What D’Artagnan went to Paris for
The lieutenant dismounted before a shop in the Rue des Lombards, at the
sign of the Pilon d’Or. A man of good appearance, wearing a white
apron, and stroking his gray mustache with a large hand, uttered a cry
of joy on perceiving the pied horse. “Monsieur le chevalier,” said he,
“ah, is that you?”
“Bon jour, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, stooping to enter the shop.
“Quick, somebody,” cried Planchet, “to look after Monsieur d’Artagnan’s
horse,—somebody to get ready his room,—somebody to prepare his supper.”
“Thanks, Planchet. Good-day, my children!” said D’Artagnan to the eager
boys.
“Allow me to send off this coffee, this treacle, and these raisins,”
said Planchet; “they are for the store-room of monsieur le
surintendant.”
“Send them off, send them off!”
“That is only the affair of a moment, then we shall sup.”
“Arrange it that we may sup alone; I want to speak to you.”
Planchet looked at his old master in a significant manner.
“Oh, don’t be uneasy, it is nothing unpleasant,” said D’Artagnan.
“So much the better—so much the better!” And Planchet breathed freely
again, whilst D’Artagnan seated himself quietly down in the shop, upon
a bale of corks, and made a survey of the premises. The shop was well
stocked; there was a mingled perfume of ginger, cinnamon, and ground
pepper, which made D’Artagnan sneeze. The shop-boy, proud of being in
company with so renowned a warrior, of a lieutenant of musketeers, who
approached the person of the king, began to work with an enthusiasm
which was something like delirium, and to serve the customers with a
disdainful haste that was noticed by several.
Planchet put away his money, and made up his accounts, amidst
civilities addressed to his former master. Planchet had with his equals
the short speech and the haughty familiarity of the rich shopkeeper who
serves everybody and waits for nobody. D’Artagnan observed this habit
with a pleasure which we shall analyze presently. He saw night come on
by degrees, and at length Planchet conducted him to a chamber on the
first story, where, amidst bales and chests, a table very nicely set
out awaited the two guests.
D’Artagnan took advantage of a moment’s pause to examine the
countenance of Planchet, whom he had not seen for a year. The shrewd
Planchet had acquired a slight protuberance in front, but his
countenance was not puffed. His keen eye still played with facility in
its deep-sunk orbit; and fat, which levels all the characteristic
saliences of the human face, had not yet touched either his high
cheek-bones, the sign of cunning and cupidity, or his pointed chin, the
sign of acuteness and perseverance. Planchet reigned with as much
majesty in his dining-room as in his shop. He set before his master a
frugal, but perfectly Parisian repast: roast meat, cooked at the
baker’s, with vegetables, salad, and a dessert borrowed from the shop
itself. D’Artagnan was pleased that the grocer had drawn from behind
the fagots a bottle of that Anjou wine which during all his life had
been D’Artagnan’s favorite wine.
“Formerly, monsieur,” said Planchet, with a smile full of bonhomie, “it
was I who drank your wine; now you do me the honor to drink mine.”
“And, thank God, friend Planchet, I shall drink it for a long time to
come, I hope; for at present I am free.”
“Free? You have leave of absence, monsieur?”
“Unlimited.”
“You are leaving the service?” said Planchet, stupefied.
“Yes, I am resting.”
“And the king?” cried Planchet, who could not suppose it possible that
the king could do without the services of such a man as D’Artagnan.
“The king will try his fortune elsewhere. But we have supped well, you
are disposed to enjoy yourself; you invite me to confide in you. Open
your ears, then.”
“They are open.” And Planchet, with a laugh more frank than cunning,
opened a bottle of white wine.
“Leave me my reason, at least.”
“Oh, as to you losing your head—you, monsieur!”
“Now my head is my own, and I mean to take better care of it than ever.
In the first place we shall talk business. How fares our money-box?”
“Wonderfully well, monsieur. The twenty thousand livres I had of you
are still employed in my trade, in which they bring me nine per cent. I
give you seven, so I gain two by you.”
“And you are still satisfied?”
“Delighted. Have you brought me any more?”
“Better than that. But do you want any?”
“Oh! not at all. Every one is willing to trust me now. I am extending
my business.”
“That was your intention.”
“I play the banker a little. I buy goods of my needy brethren; I lend
money to those who are not ready for their payments.”
“Without usury?”
“Oh! monsieur, in the course of the last week I have had two meetings
on the boulevards, on account of the word you have just pronounced.”
“What?”
“You shall see: it concerned a loan. The borrower gives me in pledge
some raw sugars, on condition that I should sell if repayment were not
made within a fixed period. I lend a thousand livres. He does not pay
me and I sell the sugars for thirteen hundred livres. He learns this
and claims a hundred crowns. Ma foi! I refused, pretending that I could
not sell them for more than nine hundred livres. He accused me of
usury. I begged him to repeat that word to me behind the boulevards. He
was an old guard, and he came: and I passed your sword through his left
thigh.”
“Tu dieu! what a pretty sort of banker you make!” said D’Artagnan.
“For above thirteen per cent. I fight,” replied Planchet; “that is my
character.”
“Take only twelve,” said D’Artagnan, “and call the rest premium and
brokerage.”
“You are right, monsieur; but to your business.”
“Ah! Planchet, it is very long and very hard to speak.”
“Do speak it, nevertheless.”
D’Artagnan twisted his mustache like a man embarrassed with the
confidence he is about to make and mistrustful of his confidant.
“Is it an investment?” asked Planchet.
“Why, yes.”
“At good profit?”
“A capital profit,—four hundred per cent., Planchet.”
Planchet gave such a blow with his fist upon the table, that the
bottles bounded as if they had been frightened.
“Good heavens! is that possible?”
“I think it will be more,” replied D’Artagnan coolly; “but I like to
lay it at the lowest!”
“The devil!” said Planchet, drawing nearer. “Why monsieur, that is
magnificent! Can one put much money in it?”
“Twenty thousand livres each, Planchet.”
“Why, that is all you have, monsieur. For how long a time?”
“For a month.”
“And that will give us——”
“Fifty thousand livres each, profit.”
“It is monstrous! It is worth while to fight for such interest as
that!”
“In fact, I believe it will be necessary to fight not a little,” said
D’Artagnan, with the same tranquillity; “but this time there are two of
us, Planchet, and I shall take all the blows to myself.”
“Oh! monsieur, I will not allow that.”
“Planchet, you cannot be concerned in it; you would be obliged to leave
your business and your family.”
“The affair is not in Paris, then?”
“No.”
“Abroad?”
“In England.”
“A speculative country, that is true,” said Planchet,—“a country that I
know well. What sort of an affair, monsieur, without too much
curiosity?”
“Planchet, it is a restoration.”
“Of monuments?”
“Yes, of monuments; we shall restore Whitehall.”
“That is important. And in a month, you think?”
“I shall undertake it.”
“That concerns you, monsieur, and when once you are engaged——”
“Yes, that concerns me. I know what I am about; nevertheless, I will
freely consult with you.”
“You do me great honor; but I know very little about architecture.”
“Planchet, you are wrong; you are an excellent architect, quite as good
as I am, for the case in question.”
“Thanks, monsieur. But your old friends of the musketeers?”
“I have been, I confess, tempted to speak of the thing to those
gentlemen, but they are all absent from their houses. It is vexatious,
for I know none more bold or more able.”
“Ah! then it appears there will be an opposition, and the enterprise
will be disputed?”
“Oh, yes, Planchet, yes.”
“I burn to know the details, monsieur.”
“Here they are, Planchet—close all the doors tight.”
“Yes, monsieur.” And Planchet double-locked them.
“That is well; now draw near.” Planchet obeyed.
“And open the window, because the noise of the passers-by and the carts
will deafen all who might hear us.” Planchet opened the window as
desired, and the gust of tumult which filled the chamber with cries,
wheels, barkings, and steps deafened D’Artagnan himself, as he had
wished. He then swallowed a glass of white wine and began in these
terms: “Planchet, I have an idea.”
“Ah! monsieur, I recognize you so well in that!” replied Planchet,
panting with emotion.