D’Artagnan reflected to such good purpose during the night that his
plan was settled by morning. “This is it,” said he, sitting up in bed,
supporting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand;—“this is
it. I shall seek out forty steady, firm men, recruited among people a
little compromised, but having habits of discipline. I shall promise
them five hundred livres for a month if they return; nothing if they do
not return, or half for their kindred. As to food and lodging, that
concerns the English, who have cattle in their pastures, bacon in their
bacon-racks, fowls in their poultry-yards, and corn in their barns. I
will present myself to General Monk with my little body of troops. He
will receive me. I shall win his confidence, and take advantage of it,
as soon as possible.”
But without going further, D’Artagnan shook his head and interrupted
himself. “No,” said he; “I should not dare to relate this to Athos; the
way is therefore not honorable. I must use violence,” continued
he,—“very certainly I must, but without compromising my loyalty. With
forty men I will traverse the country as a partisan. But if I fall in
with, not forty thousand English, as Planchet said, but purely and
simply with four hundred, I shall be beaten. Supposing that among my
forty warriors there should be found at least ten stupid ones—ten who
will allow themselves to be killed one after the other, from mere
folly? No; it is, in fact, impossible to find forty men to be depended
upon—they do not exist. I must learn how to be contented with thirty.
With ten men less I should have the right of avoiding any armed
encounter, on account of the small number of my people; and if the
encounter should take place, my chance is better with thirty men than
forty. Besides, I should save five thousand francs; that is to say, the
eighth of my capital; that is worth the trial. This being so, I should
have thirty men. I shall divide them into three bands,—we will spread
ourselves about over the country, with an injunction to reunite at a
given moment; in this fashion, ten by ten, we should excite no
suspicion—we should pass unperceived. Yes, yes, thirty—that is a magic
number. There are three tens—three, that divine number! And then,
truly, a company of thirty men, when all together, will look rather
imposing. Ah! stupid wretch that I am!” continued D’Artagnan, “I want
thirty horses. That is ruinous. Where the devil was my head when I
forgot the horses? We cannot, however, think of striking such a blow
without horses. Well, so be it, that sacrifice must be made; we can get
the horses in the country—they are not bad, besides. But I
forgot—peste! Three bands—that necessitates three leaders; there is the
difficulty. Of the three commanders I have already one—that is
myself;—yes, but the two others will of themselves cost almost as much
money as all the rest of the troop. No; positively I must have but one
lieutenant. In that case, then, I should reduce my troop to twenty men.
I know very well that twenty men is but very little; but since with
thirty I was determined not to seek to come to blows, I should do so
more carefully still with twenty. Twenty—that is a round number; that,
besides, reduces the number of the horses by ten, which is a
consideration; and then, with a good lieutenant—Mordioux! what things
patience and calculation are! Was I not going to embark with forty men,
and I have now reduced them to twenty for an equal success? Ten
thousand livres saved at one stroke, and more safety; that is well!
Now, then, let us see; we have nothing to do but to find this
lieutenant—let him be found, then; and after—That is not so easy; he
must be brave and good, a second myself. Yes, but a lieutenant must
have my secret, and as that secret is worth a million, and I shall only
pay my man a thousand livres, fifteen hundred at the most, my man will
sell the secret to Monk. Mordioux! no lieutenant. Besides, this man,
were he as mute as a disciple of Pythagoras,—this man would be sure to
have in the troop some favorite soldier, whom he would make his
sergeant; the sergeant would penetrate the secret of the lieutenant, in
case the latter should be honest and unwilling to sell it. Then the
sergeant, less honest and less ambitious, will give up the whole for
fifty thousand livres. Come, come! that is impossible. The lieutenant
is impossible. But then I must have no fractions; I cannot divide my
troop in two, and act upon two points, at once, without another self,
who—But what is the use of acting upon two points, as we have only one
man to take? What can be the use of weakening a corps by placing the
right here, and the left there? A single corps—Mordioux! a single one,
and that commanded by D’Artagnan. Very well. But twenty men marching in
one band are suspected by everybody; twenty horsemen must not be seen
marching together, or a company will be detached against them and the
password will be required; the which company, upon seeing them
embarrassed to give it, would shoot M. d’Artagnan and his men like so
many rabbits. I reduce myself then to ten men; in this fashion I shall
act simply and with unity; I shall be forced to be prudent, which is
half the success in an affair of the kind I am undertaking; a greater
number might, perhaps, have drawn me into some folly. Ten horses are
not many, either, to buy or take. A capital idea; what tranquillity it
infuses into my mind! no more suspicions—no passwords—no more dangers!
Ten men, they are valets or clerks. Ten men, leading ten horses laden
with merchandise of whatever kind, are tolerated, well received
everywhere. Ten men travel on account of the house of Planchet & Co.,
of France,—nothing can be said against that. These ten men, clothed
like manufacturers, have a good cutlass or a good musket at their
saddle-bow, and a good pistol in the holster. They never allow
themselves to be uneasy, because they have no evil designs. They are,
perhaps, in truth, a little disposed to be smugglers, but what harm is
in that? Smuggling is not, like polygamy, a hanging offense. The worst
that can happen to us is the confiscation of our merchandise. Our
merchandise confiscated—a fine affair that! Come, come! it is a superb
plan. Ten men only—ten men, whom I will engage for my service; ten men
who shall be as resolute as forty, who would cost me four times as
much, and to whom, for greater security, I will never open my mouth as
to my designs, and to whom I shall only say ‘My friends, there is a
blow to be struck.’ Things being after this fashion, Satan will be very
malicious if he plays me one of his tricks. Fifteen thousand livres
saved—that’s superb—out of twenty!”
Thus fortified by his laborious calculations, D’Artagnan stopped at
this plan, and determined to change nothing in it. He had already on a
list furnished by his inexhaustible memory, ten men illustrious amongst
the seekers of adventure, ill-treated by fortune, and not on good terms
with justice. Upon this D’Artagnan rose, and instantly set off on the
search, telling Planchet not to expect him to breakfast, and perhaps
not to dinner. A day and a half spent in rummaging amongst certain dens
of Paris sufficed for his recruiting; and, without allowing his
adventurers to communicate with each other, he had picked up and got
together, in less than thirty hours, a charming collection of
ill-looking faces, speaking a French less pure than the English they
were about to attempt. These men were, for the most part, guards, whose
merit D’Artagnan had had an opportunity of appreciating in various
encounters, whom drunkenness, unlucky sword-thrusts, unexpected
winnings at play, or the economical reforms of Mazarin, had forced to
seek shade and solitude, those two great consolers of irritated and
chafing spirits. They bore upon their countenances and in their
vestments the traces of the heartaches they had undergone. Some had
their visages scarred,—all had their clothes in rags. D’Artagnan
comforted the most needy of these brotherly miseries by a prudent
distribution of the crowns of the company; then, having taken care that
these crowns should be employed in the physical improvement of the
troop, he appointed a trysting place in the north of France, between
Bergues and Saint Omer. Six days were allowed as the utmost term, and
D’Artagnan was sufficiently acquainted with the good-will, the
good-humor, and the relative probity of these illustrious recruits, to
be certain that not one of them would fail in his appointment. These
orders given, this rendezvous fixed, he went to bid farewell to
Planchet, who asked news of his army. D’Artagnan did not think it
proper to inform him of the reduction he had made in his personnel. He
feared that the confidence of his associate would be abated by such an
avowal. Planchet was delighted to learn that the army was levied, and
that he (Planchet) found himself a kind of half king, who from his
throne-counter kept in pay a body of troops destined to make war
against perfidious Albion, that enemy of all true French hearts.
Planchet paid down in double louis, twenty thousand livres to
D’Artagnan, on the part of himself (Planchet), and twenty thousand
livres, still in double louis, in account with D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan
placed each of the twenty thousand francs in a bag, and weighing a bag
in each hand,—“This money is very embarrassing, my dear Planchet,” said
he. “Do you know this weighs thirty pounds?”
“Bah! your horse will carry that like a feather.”
D’Artagnan shook his head. “Don’t tell me such things, Planchet: a
horse overloaded with thirty pounds, in addition to the rider and his
portmanteau, cannot cross a river so easily—cannot leap over a wall or
ditch so lightly; and the horse failing, the horseman fails. It is true
that you, Planchet, who have served in the infantry, may not be aware
of all that.”
“Then what is to be done, monsieur?” said Planchet, greatly
embarrassed.
“Listen to me,” said D’Artagnan. “I will pay my army on its return
home. Keep my half of twenty thousand livres, which you can use during
that time.”
“And my half?” said Planchet.
“I shall take that with me.”
“Your confidence does me honor,” said Planchet: “but supposing you
should not return?”
“That is possible, though not very probable. Then, Planchet, in case I
should not return—give me a pen; I will make my will.” D’Artagnan took
a pen and some paper, and wrote upon a plain sheet,—“I, D’Artagnan,
possess twenty thousand livres, laid up cent per cent during thirty
years that I have been in the service of his majesty the king of
France. I leave five thousand to Athos, five thousand to Porthos, and
five thousand to Aramis, that they may give the said sums in my name
and their own to my young friend Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne. I give
the remaining five thousand to Planchet, that he may distribute the
fifteen thousand with less regret among my friends. With which purpose
I sign these presents.—D’ARTAGNAN.”
Planchet appeared very curious to know what D’Artagnan had written.
“Here,” said the musketeer, “read it.”
On reading the last lines the tears came into Planchet’s eyes. “You
think, then, that I would not have given the money without that? Then I
will have none of your five thousand francs.”
D’Artagnan smiled. “Accept it, accept it, Planchet; and in that way you
will only lose fifteen thousand francs instead of twenty thousand, and
you will not be tempted to disregard the signature of your master and
friend, by losing nothing at all.”
How well that dear Monsieur d’Artagnan knew the hearts of men and
grocers! They who have pronounced Don Quixote mad because he rode out
to the conquest of an empire with nobody but Sancho his squire, and
they who have pronounced Sancho mad because he accompanied his master
in his attempt to conquer the said empire,—they certainly will have no
hesitation in extending the same judgment to D’Artagnan and Planchet.
And yet the first passed for one of the most subtle spirits among the
astute spirits of the court of France. As to the second, he had
acquired by good right the reputation of having one of the longest
heads among the grocers of the Rue des Lombards; consequently of Paris,
and consequently of France. Now, to consider these two men from the
point of view from which you would consider other men, and the means by
the aid of which they contemplated to restore a monarch to his throne,
compared with other means, the shallowest brains of the country where
brains are most shallow must have revolted against the presumptuous
madness of the lieutenant and the stupidity of his associate.
Fortunately, D’Artagnan was not a man to listen to the idle talk of
those around him, or to the comments that were made on himself. He had
adopted the motto, “Act well, and let people talk.” Planchet, on his
part had adopted this, “Act and say nothing.” It resulted from this,
that, according to the custom of all superior geniuses, these two men
flattered themselves, intra pectus, with being in the right against all
who found fault with them.
As a beginning, D’Artagnan set out in the finest of possible weather,
without a cloud in the heavens—without a cloud on his mind, joyous and
strong, calm and decided, great in his resolution, and consequently
carrying with him a tenfold dose of that potent fluid which the shocks
of mind cause to spring from the nerves, and which procure for the
human machine a force and an influence of which future ages will
render, according to all probability, a more arithmetical account than
we can possibly do at present. He was again, as in times past, on that
same road of adventures which had led him to Boulogne, and which he was
now traveling for the fourth time. It appeared to him that he could
almost recognize the trace of his own steps upon the road, and that of
his fist upon the doors of the hostelries;—his memory, always active
and present, brought back that youth which neither thirty years later
his great heart nor his wrist of steel would have belied. What a rich
nature was that of this man! He had all the passions, all the defects,
all the weaknesses, and the spirit of contradiction familiar to his
understanding changed all these imperfections into corresponding
qualities. D’Artagnan, thanks to his ever active imagination, was
afraid of a shadow, and ashamed of being afraid, he marched straight up
to that shadow, and then became extravagant in his bravery, if the
danger proved to be real. Thus everything in him was emotion, and
therefore enjoyment. He loved the society of others, but never became
tired of his own; and more than once, if he could have been heard when
he was alone, he might have been seen laughing at the jokes he related
to himself or the tricks his imagination created just five minutes
before ennui might have been looked for. D’Artagnan was not perhaps so
gay this time as he would have been with the prospect of finding some
good friends at Calais, instead of joining the ten scamps there;
melancholy, however, did not visit him more than once a day, and it was
about five visits that he received from that somber deity before he got
sight of the sea at Boulogne, and then these visits were indeed but
short. But when once D’Artagnan found himself near the field of action,
all other feelings but that of confidence disappeared never to return.
From Boulogne he followed the coast to Calais. Calais was the place of
general rendezvous, and at Calais he had named to each of his recruits
the hostelry of “Le Grande Monarque,” where living was not extravagant,
where sailors messed, and where men of the sword, with sheath of
leather, be it understood, found lodging, table, food, and all the
comforts of life, for thirty sous per diem. D’Artagnan proposed to
himself to take them by surprise in flagrante delicto of wandering
life, and to judge by the first appearance if he could count on them as
trusty companions.
He arrived at Calais at half past four in the afternoon.