Of the Society which was formed in the Rue des Lombards, at the Sign of
the Pilon d’Or, to carry out M. d’Artagnan’s Idea
After a moment’s silence, in which D’Artagnan appeared to be
collecting, not one idea, but all his ideas—“It cannot be, my dear
Planchet,” said he, “that you have not heard of his majesty Charles I.
of England?”
“Alas! yes, monsieur, since you left France in order to assist him, and
that, in spite of that assistance, he fell, and was near dragging you
down in his fall.”
“Exactly so; I see you have a good memory, Planchet.”
“Peste! the astonishing thing would be, if I could have lost that
memory, however bad it might have been. When one has heard Grimaud,
who, you know, is not given to talking, relate how the head of King
Charles fell, how you sailed the half of a night in a scuttled vessel,
and saw floating on the water that good M. Mordaunt with a certain
gold-hafted dagger buried in his breast, one is not very likely to
forget such things.”
“And yet there are people who forget them, Planchet.”
“Yes, such as have not seen them, or have not heard Grimaud relate
them.”
“Well, it is all the better that you recollect all that; I shall only
have to remind you of one thing, and that is that Charles I. had a
son.”
“Without contradicting you, monsieur, he had two,” said Planchet; “for
I saw the second one in Paris, M. le Duke of York, one day, as he was
going to the Palais Royal, and I was told that he was not the eldest
son of Charles I. As to the eldest, I have the honor of knowing him by
name, but not personally.”
“That is exactly the point, Planchet, we must come to: it is to this
eldest son, formerly called the Prince of Wales, and who is now styled
Charles II., king of England.”
“A king without a kingdom, monsieur,” replied Planchet, sententiously.
“Yes, Planchet, and you may add an unfortunate prince, more unfortunate
than the poorest man of the people lost in the worst quarter of Paris.”
Planchet made a gesture full of that sort of compassion which we grant
to strangers with whom we think we can never possibly find ourselves in
contact. Besides, he did not see in this politico-sentimental operation
any sign of the commercial idea of M. d’Artagnan, and it was in this
idea that D’Artagnan, who was, from habit, pretty well acquainted with
men and things, had principally interested Planchet.
“I am coming to our business. This young Prince of Wales, a king
without a kingdom, as you have so well said, Planchet, has interested
me. I, D’Artagnan, have seen him begging assistance of Mazarin, who is
a miser, and the aid of Louis, who is a child, and it appeared to me,
who am acquainted with such things, that in the intelligent eye of the
fallen king, in the nobility of his whole person, a nobility apparent
above all his miseries, I could discern the stuff of a man and the
heart of a king.”
Planchet tacitly approved of all this; but it did not at all, in his
eyes at least, throw any light upon D’Artagnan’s idea. The latter
continued: “This, then, is the reasoning which I made with myself.
Listen attentively, Planchet, for we are coming to the conclusion.”
“I am listening.”
“Kings are not so thickly sown upon the earth, that people can find
them whenever they want them. Now, this king without a kingdom is, in
my opinion, a grain of seed which will blossom in some season or other,
provided a skillful, discreet, and vigorous hand sow it duly and truly,
selecting soil, sky, and time.”
Planchet still approved by a nod of his head, which showed that he did
not perfectly comprehend all that was said.
“‘Poor little seed of a king,’ said I to myself, and really I was
affected, Planchet, which leads me to think I am entering upon a
foolish business. And that is why I wished to consult you, my friend.”
Planchet colored with pleasure and pride.
“‘Poor little seed of a king! I will pick you up and cast you into good
ground.’”
“Good God!” said Planchet, looking earnestly at his old master, as if
in doubt as to the state of his reason.
“Well, what is it?” said D’Artagnan; “who hurts you?”
“Me! nothing, monsieur.”
“You said, ‘Good God!’”
“Did I?”
“I am sure you did. Can you already understand?”
“I confess, M. d’Artagnan, that I am afraid——”
“To understand?”
“Yes.”
“To understand that I wish to replace upon his throne this King Charles
II., who has no throne? Is that it?”
Planchet made a prodigious bound in his chair. “Ah, ah!” said he, in
evident terror, “that is what you call a restoration!”
“Yes, Planchet; is it not the proper term for it?”
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt! But have you reflected seriously?”
“Upon what?”
“Upon what is going on yonder.”
“Where?”
“In England.”
“And what is that? let us see, Planchet.”
“In the first place, monsieur, I ask your pardon for meddling in these
things, which have nothing to do with my trade; but since it is an
affair that you propose to me—for you are proposing an affair, are you
not?——”
“A superb one, Planchet.”
“But as it is business you propose to me, I have the right to discuss
it.”
“Discuss it, Planchet; out of discussion is born light.”
“Well, then, since I have monsieur’s permission, I will tell him that
there is yonder, in the first place, the parliament.”
“Well, next?”
“And then the army.”
“Good! Do you see anything else?”
“Why, then the nation.”
“Is that all?”
“The nation which consented to the overthrow and death of the late
king, the father of this one, and which will not be willing to belie
its acts.”
“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “you argue like a cheese! The nation—the
nation is tired of these gentlemen who give themselves such barbarous
names, and who sing songs to it. Chanting for chanting, my dear
Planchet; I have remarked that nations prefer singing a merry chant to
the plain chant. Remember the Fronde; what did they sing in those
times? Well those were good times.”
“Not too good, not too good! I was near being hung in those times.”
“Well, but you were not.”
“No.”
“And you laid the foundation of your fortune in the midst of all those
songs?”
“That is true.”
“Then you have nothing to say against them.”
“Well, I return, then, to the army and parliament.”
“I say that I borrow twenty thousand livres of M. Planchet, and that I
put twenty thousand livres of my own to it, and with these forty
thousand livres I raise an army.”
Planchet clasped his hands; he saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest, and,
in good truth, he believed his master had lost his senses.
“An army!—ah, monsieur,” said he, with his most agreeable smile, for
fear of irritating the madman, and rendering him furious,—“an army!—how
many?”
“Of forty men,” said D’Artagnan.
“Forty against forty thousand! that is not enough. I know very well
that you, M. d’Artagnan, alone, are equal to a thousand men, but where
are we to find thirty-nine men equal to you? Or, if we could find them,
who would furnish you with money to pay them?”
“Not bad, Planchet. Ah, the devil! you play the courtier.”
“No, monsieur, I speak what I think, and that is exactly why I say
that, in the first pitched battle you fight with your forty men, I am
very much afraid——”
“Therefore I shall fight no pitched battles, my dear Planchet,” said
the Gascon, laughing. “We have very fine examples in antiquity of
skillful retreats and marches, which consisted in avoiding the enemy
instead of attacking them. You should know that, Planchet, you who
commanded the Parisians the day on which they ought to have fought
against the musketeers, and who so well calculated marches and
countermarches, that you never left the Palais Royal.”
Planchet could not help laughing. “It is plain,” replied he, “that if
your forty men conceal themselves, and are not unskillful, they may
hope not to be beaten: but you propose obtaining some result, do you
not?”
“No doubt. This, then, in my opinion, is the plan to be proceeded upon
in order quickly to replace his majesty Charles II. on his throne.”
“Good!” said Planchet, increasing his attention; “let us see your plan.
But in the first place it seems to me we are forgetting something.”
“What is that?”
“We have set aside the nation, which prefers singing merry songs to
psalms, and the army, which we will not fight: but the parliament
remains, and that seldom sings.”
“Nor does it fight. How is it, Planchet, that an intelligent man like
you should take any heed of a set of brawlers who call themselves Rumps
and Barebones. The parliament does not trouble me at all, Planchet.”
“As soon as it ceases to trouble you, monsieur, let us pass on.”
“Yes, and arrive at the result. You remember Cromwell, Planchet?”
“I have heard a great deal of talk about him.”
“He was a rough soldier.”
“And a terrible eater, moreover.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why, at one gulp he swallowed all England.”
“Well, Planchet, the evening before the day on which he swallowed
England, if any one had swallowed M. Cromwell?”
“Oh, monsieur, it is one of the axioms of mathematics that the
container must be greater than the contained.”
“Very well! That is our affair, Planchet.”
“But M. Cromwell is dead, and his container is now the tomb.”
“My dear Planchet, I see with pleasure that you have not only become a
mathematician, but a philosopher.”
“Monsieur, in my grocery business I use much printed paper, and that
instructs me.”
“Bravo! You know then, in that case—for you have not learnt mathematics
and philosophy without a little history—that after this Cromwell so
great, there came one who was very little.”
“Yes; he was named Richard, and he has done as you have, M.
d’Artagnan—he has tendered his resignation.”
“Very well said—very well! After the great man who is dead, after the
little one who tendered his resignation, there came a third. This one
is named Monk; he is an able general, considering he has never fought a
battle; he is a skillful diplomatist, considering that he never speaks
in public, and that having to say ‘good-day’ to a man, he meditates
twelve hours, and ends by saying ‘good-night;’ which makes people
exclaim ‘miracle!’ seeing that it falls out correctly.”
“That is rather strong,” said Planchet; “but I know another political
man who resembles him very much.”
“M. Mazarin you mean?”
“Himself.”
“You are right, Planchet; only M. Mazarin does not aspire to the throne
of France; and that changes everything. Do you see? Well, this M. Monk,
who has England ready-roasted in his plate, and who is already opening
his mouth to swallow it—this M. Monk, who says to the people of Charles
II., and to Charles II. himself, ‘Nescio vos’——”
“I don’t understand English,” said Planchet.
“Yes, but I understand it,” said D’Artagnan. “‘Nescio vos’ means ‘I do
not know you.’ This M. Monk, the most important man in England, when he
shall have swallowed it——”
“Well?” asked Planchet.
“Well, my friend, I shall go over yonder, and with my forty men, I
shall carry him off, pack him up, and bring him into France, where two
modes of proceeding present themselves to my dazzled eyes.”
“Oh! and to mine too,” cried Planchet, transported with enthusiasm. “We
will put him in a cage and show him for money.”
“Well, Planchet, that is a third plan, of which I had not thought.”
“Do you think it a good one?”
“Yes, certainly, but I think mine better.”
“Let us see yours, then.”
“In the first place, I shall set a ransom on him.”
“Of how much?”
“Peste! a fellow like that must be well worth a hundred thousand
crowns.”
“Yes, yes!”
“You see, then—in the first place, a ransom of a hundred thousand
crowns.”
“Or else——”
“Or else, what is much better, I deliver him up to King Charles, who,
having no longer either a general or an army to fear, nor a diplomatist
to trick him, will restore himself, and when once restored, will pay
down to me the hundred thousand crowns in question. That is the idea I
have formed; what do you say to it, Planchet?”
“Magnificent, monsieur!” cried Planchet, trembling with emotion. “How
did you conceive that idea?”
“It came to me one morning on the banks of the Loire, whilst our
beloved king, Louis XIV., was pretending to weep upon the hand of
Mademoiselle de Mancini.”
“Monsieur, I declare the idea is sublime. But——”
“Ah! is there a but?”
“Permit me! But this is a little like the skin of that fine bear—you
know—that they were about to sell, but which it was necessary to take
from the back of the living bear. Now, to take M. Monk, there will be a
bit of scuffle, I should think.”
“No doubt; but as I shall raise an army to——”
“Yes, yes—I understand, parbleu!—a coup-de-main. Yes, then, monsieur,
you will triumph, for no one equals you in such sorts of encounters.”
“I certainly am lucky in them,” said D’Artagnan, with a proud
simplicity. “You know that if for this affair I had my dear Athos, my
brave Porthos, and my cunning Aramis, the business would be settled;
but they are all lost, as it appears, and nobody knows where to find
them. I will do it, then, alone. Now, do you find the business good,
and the investment advantageous?”
“Too much so—too much so.”
“How can that be?”
“Because fine things never reach the expected point.”
“This is infallible, Planchet, and the proof is that I undertake it. It
will be for you a tolerably pretty gain, and for me a very interesting
stroke. It will be said, ‘Such was the old age of M. d’Artagnan,’ and I
shall hold a place in tales and even in history itself, Planchet. I am
greedy of honor.”
“Monsieur,” cried Planchet, “when I think that it is here, in my home,
in the midst of my sugar, my prunes, and my cinnamon, that this
gigantic project is ripened, my shop seems a palace to me.”
“Beware, beware, Planchet! If the least report of this escapes, there
is the Bastile for both of us. Beware, my friend, for this is a plot we
are hatching. M. Monk is the ally of M. Mazarin—beware!”
“Monsieur, when a man has had the honor to belong to you, he knows
nothing of fear; and when he has the advantage of being bound up in
interests with you, he holds his tongue.”
“Very well, that is more your affair than mine, seeing that in a week I
shall be in England.”
“Depart, monsieur, depart—the sooner the better.”
“Is the money, then, ready?”
“It will be to-morrow, to-morrow you shall receive it from my own
hands. Will you have gold or silver?”
“Gold; that is most convenient. But how are we going to arrange this?
Let us see.”
“Oh, good Lord! in the simplest way possible. You shall give me a
receipt, that is all.”
“No, no,” said D’Artagnan, warmly; “we must preserve order in all
things.”
“That is likewise my opinion; but with you, M. d’Artagnan——”
“And if I should die yonder—if I should be killed by a musket-ball—if I
should burst from drinking beer?”
“Monsieur, I beg you to believe that in that case I should be so much
afflicted at your death, that I should not think about the money.”
“Thank you, Planchet; but no matter. We shall, like two lawyers’
clerks, draw up together an agreement, a sort of act, which may be
called a deed of company.”
“Willingly, monsieur.”
“I know it is difficult to draw such a thing up, but we can try.”
“Let us try, then.” And Planchet went in search of pens, ink, and
paper. D’Artagnan took the pen and wrote:—“Between Messire d’Artagnan,
ex-lieutenant of the king’s musketeers, at present residing in the Rue
Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette; and the Sieur Planchet, grocer,
residing in the Rue les Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d’Or, it has
been agreed as follows:—A company, with a capital of forty thousand
livres, and formed for the purpose of carrying out an idea conceived by
M. d’Artagnan, and the said Planchet approving of it in all points,
will place twenty thousand livres in the hands of M. d’Artagnan. He
will require neither repayment nor interest before the return of M.
d’Artagnan from a journey he is about to take into England. On his
part, M. d’Artagnan undertakes to find twenty thousand livres, which he
will join to the twenty thousand already laid down by the Sieur
Planchet. He will employ the said sum of forty thousand livres
according to his judgment in an undertaking which is described below.
On the day when M. d’Artagnan shall have re-established, by whatever
means, his majesty King Charles II. upon the throne of England, he will
pay into the hands of M. Planchet the sum of——”
“The sum of a hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said Planchet,
innocently, perceiving that D’Artagnan hesitated.
“Oh, the devil, no!” said D’Artagnan, “the division cannot be made by
half; that would not be just.”
“And yet, monsieur; we each lay down half,” objected Planchet, timidly.
“Yes; but listen to this clause, my dear Planchet, and if you do not
find it equitable in every respect when it is written, well, we can
scratch it out again:—‘Nevertheless, as M. d’Artagnan brings to the
association, besides his capital of twenty thousand livres, his time,
his idea, his industry and his skin,—things which he appreciates
strongly, particularly the last,—M. d’Artagnan will keep, of the three
hundred thousand livres two hundred thousand livres for himself, which
will make his share two-thirds.”
“Very well,” said Planchet.
“Is it just?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Perfectly just, monsieur.”
“And you will be contented with a hundred thousand livres?”
“Peste! I think so. A hundred thousand for twenty thousand!”
“And in a month, understand.”
“How, in a month?”
“Yes, I only ask one month.”
“Monsieur,” said Planchet, generously, “I give you six weeks.”
“Thank you,” replied the musketeer, politely; after which the two
partners reperused their deed.
“That is perfect, monsieur,” said Planchet, “and the late M. Coquenard,
the first husband of Madame la Baronne du Vallon, could not have done
it better.”
“Do you find it so? Let us sign it, then.” And both affixed their
signatures.
“In this fashion,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall be under obligations to no
one.”
“But I shall be under obligations to you,” said Planchet.
“No; for whatever store I set by it, Planchet, I may lose my skin
yonder, and you will lose all. A propos—peste!—that makes me think of
the principal, an indispensable clause. I shall write it:—‘In the case
of M. d’Artagnan dying in this enterprise, liquidation will be
considered made, and the Sieur Planchet will give quittance from that
moment to the shade of Messire d’Artagnan for the twenty thousand
livres paid by him into the hands of the said company.’”
This last clause made Planchet knit his brows a little, but when he saw
the brilliant eye, the muscular hand, the supple and strong back of his
associate, he regained his courage, and, without regret, he at once
added another stroke to his signature. D’Artagnan did the same. Thus
was drawn the first known company contract; perhaps such things have
been abused a little since, both in form and principle.
“Now,” said Planchet, pouring out the last glass of Anjou wine for
D’Artagnan,—“now go to sleep, my dear master.”
“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “for the most difficult part now remains to
be done, and I will think over that difficult part.”
“Bah!” said Planchet; “I have such great confidence in you, M.
d’Artagnan, that I would not give my hundred thousand livres for ninety
thousand livres down.”
“And devil take me if I don’t think you are right!” Upon which
D’Artagnan took a candle and went up to his bedroom.