D'Artagnan; "we must
confess that there is a Providence always occupied in connecting our
destiny with that of M. d'Artagnan. There he is on the coast of Cannes,
and you, monsieur, will, at least, conduct me as far as Toulon. Be
assured that we shall meet with him more easily upon our route than on
this map."

Then, taking leave of Planchet, who was scolding his shopmen, even the
cousin of Truchen, his successor, the gentlemen set out to pay a visit
to M. de Beaufort. On leaving the grocer's shop, they saw a coach, the
future depository of the charms of Mademoiselle Truchen and Planchet's
bags of crowns.

"Every one journeys towards happiness by the route he chooses," said
Raoul, in a melancholy tone.

"Road to Fontainebleau!" cried Planchet to his coachman.

Chapter XXX. The Inventory of M. de Beaufort.

To have talked of D'Artagnan with Planchet, to have seen Planchet quit
Paris to bury himself in his country retreat, had been for Athos and his
son like a last farewell to the noise of the capital--to their life of
former days. What, in fact, did these men leave behind them--one of whom
had exhausted the past age in glory, and the other, the present age
in misfortune? Evidently neither of them had anything to ask of his
contemporaries. They had only to pay a visit to M. de Beaufort, and
arrange with him the particulars of departure. The duke was lodged
magnificently in Paris. He had one of those superb establishments
pertaining to great fortunes, the like of which certain old men
remembered to have seen in all their glory in the times of wasteful
liberality of Henry III.'s reign. Then, really, several great nobles
were richer than the king. They knew it, used it, and never deprived
themselves of the pleasure of humiliating his royal majesty when they
had an opportunity. It was this egotistical aristocracy Richelieu had
constrained to contribute, with its blood, its purse, and its duties, to
what was from his time styled the king's service. From Louis XI.--that
terrible mower-down of the great--to Richelieu, how many families had
raised their heads! How many, from Richelieu to Louis XIV., had bowed
their heads, never to raise them again! But M. de Beaufort was born a
prince, and of a blood which is not shed upon scaffolds, unless by the
decree of peoples,--a prince who had kept up a grand style of living.
How did he maintain his horses, his people, and his table? Nobody knew;
himself less than others. Only the