hamps to the
Rue des Lombards. It was a great while since D'Artagnan had laughed so
long together. He was still laughing when Planchet appeared, laughing
likewise, at the door of his house; for Planchet, since the return
of his patron, since the entrance of the English guineas, passed the
greater part of his life in doing what D'Artagnan had only done from
Rue-Neuve des Petits-Champs to the Rue des Lombards.

"You are home, then, my dear master?" said Planchet.

"No, my friend," replied the musketeer, "I am off and that quickly. I
will sup with you, go to bed, sleep five hours, and at break of day leap
into my saddle. Has my horse had an extra feed?"

"Eh! my dear master," replied Planchet, "you know very well that your
horse is the jewel of the family; that my lads are caressing it all day,
and cramming it with sugar, nuts, and biscuits. You ask me if he has had
an extra feed of oats; you should ask if he has not had enough to burst
him."

"Very well, Planchet, that is all right. Now, then, I pass to what
concerns me--my supper?"

"Ready. A smoking roast joint, white wine, crayfish and fresh-gathered
cherries. All ready, my master."

"You are a capital fellow, Planchet; come on, then, let us sup, and I
will go to bed."

During supper D'Artagnan observed that Planchet kept rubbing his
forehead, as if to facilitate the issue of some idea closely pent within
his brain. He looked with an air of kindness at this worthy companion of
former adventures and misadventures, and, clinking glass against glass,
"Come, Planchet," said he, "let us see what it is that gives you so much
trouble to bring forth. Mordioux! Speak freely, and quickly."

"Well, this is it," replied Planchet: "you appear to me to be going on
some expedition or other."

"I don't say that I am not."

"Then you have some new idea?"

"That is possible, too, Planchet."

"Then there will be fresh capital to be ventured? I will lay down
fifty thousand livres upon the idea you are about to carry out." And so
saying, Planchet rubbed his hands one against the other with a rapidity
evincing great delight.

"Planchet," said D'Artagnan, "there is but one misfortune in it."

"And what is that?"

"That the idea is not mine. I can risk nothing upon it."

These words drew a deep sigh from the heart of Planchet. That Avarice
is an ardent counselor; she carries away her man, as Satan did Jesus,
to the mountain, and when once she has shown to an unfortunate a