who, in his
little private room, was, with a degree of anxiety, consulting the
calendar, on which, every evening, he scratched out the day that was
past. At the moment when Planchet, according to his daily custom, with
the back of his pen, erased another day, D'Artagnan kicked the door
with his foot, and the blow made his steel spur jingle. "Oh! good
Lord!" cried Planchet. The worthy grocer could say no more; he had just
perceived his partner. D'Artagnan entered with a bent back and a dull
eye: the Gascon had an idea with regard to Planchet.

"Good God!" thought the grocer, looking earnestly at the traveler, "he
looks sad!" The musketeer sat down.

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said Planchet, with a horrible
palpitation of the heart. "Here you are! and your health?"

"Tolerably good, Planchet, tolerably good!" said D'Artagnan, with a
profound sigh.

"You have not been wounded, I hope?"

"Phew!"

"Ah, I see," continued Planchet, more and more alarmed, "the expedition
has been a trying one?"

"Yes," said D'Artagnan. A shudder ran down Planchet's back. "I should
like to have something to drink," said the musketeer, raising his head
piteously.

Planchet ran to the cupboard, and poured out to D'Artagnan some wine in
a large glass. D'Artagnan examined the bottle.

"What wine is that?" asked he.

"Alas! that which you prefer, monsieur," said Planchet; "that good old
Anjou wine, which was one day nearly costing us all so dear."

"Ah!" replied D'Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, "Ah! my poor
Planchet, ought I still to drink good wine?"

"Come! my dear master," said Planchet, making a superhuman effort,
whilst all his contracted muscles, his pallor, and his trembling,
betrayed the most acute anguish. "Come! I have been a soldier and
consequently have some courage; do not make me linger, dear Monsieur
d'Artagnan; our money is lost, is it not?"

Before he answered, D'Artagnan took his time, and that appeared an age
to the poor grocer. Nevertheless he did nothing but turn about on his
chair.

"And if that were the case," said he, slowly, moving his head up and
down, "if that were the case, what would you say, my dear friend?"

Planchet, from being pale, turned yellow. It might have been thought he
was going to swallow his tongue, so full became his throat, so red were
his eyes!

"Twenty thousand livres!" murmured he. "Twenty thousand livres, and
yet----"

D'Artagnan, with his neck elongated, his legs stret