Part 10

— And white water for my own mount, said Porthos, for she is quite warm, it seems to me.

— Oh! fear nothing, gentlemen, replied Planchet; Father Célestin is an old gendarme from Ivry. He knows the stable; come to the house, come.

He drew the two friends along a very shaded path that crossed a kitchen garden, then a small patch of alfalfa, and which finally led to a little garden behind which stood the house, whose main façade had already been seen from the street.

As they drew nearer, one could make out, through two windows open at ground level giving access to the room, the interior, the *penetralia* of Planchet.

This room, softly lit by a lamp placed upon the table, appeared at the end of the garden like a cheerful image of tranquility, comfort, and happiness.

Everywhere the speck of light detached from the luminous center fell upon an old faience dish, upon a piece of furniture gleaming with cleanliness, upon a weapon hanging from the tapestry, the pure brightness found a pure reflection, and the drop of fire came to sleep upon the thing pleasing to the eye.

This lamp, which lit the room while the foliage of jasmines and birthworts fell from the window frames, splendidly illuminated a damask tablecloth white as a patch of snow.

Two place settings were laid upon this cloth. A yellowed wine rolled its rubies in the faceted crystal of the long bottle, and a large blue earthenware pot, with a silver lid, held a frothy cider.

Near the table, in a wide-backed armchair, slept a woman of thirty, her face expanded by health and freshness.

And, upon the knees of this fresh creature, a big gentle cat, curling its body upon its folded paws, made heard the characteristic purr which, with half-closed eyes, signifies in feline customs: "I am perfectly happy."

The two friends stopped before this window, quite dumbfounded with surprise.

Planchet, seeing their astonishment, was moved by a sweet joy.

— Ah! rogue of a Planchet! said d'Artagnan; I understand your absences.

— Oh! oh! here is some fine white linen, said Porthos in his turn in a thundering voice.

At the noise of this voice, the cat fled, the housewife awoke with a start, and Planchet, assuming a gracious air, introduced the two companions into the room where the table was set.

— Allow me, my dear, he said, to present to you the Chevalier d'Artagnan, my protector.

D'Artagnan took the lady's hand like a man of the Court and with the same chivalrous manners he would have used for Madame.

— The Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, added Planchet.

Porthos made a bow with which Anne of Austria would have declared herself satisfied, under pain of being very exacting.

Then it was Planchet's turn.

He kissed the lady quite frankly, after however making a sign that seemed to ask permission of d'Artagnan and Porthos.

Permission which was granted him, of course.

D'Artagnan paid Planchet a compliment.

— Here is, he said, a man who knows how to arrange his life.

— Monsieur, replied Planchet laughing, life is a capital which a man must invest as ingeniously as he possibly can...

— And you draw handsome interest from it, said Porthos laughing like thunder.

Planchet returned to his housewife.

— My dear friend, he said, you see before you the two men who guided a part of my existence. I have named you both many a time.

— And two others besides, said the lady with a most pronounced Flemish accent.

— Is Madame Dutch? asked d'Artagnan.

Porthos curled his mustache, which d'Artagnan noticed, he who noticed everything.

— I am from Antwerp, replied the lady.

— And she is called Dame Gechter, said Planchet.

— You do not call her that, said d'Artagnan.

— Why so? asked Planchet.

— Because you would age her each time you called her thus.

— No, I call her Trüchen.

— Charming name, said Porthos.

— Trüchen, said Planchet, came to me from Flanders with her virtue and two thousand florins. She was fleeing a tiresome husband who beat her. Being a Picard, I have always loved the women of Artois. From Artois to Flanders is but a step. She came to weep with her godfather, my predecessor on the rue des Lombards; she placed her two thousand florins with me, which I have made fruitful, and which bring her ten thousand.

— Bravo, Planchet!

— She is free, she is rich; she has a cow, she commands a servant and Father Célestin; she makes all my shirts, she knits all my winter stockings; she sees me only every fortnight, and she is kind enough to think herself happy.

— Happy I indeed am... said Trüchen with abandon.

Porthos curled the other hemisphere of his mustache.

"Devil! devil! thought d'Artagnan; could Porthos have intentions?..."

Meanwhile, Trüchen, understanding what was afoot, had roused her cook, added two place settings, and loaded the table with exquisite dishes, which turn a supper into a meal, and a meal into a feast.

Fresh butter, salt beef, anchovies and tuna, all Planchet's groceries.

Chickens, vegetables, salad, pond fish, river fish, forest game, all the resources of the province.

Moreover, Planchet returned from the cellar, laden with ten bottles whose glass disappeared beneath a thick coating of gray dust.

This aspect rejoiced the heart of Porthos.

— I am hungry, he said.

And he sat down near Dame Trüchen with a murderous glance.

D'Artagnan sat on the other side.

Planchet, discreetly and joyfully, placed himself opposite.

— Do not be bored, he said, if, during supper, Trüchen often leaves the table; she is overseeing your bedrooms.

Indeed, the housewife made many trips, and one could hear on the floor above the bedsteads groan and the casters cry upon the tiles.

During this time, the three men ate and drank, Porthos especially.

It was a marvel to see them.

The ten bottles were ten shades when Trüchen came down again with cheese.

D'Artagnan had preserved all his dignity.

Porthos, on the contrary, had lost a part of his.

They sang of battle, they spoke of songs.

D'Artagnan advised a new trip to the cellar, and, as Planchet did not walk with all the regularity of the *learned foot soldier*, the captain of the musketeers proposed to accompany him.

They therefore departed humming songs enough to frighten the most Flemish devils.

Trüchen remained at table near Porthos.

While the two gourmets made their choice behind the flitches, one heard that dry and sonorous noise produced, in making a vacuum, by two lips upon a cheek.

"Porthos must think himself at La Rochelle," thought d'Artagnan.

They came back up laden with bottles.

Planchet could no longer see, so much did he sing.

D'Artagnan, who always could see, noticed how much redder Trüchen's left cheek was than the right.

Now, Porthos was smiling at Trüchen's left, and curling, with both hands, both sides of his mustaches at once.

Trüchen was smiling too at the magnificent lord.

The sparkling wine of Anjou made of the three men first three devils, then three beams.

D'Artagnan had only the strength to take a candlestick to light Planchet to his own staircase.

Planchet dragged Porthos, whom Trüchen pushed, quite jovial on her side too.

It was d'Artagnan who found the rooms and discovered the beds. Porthos plunged into his, undressed by his friend the musketeer.

D'Artagnan threw himself upon his, saying:

— Mordioux! I had however sworn never to touch that yellow wine that smells of flint. Fie! if the musketeers saw their captain in such a state!

And, drawing the bed curtains:

— Fortunately they will not see me, he added.

Planchet was carried off in Trüchen's arms, who undressed him and closed curtains and doors.

— The country is diverting, said Porthos stretching his legs which passed through the wood of the bed, which produced an enormous collapse at which no one took offense, so much had they diverted themselves at Planchet's country place.

Everyone was snoring by two hours after midnight.

Chapter CXLV — What One Sees of Planchet's House

The next day found the three heroes sleeping with the best heart.

Trüchen had closed the shutters like a woman who fears, for heavy eyes, the first visit of the rising sun.

Thus it was pitch dark under Porthos's curtains and under Planchet's canopy, when d'Artagnan, awakened first by an indiscreet ray piercing the windows, jumped from the bed, as if to arrive first at the assault.

He took Porthos's room by assault, neighboring his own.

This worthy Porthos slept as thunder rumbles; he proudly displayed in the darkness his gigantic torso, and his swollen fist hung outside the bed upon the rug.

D'Artagnan awakened Porthos, who rubbed his eyes with fairly good grace.

During this time, Planchet was dressing and came to receive, at the doors of their rooms, his two guests still wavering from the eve.

Though it was still morning, the whole house was already on its feet. The cook was slaughtering without pity in the yard, and Father Célestin was picking cherries in the garden.

Porthos, quite merry, offered a hand to Planchet, and d'Artagnan asked permission to embrace Mme Trüchen.

She, who bore no grudge to the vanquished, approached Porthos, to whom the same favor was granted.

Porthos embraced Mme Trüchen with a great sigh.

Then Planchet took the two friends by the hand.

— I am going to show you the house, he said; last evening we entered here as into an oven, and could see nothing; but by daylight all changes aspect and you will be pleased.

— Let us begin with the view, said d'Artagnan; the view charms me before all things; I have always lived in royal houses, and princes do not know too badly how to choose their points of view.

— I, said Porthos, have always held to the view. In my château of Pierrefonds, I had four avenues cut leading to a varied perspective.

— You shall see my perspective, said Planchet.

And he led the two guests to a window.

— Ah! yes, that is the rue de Lyon, said d'Artagnan.

— Yes. I have two windows this way, insignificant view; one makes out that inn, always bustling and noisy; it is an unpleasant neighborhood. I had four windows this way, I have kept only two.

— Let us pass on, said d'Artagnan.

They re-entered a corridor leading to the rooms, and Planchet pushed open the shutters.

— Why, why! said Porthos; what is that, there yonder?

— The forest, said Planchet. It is the horizon, always a thick line, which is yellowish in spring, green in summer, red in autumn and white in winter.

— Very well; but it is a curtain that prevents seeing farther.

— Yes, said Planchet; but, from here to there, one sees...

— Ah! that great field!... said Porthos. Why!... what do I notice there?... Crosses, stones.

— Why, but it is the cemetery! cried d'Artagnan.

— Precisely, said Planchet; I assure you it is very curious. There passes not a day without someone being buried here. Fontainebleau is quite a place. Sometimes it is young girls dressed in white with banners, sometimes aldermen or rich burghers with the cantors and the parish vestry, sometimes officers of the king's household.

— I, I do not like that, said Porthos.

— It is little diverting, said d'Artagnan.

— I assure you it gives holy thoughts, replied Planchet.

— Ah! I do not say otherwise.

— But, continued Planchet, we must die one day, and there is somewhere a maxim I have kept in mind, this one: "The thought of death is a salutary thought."

— I do not say the contrary, said Porthos.

— But, objected d'Artagnan, it is also a salutary thought, that of greenery, of flowers, of rivers, of blue horizons, of wide endless plains...

— If I had them, I would not reject them, said Planchet; but, having only this little cemetery, also flowered, mossy, shady and calm, I content myself with it, and I think of the townspeople who dwell rue des Lombards, for example, and who hear two thousand carts roll by each day, and a hundred fifty thousand persons tramp in the mud.

— But alive, said Porthos, alive!

— That is just why, said Planchet timidly, it rests me, to see a few of the dead.

— This devil of a Planchet, said d'Artagnan, he was born to be a poet as to be a grocer.

— Monsieur, said Planchet, I was one of those good-natured men God made to be animated for a certain time and to find good all things that accompany their stay on earth.

D'Artagnan then sat near the window, and, this philosophy of Planchet having seemed sound to him, he dreamed thereupon.

— Pardieu! cried Porthos; why, they are giving us the comedy. Do I not hear a bit of singing?

— But yes, they are singing, said d'Artagnan.

— Oh! it is a burial of the lowest order, said Planchet disdainfully. There is only the officiating priest, the beadle and the choirboy. You see, gentlemen, that the deceased was not a prince.

— No, no one follows his procession.

— Yes indeed, said Porthos, I see a man.

— Yes, it is true, a man wrapped in a cloak, said d'Artagnan.

— That is not worth the trouble of being seen, said Planchet.

— That interests me, said d'Artagnan quickly, leaning on the window.

— Come, come, you are taking the bait, said Planchet joyfully; it is like me: the first days, I was sad to be making the sign of the cross all day, and the songs went into my brain like nails; since then, I rock myself with the songs, and I have never seen prettier birds than those of the cemetery.

— I, said Porthos, amuse myself no longer; I prefer to go down.

Planchet made but one bound; he offered his hand to Porthos to lead him into the garden.

— What! you stay there? said Porthos to d'Artagnan turning around.

— Yes, my friend, yes; I will join you.

— Eh! eh! M. d'Artagnan is not wrong, said Planchet; are they already burying?

— Not yet.

— Ah! yes, the gravedigger waits until the ropes are knotted around the coffin... Why! a woman enters at the other end of the cemetery.

— Yes, yes, dear Planchet, said d'Artagnan quickly; but leave me, leave me; I am beginning to enter into salutary meditations, do not disturb me.

Planchet gone, d'Artagnan devoured with his eyes, behind the half-closed shutter, what was passing opposite.

The two bearers of the corpse had detached the straps of their litter and let their burden slide into the grave.

A few steps away, the man in the cloak, sole spectator of the lugubrious scene, leaned against a great cypress, and entirely hid his face from the gravediggers and priests. The body of the deceased was buried in five minutes.

The grave filled, the priests returned. The gravedigger addressed a few words to them and set off behind them.

The man in the cloak saluted them as they passed and placed a coin in the gravedigger's hand.

— Mordioux! murmured d'Artagnan; but that man is Aramis!

Aramis, indeed, remained alone, at least on this side; for, scarcely had he turned his head, than the step of a woman and the rustle of a robe sounded on the path near him.

He turned at once and removed his hat with a courtier's great respect; he led the lady under a cover of chestnuts and lindens that shaded a sumptuous tomb.

— Ah! upon my word, said d'Artagnan, the Bishop of Vannes giving assignations! It is always the Abbé Aramis, paying court at Noisy-le-Sec. Yes, added the musketeer; but, in a cemetery, it is a sacred rendezvous.

And he began to laugh.

The conversation lasted a good half hour.

D'Artagnan could not see the lady's face, for she turned her back to him; but he saw perfectly, by the stiffness of the two speakers, by the symmetry of their gestures, by the measured, industrious fashion with which they launched glances at each other like attack or defense, he saw that they were not speaking of love.

At the end of the conversation, the lady rose, and it was she who bowed profoundly before Aramis.

— Oh! oh! said d'Artagnan; but this ends like a love rendezvous!... The cavalier kneels at the beginning; the damsel is tamed afterward, and it is she who supplicates... Who is this damsel? I would give a fingernail to see her.

But it was impossible. Aramis left first; the lady sank beneath her headdress and departed after.

D'Artagnan could hold no longer: he ran to the window on the rue de Lyon.

Aramis had just entered the inn.

The lady was walking in the opposite direction. She was likely going to rejoin a equipage of two saddle horses and a carriage that could be seen at the edge of the wood.

She walked slowly, head lowered, absorbed in deep reverie.

— Mordioux! mordioux! I must know this woman, said the musketeer again.

And, without further deliberation, he set off in pursuit of her.

As he went, he asked himself by what means he would force her to raise her veil.

— She is not young, he said; she is a woman of the great world. I know, or the devil take me! that bearing.

As he ran, the noise of his spurs and boots upon the beaten ground of the street made a strange clinking; a piece of luck came to him that he had not counted on.

This noise alarmed the lady; she believed herself followed or pursued, which was true, and she turned around.

D'Artagnan jumped as if he had received in the calves a charge of lead for sparrows; then, making a detour to come back upon his steps:

— Mme de Chevreuse! he murmured.

D'Artagnan would not return without knowing all.

He asked Father Célestin to inquire of the gravedigger who was the dead man buried that very morning.

— A poor Franciscan beggar, replied the latter, who had not even a dog to love him in this world and escort him to his last dwelling.

"If that were so, thought d'Artagnan, Aramis would not have attended his procession. He is not a dog, for devotion, is the Bishop of Vannes; for scent, I do not say!"

Chapter CXLVI — How Porthos, Trüchen and Planchet Parted Friends, Thanks to d'Artagnan

They ate well at Planchet's house.

Porthos broke a ladder and two cherry trees, stripped the raspberry bushes, but could not reach the strawberries, because, he said, of his belt.

Trüchen, who had already grown tame with the giant, answered him:

— It is not the belt, it is the 'fendre'.

And Porthos, ravished with joy, embraced Trüchen, who picked him a handful of strawberries and made him eat from her hand. D'Artagnan, who arrived at this juncture, scolded Porthos for his laziness and pitied Planchet under his breath.

Porthos breakfasted well; when he had finished:

— I could be happy here, he said looking at Trüchen.

Trüchen smiled.

Planchet did the same, not without a little constraint.

Then d'Artagnan said to Porthos:

— You must not, my friend, let the delights of Capua make you forget the real aim of our journey to Fontainebleau.

— My presentation to the king?

— Precisely; I mean to go take a turn in town to prepare that. Do not leave here, I pray you.

— Oh! no, cried Porthos.

Planchet looked at d'Artagnan with fear.

— Will you be long absent? he said.

— No, my friend, and, this very evening, I relieve you of two guests somewhat heavy for you.

— Oh! M. d'Artagnan, can you say so?

— No; you see, your heart is excellent, but your house is small. He who has but two acres may lodge a king and make him very happy; but you were not born a great lord, you.

— M. Porthos neither, murmured Planchet.

— He has become one, my dear; he has been suzerain of a hundred thousand livres of income for twenty years, and, for fifty, he has been suzerain of two fists and a backbone that have never had rivals in this fair kingdom of France. Porthos is a very great lord beside you, my son, and... I say no more; I know you are intelligent.

— But no, but no, Monsieur; explain to me...

— Look at your stripped orchard, your empty larder, your broken bed, your dry cellar, look... at Mme Trüchen...

— Ah! my God! said Planchet.

— Porthos, you see, is lord of thirty villages which contain three hundred very merry vassal women, and Porthos is a very fine man!

— Ah! my God! repeated Planchet.

— Mme Trüchen is an excellent person, continued d'Artagnan; keep her for yourself, do you hear.

And he struck him on the shoulder.

At this moment, the grocer caught sight of Trüchen and Porthos withdrawn beneath an arbor.

Trüchen, with a wholly Flemish grace, was making Porthos earrings of double cherries, and Porthos laughed amorously, like Samson before Delilah.

Planchet pressed d'Artagnan's hand and ran toward the arbor.

Let us render this justice to Porthos: he did not move... No doubt he did not think he was doing wrong.

Trüchen did not move either, which displeased Planchet; but he had seen enough of high society in his shop to keep a good countenance before a vexation.

Planchet took Porthos's arm and proposed to go see the horses.

Porthos said he was tired.

Planchet proposed to the Baron du Vallon to taste a cordial he made himself and which had no equal.

The baron accepted.

Thus, all day long, Planchet knew how to occupy his enemy. He sacrificed his sideboard to his self-love.

D'Artagnan returned two hours later.

— All is arranged, he said; I saw His Majesty a moment at his departure for the hunt: the king expects us this evening.

— The king expects me! cried Porthos straightening up.

And, it must be avowed, for the heart of man is a shifting tide, from that moment Porthos no longer looked at Mme Trüchen with that touching grace which had softened the Antwerp woman's heart.

Planchet warmed these ambitious dispositions as best he could. He told, or rather replayed, all the splendors of the last reign; the battles, the sieges, the ceremonies. He spoke of the luxury of the English, the windfalls conquered by the three brave companions, of whom d'Artagnan, the humblest at the start, had ended by becoming the chief.

He enthused Porthos by showing him his vanished youth; he praised as best he could the chastity of this great lord and his religion in respecting friendship; he was eloquent, he was adroit. He charmed Porthos, made Trüchen tremble and made d'Artagnan dream.

At six o'clock, the musketeer ordered the horses made ready and had Porthos dressed.

He thanked Planchet for his good hospitality, slipped him a few vague words of a post that might be found for him at Court, which immediately aggrandized Planchet in Trüchen's mind, where the poor grocer, so good, so generous, so devoted, had fallen since the appearance and comparison of two great lords.

For women are made thus: they ambition what they do not have; they disdain what they ambitioned, when they have it.

After rendering this service to his friend Planchet, d'Artagnan said to Porthos very low:

— You have, my friend, a rather pretty ring upon your finger.

— Three hundred pistoles, said Porthos.

— Mme Trüchen will keep your memory far better if you leave her that ring, replied d'Artagnan.

Porthos hesitated.

— You find it not fine enough? said the musketeer. I understand you; a great lord like you does not lodge with a former servant without paying handsomely for the hospitality; but, believe me, Planchet has so good a heart that he will not remark that you have a hundred thousand livres of income.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”