspicion awakened, d’Artagnan’s mind slept no more.

He was to men what the cat is to quadrupeds, the emblem at once of restlessness and of impatience.

A restless cat stays no more in place than the silk fluff that swings at every breath of air. A cat on the watch is dead before its post of observation, and neither hunger nor thirst can draw it from its meditation.

D’Artagnan, who burned with impatience, suddenly shook off that feeling like a too heavy cloak. He told himself that the thing hidden from him was precisely that which it imported to know.

Accordingly, he reflected that Baisemeaux would not fail to have Aramis warned, if Aramis had given him some recommendation. That is what happened.

Baisemeaux had scarcely had the material time to return from the donjon, when d’Artagnan had placed himself in ambush near the Rue du Petit-Musc, so as to see all those who should come out of the Bastille.

After an hour of station at the Herse-d’Or, under the awning where one took a little shade, d’Artagnan saw a guard soldier come out.

Now, that was the best index he could desire. Every warden or turnkey has his days of leaving and even his hours at the Bastille, since all are bound to have neither wife nor lodging in the castle; they may therefore go out without exciting curiosity.

But a quartered soldier is locked in for twenty-four hours when he is on guard, as is well known, and d’Artagnan knew it better than anyone. This soldier then could not go out in service dress except for an express and urgent order.

The soldier, we say, left the Bastille, and slowly, slowly, like a happy mortal to whom, instead of a sentry post before an insipid guardroom, or on a no less tedious bastion, comes the good fortune of a liberty joined to a walk, these two pleasures counting as service. He directed himself toward the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, sniffing the air, the sun, and looking at the women.

D’Artagnan followed him from afar. He had not yet fixed his ideas thereupon.

“First of all, he thought, I must see the face of this knave. A man seen is a man judged.”

D’Artagnan doubled his pace, and, which was not very difficult, got ahead of the soldier.

Not only did he see his face, which was rather intelligent and resolute, but still he saw his nose, which was a little red.

“The knave likes brandy,” he said to himself.

At the same time that he saw the red nose, he saw in the soldier’s belt a white paper.

“Good! he has a letter, added d’Artagnan. Now, a soldier is too happy to be chosen by M. de Baisemeaux for a messenger, he does not sell the message.”

As d’Artagnan was gnawing his fists, the soldier advanced always in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.

“He is certainly going to Saint-Mandé, he said to himself, and I shall not know what is in the letter...”

It was enough to drive one mad.

“If I were in uniform, said d’Artagnan, I would have the knave and his letter taken with him. The first guardhouse would lend a hand. But the devil if I tell my name for a fact of this kind. Make him drink, he will be on his guard and then he will get me drunk... Morbleu! I have no more wit, and it is all over with me. Attack this wretch, make him draw, kill him for his letter. Fine, if it were a question of a letter from a queen to a lord, or a letter from a cardinal to a queen. But, my God, what paltry intrigues those of MM. Aramis and Fouquet with M. Colbert! The life of a man for that, oh! no, not even ten écus.”

As he was philosophizing thus, eating his nails and mustaches, he caught sight of a little group of archers and a commissioner.

These people were leading away a fine-looking man who struggled with the best will.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”