 Chapter 61 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3 Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Cabaret of the Image de Notre-Dame At two o'clock the next day, fifty-thousand spectators had taken their position upon the plos, around the two gibbets which had been elevated between the Coie de la Greve and the Coie Pelletier, one close to the other with their backs to the embankment of the river. In the morning also, all the sworn criers of the good city of Paris had traversed the quarters of the city, particularly the Hallis and the Fowlborgs, announcing with their hoarse and indefatigable voices the great justice done by the king upon two speculators, two thieves, devourers of the people. And these people, whose interests were so warmly looked after, in order not to fail in respect for their king-quitted shops, stalls and ateliers to go, and evince a little gratitude to Louis XIV, absolutely like invited guests who feared to commit an impoliteness in not repairing to the house of him who had invited them. Accordingly, to the tenor of the sentence, which the criers read aloud and incorrectly, two farmers of the revenues, monopolists of money, dilapidators of the royal provisions, extortioners and forgers were about to undergo capital punishment on the Place de Grave, with their names blazoned over their heads according to their sentence. As to those names, the sentence made no mention of them. The curiosity of the Parisians was at its height, and as we have said, an immense crowd waited with feverish impatience the hour fixed for the execution. The news had already spread that the prisoners transferred to the Chateau of Vincennes would be conducted from that prison to the Place de Grave. Consequently, the Faborgue and the Rue Saint-Antoine were crowded, for the population of Paris in those days of great executions was divided into two categories, those who came to see the condemned pass. These were of timid and mild hearts, but philosophically curious, and those who wished to see the condemned die. These had hearts that hungered for sensation. On this day, Michel d'Artagnan received his last instructions from the King, and made his adieu to his friends, the number of whom was, at the moment, reduced to planchette, traced the plan of his day as every busy man whose moments are counted ought to do because he appreciates their importance. My departure is to be, said he, at break of day, three o'clock in the morning. I have then fifteen hours before me. Take from them the six hours of sleep which are indispensable for me. Six. One hour for repass. Seven. One hour for a farewell visit to Athos. Eight. Two hours for chance circumstances. Total. Ten. There are then five hours left. One hour to get my money. That is, to have payment refused by Monsieur Fouquet. Another hour to go and receive my money of Monsieur Colbert. Together with his questions and grimaces. One hour to look over my clothes and arms and get my boots cleaned. I still have two hours left. More dur, how rich I am. And so, saying d'Artagnan felt a strange joy, a joy of youth, a perfume of those great and happy years of former times, mount into his brain and intoxicate him. During these two hours, I will go, said the musketeer, and take my quarter's rent of the Image de Notre-Dame. That will be pleasant. Three hundred and seventy-five lever. More dur. But that is astonishing. If the poor man who has but one lever in his pocket found a lever and twelve deniers, that would be justice. That would be excellent, but never does such a god send fall to the lot of the poor man. The rich man on the contrary makes himself revenues with his money, which he does not even touch. Here are three hundred and seventy-five lever, which fall to me from heaven. I will go then to the Image de Notre-Dame, and drink a glass of Spanish wine with my tenant, which he cannot fail to offer me. But order must be observed, Monsieur d'Artagnan. Order must be observed. Let us organize our time, then, and distribute the employment of it. Article one. Athos. Article two. The Image de Notre-Dame. Article three. Monsieur Fouquet. Article four. Monsieur Colbert. Article five. Supper. Article six. Clothes. Boots. Horse. Portmanteau. Article seven. Then the last. Sleep. In consequence of this arrangement, D'Artagnan went straight to the Comp de l'affaire, to whom, modestly and ingenuously, he related a part of his fortunate adventures. Athos had not been without uneasiness on the subject of D'Artagnan's visit to the king, but few words sufficed for an explanation of that. Athos devined that Louis had charged D'Artagnan with some important mission, and did not even make an effort to draw the secret from him. He only recommended him to take care of himself, and offered discreetly to accompany him if that were desirable. But, my dear friend, said D'Artagnan, I am going nowhere. What? You come and bid me adieu and are going nowhere? Oh, yes, yes, replied D'Artagnan, colouring a little. I am going to make an acquisition. That is quite another thing. Then I change my formula. Instead of do not get yourself killed, I will say, do not get yourself robbed. My friend, I will inform you if I set eyes on any property that pleases me, and shall expect you will favour me with your opinion. Yes, yes, said Athos, too delicate to permit himself even the consolation of a smile. Raoul imitated the paternal reserve, but D'Artagnan thought it would appear too mysterious to leave his friends under a pretense, without even telling them the route he was about to take. I have chosen Le Mans, said he to Athos. Is it a good country? Excellent, my friend, replied the Count, without making him observe that Le Mans was in the same direction as a Latorene, and that by waiting two days at most he might travel with a friend. But D'Artagnan more embarrassed than the Count, Doug had every explanation deeper into the mud into which he sank by degrees. I shall set out to-morrow at daybreak, said he at last. Till that time, will you come with me, Raoul? Yes, Monsieur Le Chevalier, said the young man, if Monsieur Le Comte does not want me. No, Raoul, I am to have an audience today of Monsieur, the King's brother, that is all I have to do. Raoul asked Grimaud for his sword, which the old man brought him immediately. Now, then, added D'Artagnan, opening his arms to Athos. Adieu, my dear friend! Athos held him in a long embrace, and the musketeer who knew his discretion so well murmured in his ear, an affair of state, to which Athos only replied by a pressure of the hand, still more significant. They then separated. Raoul took the arm of his old friend who led him along the Rue Saint-Honneur. I am conducting you to the abode of the God Plutus, said D'Artagnan to the young man. Prepare yourself. The whole day you will witness the piling up of crowns. Heavens, how I am changed! Oh, what numbers of people there are in that street, said Raoul. Is there a procession today? asked D'Artagnan of a passer-by. Monsieur, it is a hanging. replied the man. What, a hanging at the grave, said D'Artagnan. Yes, Monsieur. The devil take the rogue who gets himself hung the day I want to go and take my rent. cried D'Artagnan. Raoul, did you ever see anybody hung? Never, Monsieur. Thank God. Oh, how young that sounds. If you were on guard in the trenches as I was, and a spy, but pardon me, Raoul, I am doting. You are quite right. It is a hideous sight to see a person hung. At what hour do they hang them, Monsieur, if you please? Monsieur. replied the stranger respectfully, delighted at joining conversation with two men of the sword. It will take place about three o'clock. Ah-ha! It is now only half past one. Let us step out. We shall be there in time to touch my three hundred and seventy-five lever and get away before the arrival of the malifactor. Malifactor, Monsieur. continued the bourgeois. There are two of them. Monsieur, I return you many thanks. Said D'Artagnan, who as he grew older had become polite to a degree. Drawing Raoul long, he directed his course rapidly in the direction of Le Grève. Without that great experience musketeers have of a crowd to which rejoined an irresistible strength of wrist, and an uncommon suppleness of shoulders our two travellers would not have arrived at their place of destination. They followed the line of the quay, which they had gained on quitting the Rue Saint Honor, where they left Athos. D'Artagnan went first, his elbow, his wrist, his shoulder, formed three wedges which he knew how to insinuate with skill into the groups, to make them split and separate like firewood. He made use sometimes of the hilt of his sword as an additional help, introducing it between ribs that were too rebellious, making it take the part of a lever or a crowbar to separate husband from wife, uncle from nephew, and brother from brother, and all this was done so naturally and with such gracious smiles that people must have had ribs of bronze not to cry thank you when the wrist made its play, or hearts of diamonds not to be enchanted when such a bland smile enlivened the lips of the musketeer. Raoul, following his friend, cajoled the women who admired his beauty, pushed back the men who felt the rigidity of his muscles and both opened, thanks to these maneuvers, a compact and muddy tide of the populace. They arrived in sight of the two gibbets from which Raoul turned away his eyes and disgust. As for D'Artagnan, he did not even see them. His house with its gabled roof, its windows crowded with the curious, attracted and even absorbed all the attention he was capable of. He distinguished in the plos and around the houses a good number of musketeers on leave who, some with women, others with friends, awaited the crowning ceremony. What rejoiced him above all was to see that his tenant, the cabaretier, was so busy he hardly knew which way to turn. Three lads could not supply the drinkers. They filled the shop, the chambers and the court even. D'Artagnan called Raoul's attention to this concourse adding, The fellow will have no excuse for not paying his rent. Look at those drinkers, Raoul. One would say they were jolly companions. My dear! Why, there is no room anywhere. D'Artagnan, however, contrived to catch hold of the master by the corner of his apron, and to make himself known to him. Ah! Mr. Le Chevalier, said the cabaretier, half distracted. One minute, if you please, I have here a hundred mad devils turning my cellar upside down. The cellar, if you like, but not the money-box. Oh! Mr., your thirty-seven and a half pistolets are all counted out ready for you upstairs in my chamber. But there are in that chamber thirty customers who are sucking the staves of a little barrel of aporto, which I tapped for them this very morning. Give me a minute, only a minute. So be it, so be it. I will go, said Raoul, in a low voice to D'Artagnan. This hilarity is vile. Mr., replied D'Artagnan sternly, you will please to remain where you are. The soldier ought to familiarize himself with all kinds of spectacles. There are in the eye when it is young fibers, which we must learn how to harden, and we are not truly generous and good, safe from the moment when the eye has become hardened, and the heart remains tender. Besides my little Raoul, would you leave me alone here? That would be very wrong of you. Look! There is yonder in the lower court a tree, and under the shade of that tree we shall breathe more freely than in this hot atmosphere of spilt wine. From the spot on which they had placed themselves the two new guests of the imaged in Notre-Dame, heard the ever-increasing hubbub of the tide of people, and lost neither a cry nor a gesture of the drinkers, at tables in the cabaret or disseminated in the chambers. If D'Artagnan had wished to place himself as a vedette for an expedition, he could not have succeeded better. The tree under which he and Raoul were seated covered them with its already thick foliage. It was a low, thick chestnut tree with inclined branches that cast their shade over a table, so dilapidated the drinkers had abandoned it. We said that from this post D'Artagnan saw everything. He observed the goings and comings of the waiters, the arrival of fresh drinkers, the welcome, sometimes friendly, sometimes hostile, given to the newcomers by others already installed. He observed all this to amuse himself, for the thirty-seven and a half pistoles were a long time coming. Raoul recalled his attention to it. Mr. said he, you do not hurry your tenant, and the condemned will soon be here. There will then be such a press we shall not be able to get out. You are right, said the musketeer. Hola! Oh! somebody there! Mordeur! But it was in vain he cried and knocked upon the wreck of the old table, which fell to pieces beneath his fist. Nobody came. D'Artagnan was preparing to go and seek the cabaretier himself, to force him to a definite explanation, when the door of the court in which he was with Raoul, a door which communicated with the garden situated at the back, opened, and a man dressed as a cavalier with his sword in the sheath, but not at his belt, crossed the court without closing the door, and having cast an oblique glance at D'Artagnan and his companion, directed his course toward the cabaret itself, looking about in all directions with his eyes, capable of piercing walls of consciences. Said D'Artagnan, my tenants are communicating. That no doubt now is some amateur in hanging matters. At the same moment the cries and disturbance in the upper chamber ceased. Silence under such circumstances surprises more than a twofold increase of noise. D'Artagnan wished to see what was the cause of this sudden silence. He then perceived that this man, dressed as a cavalier, had just entered the principal chamber, and was haranguing the tiplers, who all listened to him with the greatest attention. D'Artagnan would perhaps have heard his speech, but for the dominant noise of the popular clamours which made a formidable accompaniment to the harangue of the orator. But it was soon finished, and all the people the cabaret contained came out, one after the other in little groups, so that there only remained six in the chamber. One of the six, the man with the sword, took the cabaretier aside, engaging him in discourse more or less serious, whilst the others lit a great fire in the chimney-place, a circumstance rendered strange by the fine weather and the heat. It is very singular, said D'Artagnan to Raoul, but I think I know those faces yonder. Don't you think you can smell the smoke here? said Raoul. I rather think I can smell a conspiracy, replied D'Artagnan. He had not finished speaking when four of these men came down into the court, and without the appearance of any bad design, mounted guard at the door of communication, casting at intervals glances at D'Artagnan, which signified many things. Mordeux! said D'Artagnan in a low voice. There is something going on. Are you curious, Raoul? According to the subject, Chevalier. Well, I am as curious as an old woman. Come a little more in front. We shall get a better view of the place. I would lay a wager. That view will be something curious. But you know, monsieur le Chevalier, that I am not willing to become a passive, an indifferent spectator of the death of the two poor devils. And I, then, do you think I am a savage? We will go in again when it is time to do so. Come along! And they made their way toward the front of the house, and placed themselves near the window which, still more strangely than the rest, remained unoccupied. The two last drinkers, instead of looking out at this window, kept up the fire, on seeing D'Artagnan and his friend enter. Ah! Ah! A reinforcement! murmured they. D'Artagnan jogged Raoul's elbow. Yes, my braves! Hey, reinforcement! said he. Co-deer! There is a famous fire! Whom are you going to cook? The two men uttered a shout of jovial laughter, and instead of answering, threw on more wood. D'Artagnan could not take his eyes off them. I suppose, said one of the fire-makers, they sent you to tell us the time. Did they not? Without doubt they have, said D'Artagnan, anxious to know what was going on. Why should I be here else, if it were not for that? Then place yourself at the window, if you please, and observe. D'Artagnan smiled in his mustache, made a sign to Raoul and placed himself at the window. End of Chapter 61 Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Chapter 62 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Vive Colbert The spectacle which the grave now presented was a frightful one. The heads, leveled by the perspective, extended afar, thick and agitated as if ears of corn in a vast plain. From time to time a fresh report or distant rumor made the heads oscillate and thousands of eyes flash. Now and then there were great movements. All those ears of corn bent and became waves more agitated than those of the ocean, which rolled from the extremities to the center and to beat like the tides against the hedge of archers who surrounded the gibbits. Then the handles of the halberds were let fall upon the heads and shoulders of the rash invaders. At times also it was the steel as well as the wood, and in that case a large empty circle was formed around the guard. A space conquered upon the extremities which underwent in their turn the oppression of the sudden movement which drove them against the parapets of the sen. From the window that commended a view of the whole place. D'Artagnan saw with interior satisfaction that such of the musketeers and guards as found themselves involved in the crowd were able, with blows of their fists and the hilts of their swords, to keep room. He even remarked that they had succeeded by that esprit de corps which doubles the strength of the soldier in getting together in one group to the amount of about fifty men. And then with the exception of a dozen stragglers whom he still saw rolling here and there, the nucleus was complete and within reach of his voice. But it was not the musketeers and guards only that drew the attention of D'Artagnan. Around the gibbits and particularly at the entrances to the Arcade of St. Jean moved the noisy mass and busy mass. Daring faces, resolute demeanors were to be seen here and there, mingled with silly faces and indifferent demeanors, signals were exchanged, hands given and taken. D'Artagnan remarked among the groups and those groups the most animated, the face of the cavalier whom he had seen enter by the door of communication from his garden and who had gone upstairs to harangue the drinkers. That man was organising troops and giving orders. Morde, said D'Artagnan to himself, I was not deceived. I know that man. It is Menovie. What the devil is he doing here? A distant murmur, which became more distinct by degrees, stopped this reflection and drew his attention another way. This murmur was occasioned by the arrival of the culprits. A strong, picket of archers preceded them and appeared at the angle of the Arcade. The entire crowd now joined as if in one cry. All the cries united formed one immense howl. D'Artagnan saw Raoul was becoming pale and he slapped him roughly on the shoulder. The firekeepers turned round on hearing the great cry and asked what was going on. The condemned or arrived, said D'Artagnan. That's well! replied they, again replenishing the fire. D'Artagnan looked at them with much uneasiness. It was evident that these men who were making such a fire for no apparent purpose had some strange intentions. The condemned appeared upon the plos. They were walking. The executioner before them whilst fifty archers formed a hedge on their right and their left. Both were dressed in black. They appeared pale but firm. They looked impatiently over the people's heads, standing on tiptoe at every step. D'Artagnan remarked this. What do? cried he. They are in a great hurry to get a sight of the jibbit. Raoul drew back. Without, however, having the power to leave the window, terror even has its attractions. To the death! To the death! cried fifty thousand voices. Yes, to the death! howled a hundred frantic others as if the great mass had given them the reply. To the halter! To the halter! cried the great whole. Vive le Roi! Well, said D'Artagnan, this is droll. I should have thought it was Monsieur Colbert who had caused them to be hung. There was, at this moment, a great rolling movement in the crowd which stopped for a moment the march of the condemned. The people of a bold and resolute mean whom D'Artagnan had observed by dint of pressing, pushing, and lifting themselves up had succeeded in almost touching the hedge of archers. The cortege resumed its march, all at once to cries of Vive Colbert. Those men of whom D'Artagnan never lost sight fell upon the escort which in vain endeavored to stand against them. Behind these men was the crowd, then commenced amidst a frightful tumult as frightful a confusion. This time there was something more than cries of expectation or cries of joy, they were cries of pain. Halbert struck men down, swords ran them through, muskets were discharged at them. The confusion became then so great that D'Artagnan could no longer distinguish anything. Then from this chaos suddenly surged something like a visible intention, like a will pronounced. The condemned had been torn from the hands of the guards and were being dragged toward the house of Le March de Notre-Dame. Those who dragged them shouted, Vive Colbert! The people hesitated not knowing which they ought to fall upon, the archers or the aggressors. What stopped the people was that those who cried Vive Colbert began to cry at the same time, No halter, no halter, to the fire, to the fire, burn the thieves, burn the extortioners. This cry, shouted with an ensemble, obtained enthusiastic success. The populace had come to witness an execution, and here was an opportunity offered them a performing one themselves. It was this that must be most agreeable to the populace. Therefore, they ranged themselves immediately on the party of the aggressors against the archers, crying with the minority which had become, thanks to them, the most compact majority. Yes, yes, to the fire with the thieves, Vive Colbert! Morde exclaimed D'Artagnan, this begins to look serious. One of the men who remained near the chimney approached the window of firebrand in his hand. Aha! said he. It gets warm. Then turning to his companion, there is the signal. Added he, and he immediately applied the burning brand to the wainscotting. Now, this cabaret of the image D'Artagnan was not a very newly built house, and therefore did not require much in treating to take fire. In a second the boards began to crackle, and the flames arose sparkling to the ceiling. A howling from without reply to the shouts of the incendiaries. D'Artagnan, who had not seen what passed from being engaged at the window, felt at the same time the smoke which choked him in the fire that scorched him. Oh, la! cried he, turning round. Is the fire here? Are you drunk or mad, my masters? The two men looked at each other with an air of astonishment. In what? asked they of D'Artagnan. Was it not a thing agreed upon? A thing agreed upon that you should burn my house! Vosciferated D'Artagnan, snatching the brand from the hand of the incendiary, and striking him with it across the face. The second wanted to assist his comrade, but Raoul, seizing him by the middle, threw him out of the window, whilst D'Artagnan pushed his man down the stairs. Raoul first disengaged, tore the burning wainscotting down, and threw it flaming into the chamber. At a glance D'Artagnan saw there was nothing to be feared from the fire, and sprang to the window. The disorder was at its height. The air was filled with simultaneous cries of, to the fire, to the death, to the halter, to the stake, vive copaire, vive le roe! The group which had forced the culprits from the hands of the archers had drawn close to the house, which appeared to be the gold towards which they dragged them. Men of Ville was at the head of this group, shouting louder than all the others, to the fire, to the fire, vive copaire! D'Artagnan began to comprehend what was meant. They wanted to burn the condemned, and his house was to serve as a funeral pile. Halt there! cried he, sword in hand, and one foot upon the window. Men of Ville, what do you want to do? Miss sure, D'Artagnan cried the latter, give way, give way! To the fire, to the fire with the thieves, vive copaire! These cries exasperated D'Artagnan. Mordeux, said he. What? Burn the poor devils who are only condemned to be hung? That is infamous! Before the door, however, the mass of anxious spectators rolled back against the walls, had become more thick, and closed up the way. Men of Ville and his men who were dragging along the culprits were within ten paces of the door. Men of Ville made a last effort. Passage! Passage! cried he, pistol in hand. Burn them! Burn them! repeated the crowd. The homage to Notre-Dame is on fire! Burn the thieves! Burn the monopolists in the homage to Notre-Dame! There now remain no doubt. It was plainly D'Artagnan's house that was their object. D'Artagnan remembered the old cry, always so effective from his mouth. Amois, musketeers! shouted he with the voice of a giant, with one of those voices which dominate over canon, the sea, and the tempest. Amois, musketeers! And, suspending himself by the arm from the balcony, he allowed himself to drop amidst the crowd, which began to draw back from a house that reigned men. Raoul was on the ground as soon as he both soared in hand. All the musketeers on the plus heard that challenging cry, all turned around at that cry and recognized D'Artagnan. To the captain! To the captain! cried they in their turn, and the crowd opened before them as though before a prow of a vessel. At that moment D'Artagnan and Men of Ville found themselves face to face. Passage! Passage! cried Men of Ville, seeing that he was within an arm's length at the door. No one passes here, said D'Artagnan. Take that then, said Men of Ville, firing his pistol, almost within an arm's length. But before the cock fell, D'Artagnan had struck up Men of Ville's arm with the hilt of his sword and passed the blade through his body. I told you plainly to keep yourself quiet, said D'Artagnan to Men of Ville, who rolled at his feet. Passage! Passage! cried the companions of Men of Ville, at first terrified but soon recovering when they found they had only to do with two men. But those two men were a hundred armed giants. The swords flew about in their hands like the burning glaive of the archangel. They pierced with its point, strike with the flat, cut with the edge, every stroke brings down a man. For the king, cried D'Artagnan, to every man he struck at, that is to say to every man that fell. This cry became the charging word for the musketeers who guided by it joined D'Artagnan. During this time the archers recovering from the panic they had undergone charged the aggressors in the rear and, regular as mill strokes, overturn or knock down all that opposed them. The crowd which sees swords gleaming and drops of blood flying in the air, the crowd falls back and crushes itself, and length cries for mercy and of despair resound, that is, the farewell of the vanquished. The two condemned are again in the hands of the archers. D'Artagnan approaches them, seeing them pale and sinking. Can so yourselves, poor men? said he. You will not undergo the frightful torture with which these wretches threatened you. The king has condemned you to be hung. You shall only be hung. Go on, hang them, and it will be over. There is no longer anything going on at the imaged Notre-Dame. The fire has been extinguished, with two tons of wine in default of water. The conspirators have fled by the garden. The archers were dragging the culprits to the gibbets. From this moment the affair did not occupy much time. The executioner, heedless about operating according to the rules of art, made such haste that he dispatched the condemned in a couple of minutes. In the meantime the people gathered around D'Artagnan. They felicitated. They cheered him. He wiped his brow, streaming with sweat and his sword, streaming with blood. He shrugged his shoulders at seeing Menoveal writhing at his feet in the last convulsions. And while Rahul turned away his eyes in compassion, he pointed to the musketeers, the gibbets laden with their melancholy fruit. "'Poor devils,' said he. I hope they died blessing me, for I saved them with great difficulty.' These words caught the ear of Menoveal at the moment when he himself was breathing his last sigh. A dark, ironical smile flitted across his lips. He wished to reply, but the effort hastened the snapping of the cord of life. He expired. "'Oh, all this is very frightful,' murmured Rahul. "'Let us be gone, Monsieur Lechevier.' "'You are not wounded,' asked D'Artagnan. "'Not at all. Thank you.' "'That's well. Thou art a brave fellow, more dear, the head of the father in the arm of Porthos. Ha! If he had been here good Porthos, you would have seen something worth looking at.' "'Then, as if by way of remembrance.' "'But where the devil can that brave Porthos be?' murmured D'Artagnan. "'Come, Chevier. Pray. Come away,' urged Rahul. "'One minute, my friend. Let me take my thirty-seven and a half pistoles, and I am at your service. The house is a good property,' added D'Artagnan as he entered the homage to Notre-Dame. But decidedly, even if it were less profitable, I should prefer its being in another quarter.' End of Chapter sixty-two, Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Chapter sixty-three of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume three, Part one by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. How Monsieur de Marie's diamond passed into the hands of Monsieur D'Artagnan. Whilst this violent, noisy and bloody scene was passing on the grave, several men barricaded behind a gate of communication with the garden replaced their swords in their sheaths, assisted one among them to mount a ready-saddled horse which was waiting in the garden, and like a flock of startled birds fled in all directions, some climbing the walls, others rushing out at the gates with all the fury of a panic. He who mounted the horse and gave him the spur so sharply that the animal was near leaping the wall, this cavalier, we say, crossed the plasperier, passed like lightning before the crowd in the streets, riding against, running over, and knocking down all that came in his way, and ten minutes after arrived at the gates of the superintendent, more out of breath than his horse. The abbe bouquet, at the clatter of the hooves on the pavement, appeared at a window of the court, and before even the cavalier had set foot on the ground. Well, Danecamp! cried he, leaning half out of the window. Well, it is all over. All over? cried the abbe. Then they are saved. No, Monsieur, replied the cavalier. They are hung. Hung? Hung? repeated the abbe, turning pale. A lateral door suddenly opened and bouquet appeared in the chamber, pale, distracted, with lifts half opened, breathing a cry of grief and anger. He stopped upon the threshold to listen to what was addressed from the court to the window. Miserable wretches, said the abbe. You did not fight, then? Like lions. Say like cowards. Monsieur? A hundred men accustomed to war, sword in hand, are worth ten thousand archers in a surprise. Where is Meneville, that boaster, that braggart, who was to come back either dead or a conqueror? Well, Monsieur, he has kept his word. He is dead. Dead? Who killed him? A demon disguised as a man, a giant armed with ten flaming swords, a madman, who at one blow extinguished the fire, put down the riot, and caused a hundred musketeers to rise up out of the pavement of the grave. Fouquet raised his brow, streaming with sweat, murmuring, Oh, Liadot and Demeray. Dead, dead, dead, and I dishonored. The abbe turned round and, perceiving his brother, despairing and livid. Come, come, said he. It is a blow of fate, Monsieur. We must not lament thus. Our attempt has failed because God. Be silent, abbe. Be silent, cried Fouquet. Your excuses are blasphemies. Order that man up here, and let him relate the details of this terrible event. But, brother, oh, bae, Monsieur. The abbe made a sign, and in half a minute the man's step was heard upon the stairs. At the same time, Gore-Ve appeared behind Fouquet, like the guardian angel of the superintendent, pressing one finger on his lips to enjoin observation even amidst the bursts of his grief. The minister resumed all the serenity that human strength left at the disposal of a heart half broken with sorrow. Dane Camp appeared. Make your report, said Gore-Ve. Monsieur, replied the messenger. We received orders to carry off the prisoners and cry, Vive Colbert whilst carrying them off. To burn them alive, was it not, abbe? Interrupted Gore-Ve. Yes, yes, the order was given to Menoveal. Menoveal knew what was to be done, and Menoveal is dead. This news appeared rather to reassure Gore-Veal and to satan him. Yes, certainly, to burn them alive, said the abbe eagerly. Granted, Monsieur, granted, said the man looking into the eyes and the faces of the two interlocutors to ascertain what there was profitable or disadvantageous to himself in telling the truth. Now proceed, said Gore-Ve. The prisoners, cried Dane Camp, were brought to the grave, and the people in the fury insisted upon their being burnt instead of being hung. And the people were right, said the abbe. Go on. But, resumed the man, at the moment the archers were broken, at the moment the fire was set to one of the houses of the plass destined to serve as a funeral pile for the guilty. This fury, this demon, this giant of whom I told you, and who we had been informed was the proprietor of the house in question, aided by a young man who accompanied him, threw out of the window those who kept up the fire, called to his assistance the musketeers who were in the crowd, leapt himself from the window of the first story into the plass, and plied his sword so desperately that the victory was restored to the archers, the prisoners were retaken, and Meneville killed. When once recaptured the condemned were executed in three minutes. Fouquet, in spite of his self-command, could not prevent a deep groan escaping him. And this man, the proprietor of the house, what is his name? said the abbe. I cannot tell you, not having even been able to get sight of him. My post had been appointed in the garden, and I remained at my post. Only the affair was related to me as I repeat it. I was ordered, when once the affair was at an end, to come at best speed and announce to you the manner in which it finished. According to this order I set out, full gallop, and here I am. Very well, Mr. We have nothing else to ask of you. Said the abbe, more and more dejected, in proportion as the moment approached for finding himself alone with his brother. Have you been paid? asked Gore V. Partly, Mr. replied Dane Camp. Here are twenty pistoles. Be gone, Mr. And never forget to defend, as this time has been done, the true interest of the king. Yes, Mr. said the man bowing and pocketing the money, after which he went out. Scarcely had the door closed after him when Phuket, who had remained motionless, advanced with a rapid step and stood between the abbe and Gore V. Both of them at the same time opened their mouths to speak to him. No excuses, said he, no recriminations against anybody. If I had not been a false friend, I should not have confided to any one the care of delivering Liadot and Demerhe. I alone am guilty. To me alone are reproaches and remorse due. Leave me, abbe. And yet, monsieur, you will not prevent me, replied the latter, from endeavoring to find out the miserable fellow who has intervened to the advantage of Monsieur Colbert in this so well arranged affair. For if it is good policy to love our friends dearly, I do not believe that it is bad which consists in obstinately pursuing our enemies. A truce to policy, abbe. Be gone, I beg of you, and do not let me hear any more of you till I send for you. What we most need is circumspection and silence. You have a terrible example before you, gentlemen. No reprisals I forbid them. There are no orders, grumbled the abbe, which will prevent me from avenging a family affront upon the guilty person. And I, cried Fouquet in that imperative tone to which one feels there is nothing to reply, if you entertain one thought, one single thought, which is not the absolute expression of my will, I will have you cast into the Bastille two hours after that thought has manifested itself. Regulate your conduct accordingly, abbe. The abbe colored and bowed. Fouquet made a sign to Gore-V to follow him and was already directing his steps toward the cabinet when the usher announced with a loud voice, Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan. Who is he? said Fouquet negligently to Gore-V. An ex-Lieutenant of his Majesty's musketeers, replied Gore-V in the same tone. Fouquet did not even take the trouble to reflect and resumed his walk. I beg your pardon, Monsignor, said Gore-V. But I have remembered this brave man has quitted the King's service, and probably comes to receive an installment of some pension or other. Devil take him, said Fouquet. Why does he choose his opportunity so ill? Permit me then, Monsignor, to announce your refusal to him, for he is one of my acquaintance and is a man whom in our present circumstances it would be better to have as a friend than an enemy. Answer him as you please, said Fouquet. Eh, good Lord! said the abbe, still full of malice like an egotistical man. Tell him there is no money, particularly for musketeers. But scarcely had the abbe uttered this imprudence speech, when the partly open door was thrown back and D'Artagnan appeared. Hey, Mr. Fouquet, said he, I was well aware there was no money for musketeers here, therefore I did not come to obtain any but to have it refused. That being done received my thanks. I give you good day, and we'll go and seek it at Mr. Cobare's. And he went out, making an easy bow. Gervie, said Fouquet, run after that man and bring him back. Gervie obeyed and overtook D'Artagnan on the stairs. Mishir D'Artagnan, hearing steps behind him, turned round and perceived Gervie. My dear, my dear Miser, said he, these are sad lessons which you gentlemen of finance teach us. I am come to Mr. Fouquet to receive a sum accorded by his majesty, and I am received like a mendicant who comes to ask charity, or a thief who comes to steal a piece of plate. But you pronounce the name of Mr. Cobare, my dear Mr. D'Artagnan. You said you were going to Mr. Cobare's? I certainly am going there. We're at only to ask satisfaction of the people who try to burn houses crying Veeve Cobare. Gervie pricked up his ears. Oh, said he, you allude to what has just happened at the Greve? Yes, certainly. And in what did that which has taken place concern you? What? Do you ask me whether it concerns me or does not concern me? If Mr. Cobare pleases to make a funeral pile of my house? So, oh, your house, was it your house they wanted to burn? Pardieu, was it? Is the cabaret of the homage to Notre Dame yours then? It has been this week. Well, then, are you the brave captain, or are you the valiant blade who has dispersed those who wish to burn the condemned? My dear Mr. Gervie, put yourself in my place. I was an agent of the public force, and a landlord, too. As a captain, it is my duty to have the orders of the king accomplished. As a proprietor, it is to my interest my house should not be burnt. I have, at the same time, attended to the laws of interest and duty, in replacing M. Liadot and Demmerry in the hands of the archers. Then it was you who threw the man out of the window? It was I, myself, replied D'Artagnan modestly. And you, who killed Meneville? I had that misfortune, said D'Artagnan. Bowing like a man who is being congratulated. It was you, then, in short, who caused the two condemned persons to be hung? Instead of burnt, yes, M. Sir, and I am proud of it. I saved the poor devils from horrible tortures. Understand, my dear M. Gervie, that they wanted to burn them alive. It exceeds imagination. Go, my dear M. D'Artagnan, go! said Gervie, anxious to spare Fouquet the sight of the man who had just caused him such profound grief. No, said Fouquet, who had heard all from the door of the anti-chamber. Not so. On the contrary, M. D'Artagnan, come in. D'Artagnan wiped from the hilt of his sword a last bloody trace, which had escaped his notice and returned. He then found himself face to face with these three men, whose countenances were very different expressions. With the abbey it was anger. With Gervie, stupor. With Fouquet it was dejection. I beg your pardon, M. Shirley Minister, said D'Artagnan. But my time is short. I have to go to the office of the Intendant to have an explanation with Monsieur Colbert and to receive my quarter's pension. But, M. Sir, said Fouquet, there is money here. D'Artagnan looked at the Superintendent with astonishment. You have been answered inconsiderately, M. Sir. I know because I heard it, said the Minister. A man of your merit ought to be known by everybody. D'Artagnan bowed. Have you an order? added Fouquet. Yes, M. Sir. Give it me. I will pay you myself. Come with me. He made a sign to Gervie and the abbey who remained in the chamber where they were. He led D'Artagnan into his cabinet. As soon as the door was shut, how much is due to you, M. Sir? Why, something like five thousand lever, M. D'Artagnan. For a rears of pay? For a quarter's pay. A quarter consisting of five thousand lever? said Fouquet, fixing upon the musketeer's searching look. Does the King then give you twenty thousand lever a year? Yes, M. Sir. Twenty thousand lever a year. Do you think it is too much? I cried Fouquet, and he smiled bitterly. If I had any knowledge of mankind, if I were, instead of being a frivolous, inconsequent and vain spirit, of a prudent and reflective spirit, if in a word I had, as certain persons have known how, regulated my life, you would not receive twenty thousand lever a year. But a hundred thousand, and you would not belong to the King, but to me. D'Artagnan coloured slightly. There is sometimes, in the manner in which a eulogium is given, in the voice, in the affectionate tone, a poison so sweet, that the strongest mind is intoxicated by it. The superintendent terminated his speech by opening a drawer, and taking from it four rouleaux which he placed before D'Artagnan. The gas gun opened one. Gold, said he, it will be less burdensome, M. Sir. But then, M. Sir, these make twenty thousand lever. No doubt they do. But only five are due to me. I wish to spare you the trouble of coming four times to my office. You overwhelm me, M. Sir. I do only what I ought to do, M. Sir Lechevier, and I hope you will not bear me any malice on account of the rude reception my brother gave you. He is of a sour capricious disposition. M. Sir, said D'Artagnan, believe me, nothing would grieve me more than an excuse from you. Therefore I will make no more, and will content myself with asking you a favour. Oh, M. Sir. Fouquet drew from his finger a ring worth about a thousand bestowles. M. Sir, said he, this stone was given to me by a friend of my childhood, by a man to whom you have rendered a great service. A service? I, said the musketeer, I have rendered a service to one of your friends. You cannot have forgotten it, M. Sir, for it dates this very day. And that friend's name was M. D'Amary. One of the condemned? Yes, one of the victims. Well, M. D'Artagnan, in return for the service you have rendered him, I beg you to accept this diamond. Do so, for my sake. M. Sir, you accept it, I say. Today is with me a day of mourning. Hereafter you will perhaps learn why. Today I have lost one friend. Well, I will try to get another. But, M. Sir Fouquet, adieu. M. D'Artagnan, adieu. Cried Fouquet with much emotion, or rather, au revoir. And the minister quitted the cabinet, leaving in the hands of the musketeer the ring, and the twenty thousand lever. Oh, said D'Artagnan after a moment's dark reflection. How on earth am I to understand what this means? Mardyr! I can understand this much only. He is a gallant man. I will go and explain matters to M. S. Cobert. And he went out. End of Chapter 63, Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Chapter 64 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Of the notable difference D'Artagnan finds, between M. the Intendant and M. the Superintendant. M. Cobert resided in the roue-nue de Petitia, in a house which had belonged to Bautru. D'Artagnan's legs cleared the distance in a short quarter of an hour. When he arrived at the residence of the new favourite, the court was full of archers and police who came to congratulate him, or to excuse themselves according to whether he should choose to praise or blame. The sentiment of flattery is instinctive with people of abject condition. They have the sense of it, as the wild animal has that of hearing and smell. These people, or their leader, understood that there was a pleasure to offer to M. Cobert, in rendering him an account of the fashion in which his name had been pronounced during the rash enterprise of the morning. D'Artagnan made his appearance just as the chief of the watch was giving his report. He stood close to the door, behind the archers. That officer took Cobert on one side in spite of his resistance and the contraction of his bushy eyebrows. In case, said he, you really desired, M. that the people should do justice on the two traitors, it would have been wise to warn us of it. For indeed, M. in spite of our regret at displeasing you or thwarting your views, we had our orders to execute. Triple fool! replied Cobert, furiously shaking his hair, thick and black as a mane. What are you telling me? What? That I could have had an idea of a riot. Are you mad or drunk? But, M. sir, they cried, V. Cobert, replied the trembling watch. A handful of conspirators. No, no, a mass of people. Ha! Indeed, said Cobert expanding, a mass of people cried, V. Cobert, are you certain of what you say, M. sir? We had nothing to do but open our ears, or rather to close them so terrible were the cries. And this was from the people, the real people. Certainly, M. sir, only these real people beat us. Oh, very well. Continued Cobert thoughtfully. Then you suppose it was the people alone who wished to burn the condemned? Oh, yes, M. sir. That is quite another thing. You strongly resisted, then. We had three of our men crushed to death, M. sir. But you killed nobody yourselves. M. sir, few of the rioters were left upon the square, and one among them who was not a common man. Who was he? A certain Menoveal upon whom the police have a long time had an eye. Menoveal? cried Cobert. What? He who killed Rue de Lausette, a worthy man who wanted a fat fowl? Yes, M. sir, the same. And did this Menoveal also cry, V. Cobert? Louder than all the rest. Like a madman. Cobert's brow grew dark and wrinkled. A kind of ambitious glory which had lighted his face was extinguished, like the light of glow-worms we crush beneath the grass. Then you say, resumed the deceived intendant, that the initiative came from the people. Menoveal was my enemy. I would have had him hung, and he knew it well. Menoveal belonged to the Abbey Fouquet. The affair originated with Fouquet. Does not everybody know that the condemned were his friends from childhood? That is true, thought D'Artagnan, and thus are all my doubts cleared up. I repeat it. M. sir Fouquet may be called with a priest, but he is a very gentlemanly man. And continued Cobert. Are you quite sure Menoveal is dead? D'Artagnan thought the time was come for him to make his appearance. Perfectly, M. sir, replied he, advancing suddenly. Oh, is that you, M. sir? said Cobert. In person, replied the musketeer with his deliberate tone, it appears that you had in Menoveal a pretty enemy. It was not I, M. sir, who had an enemy, replied Cobert. It was the king. Double brute, thought D'Artagnan, to think to play the great man in the hypocrite with me. Well, continued he to Cobert, I am very happy to have rendered so good a service to the king. Will you take upon you to tell his majesty, M. sir, lintendant? What commission is this you give me? And what do you charge me to tell his majesty, M. sir? Be precise, if you please, said Cobert, in a sharp voice, tuned beforehand to hostility. I give you no commission, replied D'Artagnan, with that calmness which never abandons the banterber. I thought it would be easy for you to announce to his majesty that it was I, who, being thereby chance, did justice upon Menoveal, and restored things to order. Cobert opened his eyes, and interrogated the chief of the watch with a look. Ha! it is very true, said the latter, that this gentleman saved us. Why did you not tell me, M. sir, that you came to relate me this? said Cobert with envy. Every thing is explained, and more favourably for you than for anybody else. You are in error, M. sir, lintendant. I did not come at all for the purpose of relating that to you. It is an exploit, nevertheless. Oh! said the musketeer carelessly. Constant habit blunts the mind. To what do I owe the honour of your visit, then? Simply this, the king ordered me to come to you. Ha! said Cobert, recovering himself, when he saw D'Artagnan draw a paper from his pocket. It is to demand some money of me. Precisely, M. sir. Have the goodness to wait, if you please, M. sir, till I have dispatched the report of the watch. D'Artagnan turned upon his heel, insolently enough, and finding himself face to face with Cobert after his first turn, he bowed to him as a harlequin would have done. Then, after a second evolution, he directed his steps toward the door in quick time. Cobert was struck with this pointed rudeness, to which he was not accustomed. In general, men of the sword, when they came to his office, had such a want of money, that though their feet seemed to take root in the marble, they hardly lost their patience. Was D'Artagnan going straight to the king? Would he go and describe his rough reception, or recount his exploit? This was a matter for grave consideration. At all events, the moment was badly chosen to send D'Artagnan away, whether he came from the king or on his own account. The musketeer had rendered too great a service, and that, too recently, for it to be already forgotten. Therefore, Cobert thought it would be better to shake off his arrogance and call D'Artagnan back. Oh! Monsieur D'Artagnan! cried Cobert. What? Are you leaving me thus? D'Artagnan turned around. Why not? said he quietly. We have no more to say to each other, have we? You have, at least, money to receive, as you have an order. Who, I? Not at all, my dear Monsieur Cobert. But, Monsieur, you have an order, and in the same manner as you give a sword thrust, when you are required I, on my part, pay when an order is presented to me. Present yours. It is useless, my dear Monsieur Cobert, said D'Artagnan, who inwardly enjoyed this confusion in the ideas of Cobert. My order is paid. Paid? By whom? By Monsieur L'Esteurantendotte. Cobert grew pale. Explain yourself, said he in a stifled voice. If you are paid, why do you show me that paper? In consequence of the word of order of which you spoke to me so ingenuously just now, dear Monsieur Cobert, the king told me to take a quarter of the pension he is pleased to make me. Of me? said Cobert. Not exactly. The king said to me, Go to Monsieur Fouquet. The superintendent will perhaps have no money. Then you will go and draw it of Monsieur Cobert. The countenance of Monsieur Cobert brightened for a moment, but it was with his unfortunate physiognomy as with a stormy sky, sometimes radiant, sometimes dark as night according as the lightning gleams or the cloud passes. Eh? And was there any money in these superintendent's coffers? Asked he. Why, yes, he could not be badly off for money, replied D'Artagnan. It may be believed since Monsieur Fouquet, instead of paying me a quarter or five thousand lever. A quarter or five thousand lever? cried Cobert, struck as Fouquet had been with the generosity of the sum for his soldiers' pension. Why, that would be a pension of twenty thousand lever. Exactly, Monsieur Cobert. Peste, you reckon like old Pythagoras. Yes, twenty thousand lever. Ten times the appointment of an attendant of the finances. I beg to offer you my compliments, said Cobert with a vicious smile. Oh, said D'Artagnan. The king apologized for giving me so little, but he promised to make it more hereafter when he should be rich, but I must be gone, having much to do. So, then, notwithstanding the expectation of the king, the superintendent paid you, did he? In the same manner as in opposition to the king's expectation, you refused to pay me. I did not refuse, Monsieur. I only begged you to wait, and you say that Monsieur Fouquet paid you your five thousand lever? Yes, as you might have done, but he did even better than that, Monsieur Cobert. And what did he do? He politely counted me down the sum total, saying that for the king his coffers were always full. The sum total? Monsieur Fouquet has given you twenty thousand lever, instead of five thousand. Yes, Monsieur. And what for? In order to spare me three visits to the money chest of the superintendent, so that I have the twenty thousand lever in my pocket in good new coin, you see, then, that I am able to go away without standing in need of you, having come here only for Form's sake. And Artanian slapped his hand upon his pocket, with a laugh which disclosed to Colbert thirty-two magnificent teeth, as white as teeth of twenty-five-year-olds, and which seemed to say in their language, serve up to us thirty-two little Colbares, and we will chew them willingly. The serpent is as brave as the lion, the hawk as courageous as the eagle, that cannot be contested. It can only be said of animals that are decidedly cowardly, and are so called, that they will be brave only when they have to defend themselves. Colbert was not frightened at the thirty-two teeth of Artanian, he recovered and suddenly, Monsieur, said he, Monsieur le Surintendant has done what he had no right to do. What do you mean by that? replied Artanian. I mean that your note, will you let me see your note, if you please? Very willingly, here it is. Colbert seized the paper with an eagerness which the musketeer did not remark without uneasiness, and particularly without a certain degree of regret at having trusted him with it. Well, Monsieur, the royal order says this, at sight I command that there be paid to Monsieur Artanian the sum of five thousand lever, forming a quarter of the pension I have made him. So, in fact it is written, said Artanian, affecting calmness. Very well, the king only owed you five thousand lever, why has more been given to you? Because there was more, and Monsieur Fouquet was willing to give me more, that does not concern anybody. It is natural, said Colbert with a proud ease, that you should be ignorant of the usages of state finance, but Monsieur, when you have a thousand lever to pay, what do you do? I never have a thousand lever to pay, replied Artanian. Once more, said Colbert, irritated, once more, if you had any sum to pay, would you not pay what you ought? That only proves one thing, said Artanian, and that is that you have your particular customs and finance, and Monsieur Fouquet has his own. Mine, Monsieur, are the correct ones. I did not say they are not, and you have accepted what was not due to you. Artanian's eyes flashed. What is not due to me yet, you mean to say, Monsieur Colbert, for if I had received what was not due to me at all, I should have committed a theft. Colbert made no reply to this subtlety. You then owe fifteen thousand lever to the public chest, said he carried away by his jealous order. Then you must give me credit for them, replied Artanian, with his imperceptible irony. Not at all, Monsieur. Well, what will you do then? You will not take my rouleau from me, will you? You must return them to my chest. I, oh, Monsieur Colbert, don't reckon upon that. The king wants his money, Monsieur. And I, Monsieur, I want the king's money. That may be, but you must return this. Not a sue. I have always understood that in matters of comfortability, as you call it, a good cashier never gives back or takes back. Then, Monsieur, we shall see what the king will say about it. I will show him this note, which proves that Monsieur Fouquet not only pays what he does not owe, but that he does not even take care of vouchers for the sums that he has paid. Ha! Now I understand why you have taken that paper, Monsieur Colbert. Colbert did not perceive all that there was of a threatening character in his name pronounced in a certain manner. You shall see hereafter what use I will make of it. Said he, holding up the paper in his fingers. Ho! said Artanian, snatching the paper from him with a rapid movement. I understand it perfectly well, Monsieur Colbert. I have no occasion to wait for that. And he crumpled up in his pocket the paper he had so cleverly seized. Monsieur! Monsieur! cried Colbert. This is a violence! Nonsense! You must not be particular about a soldier's manners! replied Artanian. I kiss your hands, my dear Monsieur Colbert. And he went out, laughing in the face of the future minister. That man now, muttered he, was about to grow quite friendly. In his great pity I was obliged to cut his company so soon. End of chapter 64 Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Chapter 65 of the D'Artanian Romances Volume 3 part 1 by Alexander Dumas translated by William Robson This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Philosophy of the Heart and Mind For a man who had seen so many much more dangerous ones, the position of D'Artanian with respect to Monsieur Colbert was only comic. D'Artanian, therefore, did not deny himself the satisfaction of laughing at the expense of Monsieur L'Intendant, from the Rue de Petitchamps to the Rue de Lombard. It was a great while since D'Artanian 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'Artanian had only done from the Rue de Petitchamps to the Rue de Lombard. 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 any 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 passed what concerns me. My supper? Ready! A smoking roast joint, white wine, crayfish, and fresh-gathered cherries. All ready, my master! You are capital, fellow Planchet. Come on, then. Let us sup, and I will go to bed. During supper, D'Artanian 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. My dear, 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'm 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 upon the idea you are about to carry out. And so saying, Planchet rubbed his hands one against the other with a rapidity of ensing great delight. Planchet, said D'Artanian, 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 Averus 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 all the kingdoms of the earth, she is able to repose herself, knowing full well that she has left her companion, Envy, to gnaw his heart. Planchet had tasted of riches easily acquired, and was never afterwards likely to stop in his desires. But, as he had a good heart in spite of his covetousness, as he adored D'Artanian, he could not refrain from making him a thousand recommendations, each more affectionate than the others. He would not have been sorry, nevertheless, to have caught a little hint of the secret his master concealed so well. Tricks, turns, councils, and traps were all useless. D'Artanian let nothing confidential escape him. The evening passed thus. After supper the Portmanteau occupied D'Artanian. He took a turn to the stable, padded his horse, and examined his shoes and legs. Then, having counted over his money, he went to bed, sleeping as if only twenty, because he had neither inquietude nor remorse. He closed his eyes five minutes after he had blown out his lamp. Many events might, however, have kept him awake. Thought boiled in his brain, conjectures abounded, and D'Artanian was a great drawer of horoscopes. But, with that imperturbable phlegm which does more than genius for the fortune and happiness of men of action, he put off reflection till the next day, for fear, he said, not to be fresh when he wanted to be so. The day came. The Ruda Lombard had a chair of the caresses of Aurora with the rosy fingers, and D'Artanian arose like Aurora. He did not awaken anybody. He placed his Portmanteau under his arm, descended the stairs without making one of them creak, and without disturbing one of the sonorous snorings in every story from the garret to the cellar. Then, having saddled his horse, shut the stable and house doors, he set off at a foot pace on his expedition to Britannia. He had done quite right not to trouble himself with all the political and diplomatic affairs which solicited his attention. For in the morning, in freshness and mild twilight, his ideas developed themselves in purity and abundance. In the first place, he passed before the house of Fouquet, and threw in a large gaping box the fortunate order which, the evening before, he had had so much trouble to recover from the hooked fingers of the intendant. Placed in an envelope and addressed to Fouquet, it had not even been divined by Planchet, who in divination was equal to Couchess or the pithy in Apollo. D'Artanian thus sent back the order to Fouquet without compromising himself, and without having vents forward any reproaches to make himself when he had affected this proper restitution. Now, said he to himself, let us inhale much maternal air, much freedom from cares, much health. Let us allow the horse Zephyr, whose flanks puff as if he had to respire an atmosphere to breathe, and let us be very ingenious with our little calculations. It is time, said D'Artanian, to form a plan of the campaign, and according to the method of Monsieur Thorene, who has a large head full of all sorts of good councils, before the plan of the campaign it is advisable to draw a striking portrait of the generals to whom we are opposed. In the first place, Monsieur Fouquet presents himself. What is Monsieur Fouquet? Monsieur Fouquet, replied D'Artanian to himself, is a handsome man, very much beloved by the women, a generous man, very much beloved by the poets, a man of wit, much executed by pretenders. Well, now I am neither woman, poet, nor pretender, I neither love nor hate, Monsieur Le Surintendant. I find myself therefore in the same position in which Monsieur de Thorene found himself when opposed to the Prince-de-Cadre at Chargaux, Guine and the Faborques Saint-Antoine. He did not execrate Monsieur Le Prance, it is true, but he obeyed the king. Monsieur Le Prance is an agreeable man, but the king is king. Thorene heaved a deep sigh called Kanda, my cousin, and swept away his army. Now what does the king wish? That does not concern me. Now what does Monsieur Colbert wish? Ah, that's another thing. Monsieur Colbert wishes all that Monsieur Fouquet does not wish. Then what does Monsieur Fouquet wish? That is serious. Monsieur Fouquet wishes precisely for all which the king wishes. The monologue ended. D'Artagnan began to laugh. Whilst making his whip whistle in the air, he was already on the high road, frightening the birds and the hedges, listening to the lever chinking and dancing in his leather pocket at every step, and let us confess it. Every time that D'Artagnan found himself in such conditions, tenderness was not his dominant vice. Come, said he, I cannot think the expedition a very dangerous one, and it will fall out with my voyage as with that piece Monsieur Monk took me to see in London, which was called, I think, much ado about nothing. End of Chapter 65 Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Chapter 66 of the D'Artagnan Romances Volume 3 Part 1 by Alexander Dumas translated by William Robson, this Libravox recordings in the public domain. The Journey It was perhaps the fiftieth time since the day on which we opened this history that this man, with a heart of bronze and muscles of steel, had left house and friends, everything in short, to go in search of fortune and death. The one, that is to say death, had constantly retreated before him as if afraid of him. The other, that is to say fortune, for a month past only had really made an alliance with him. Although he was not a great philosopher, after the fashion of either Epicurus or Socrates, he was a powerful spirit, having knowledge of life and endowed with thought. No one is as brave, as adventurous, or as skillful as D'Artagnan, without being at the same time inclined to be a dreamer. He had picked up here and there some scraps of Monsieur de la Roche of a Colt, worthy of being translated into Latin by Monsieur de Port Royale, and he had made a collection, en peissant in the Society of Athos and Aramis, of many morsels of Seneca and Cicero, translated by them and applied to the uses of common life. That contempt of riches which Argascon had observed as an article of faith during the thirty-five first years of his life, had for a long time been considered by him as the first article of the Code of Bravery. Article First said he, A man is brave because he has nothing. A man has nothing because he despises riches. Therefore, with these principles which, as we have said, had regulated the thirty-five first years of his life, D'Artagnan was no sooner possessed of riches than he felt it necessary to ask himself if, in spite of his riches, he were still brave. To this, for any other but D'Artagnan, the events of the Plastigraf might have served as a reply. Many consciences would have been satisfied with them, but D'Artagnan was brave enough to ask himself sincerely and conscientiously if he were brave, therefore to this. But it appears to me that I drew promptly enough, and cut and thrust pretty freely on the Plastigraf, to be satisfied of my bravery. D'Artagnan had himself replied, Gently, Captain, that is not an answer. I was brave that day because they were burning my house, and there are a hundred and even a thousand to speak against one that if those gentlemen of the riots had not formed that unlucky idea, their plan of attack would have succeeded, or at least it would not have been I who would have opposed myself to it. Now, what will be brought against me? I have no house to be burned in Britannia. I have no treasure there that can be taken from me. No, but I have my skin, that precious skin of Mr. D'Artagnan, which to him is worth more than all the houses and all the treasures of the world, that skin to which I cling above everything else, because it is everything considered, the binding of a body which encloses a heart very warm and ready to fight, and consequently to live. Then I do desire to live, and in reality I live much better, more completely, since I have become rich. Who the devil ever said that money spoiled life? Upon my soul, it is no such thing. On the contrary, it seems as if I absorbed a double quantity of air and sun. More dear, what will it be then if I double that fortune, and if instead of the switch I now hold in my hand, I should ever carry the baton of a Marashal? Then I really don't know if there will be, from that moment enough air and sun for me. In fact, this is not a dream. Who the devil would oppose it if the king made me a Marashal, as his father, King Louis XIII, made a duke and constable of Albert de Loin? Am I not as brave and much more intelligent than that imbecile de Vittri? Ha! That's exactly what will prevent my advancement. I have too much wit. Luckily, if there is any justice in this world, fortune owes me many compensations. She owes me certainly a recompense for all I did for Anne of Austria, and an indemnification for all she has not done for me. Then, at the present, I am very well with a king, and with a king who has the appearance of determining to reign. May God keep him in that illustrious road, for if he is resolved to reign, he will want me, and if he wants me, he will give me what he has promised me, warmth and light, so that I march comparatively now, as I marched formerly, from nothing to everything. If only the nothing of today is all of the former days, there is only this little change taken place in my life. And now, let us see. Let us take the part of the heart, as I just now was speaking of it, but in truth, I only spoke of it from memory. And the gas-gone applied his hand to his breast, as if he were actually seeking the place where his heart was. Ha! wretch! murmured he, smiling with bitterness. Ha! poor mortal species! You hoped for an instant that you had not a heart, and now you find you have one, bad courtiers, thou art, and even one of the most seditious. You have a heart which speaks to you in favor of M. Fouquet. And what is M. Fouquet, when the king is in question? A conspirator, a real conspirator, who did not even give himself the trouble to conceal his being a conspirator. Therefore, what a weapon would you not have against him, if his good grace and his intelligence had not made a scabbard for that weapon? An armed revolt! For in fact, M. Fouquet has been guilty of an armed revolt! Thus, while the king vaguely suspects M. Fouquet of rebellion, I know it! I could prove that M. Fouquet had caused the shedding of the blood of his majesty's subjects! Now, then, let us see, knowing all that and holding my tongue, what further would this heart wish in return for a kind action of M. Fouquet's? For an advance of fifteen thousand lever, for a diamond worth a thousand pistoles, for a smile in which there was as much bitterness as kindness, I save his life. Now, then, I hope, continued the musketeer, that this imbecile of a heart is going to preserve silence, and so be fairly quits with M. Fouquet. Now, then the king becomes my son, and as my heart is quits with M. Fouquet, let him beware who places himself between me and my son. Forward! For his majesty Louis XIV. Forward! These reflections were the only impediments which were able to retard the progress of D'Artagnan. These reflections, once made, he increased the speed of his horse. But however perfect his horse Zephyr might be, it could not hold out at such a pace forever. The day after his departure from Paris, he was left at Charter. At the house of an old friend D'Artagnan had met with in an hotelier of that city. From that moment the musketeer travelled on post-horses. Thanks to this mode of locomotion he traversed the space separating Charter from Chateaubriand, and the last of these two cities far enough from the coast to prevent anyone guessing that D'Artagnan wished to reach the sea. Far enough from Paris to prevent all suspicion of his being a messenger from Louis XIV, whom D'Artagnan had called his son. Without suspecting that he, who was only at present a rather poor star in the heaven of royalty, would one day make that star his emblem. The messenger of Louis XIV, we say, quitted the post and purchased a bidet of the meanest appearance, one of those animals which an officer of cavalry would never choose for fear of being disgraced. Accepting the colour this new acquisition recalled to the mind of D'Artagnan the famous orange-coloured horse, with which, or rather upon which, he had made his first appearance in the world. Truth to say, from the moment he crossed this new steed it was no longer D'Artagnan who was travelling. It was a good man clothed in an iron grey just-a-core, brown-hot-a-shaws, holding the medium between a priest and a layman, that which brought him nearest to the churchmen was that D'Artagnan had placed on his head a colot of threadbare velvet, and over the colot a large black hat. No more sword, a stick hung by a cord to his wrist, but to which he promised himself as an unexpected auxiliary, to join upon occasion a good dagger ten inches long concealed under his cloak. Lebedet purchased at Chateaubriand completed the metamorphosis. It was called, or rather D'Artagnan called it, fure, fure. If I have changed Zephyr into fure, said D'Artagnan, I must make some diminutive or other of my own name. So instead of D'Artagnan I will be short. That is a concession which I naturally owe to my grey coat, my round hat, and my rusty colot. Mr. D'Artagnan travelled then, pretty easily upon fure, who ambled like a true butter woman's pad, and who with his amble managed cheerfully about twelve leagues a day, upon four spindle-shanks, of which the practised eye of D'Artagnan had appreciated the strength and safety beneath the thick mass of hair which covered them. Jogging along, the traveller took notes, studied the country, which he traversed, reserved, and silent, ever seeking the most plausible pretext for reaching Belylon Mir, and for seeing everything without arousing suspicion. In this manner he was enabled to convince himself of the importance the event assumed in proportion as he drew near to it. In this remote country, in this ancient duchy of Britannia, which was not France at that period, and is not so even now, the people knew nothing of the king of France, and not only did not know him, but were unwilling to know him. One face, a single one, floated visibly for them upon the political current. Their ancient duches no longer ruled them, government was a void, nothing more. In place of the sovereign duke, the seniors of parishes reigned without control, and above these seniors, God, who has never been forgotten in Britannia. Among these sousorains of Chateau and Belfry's, the most powerful, the richest, and the most popular was, Mr. Fouquet, senior of Belyle. Even in the country, even within sight of that mysterious isle, legends and traditions consecrate its wonders. Everyone might not penetrate it. The isle, of an extent of six leagues in length and six in breadth, was a seniorial property, which the people had for a long time respected, covered as it was with the name of Retz, so redoubtable in the country. Shortly after the erection of the seniorie into a marquisate, Belyle passed to Mr. Fouquet. The celebrity of the isle did not date from yesterday. Its name, or rather its qualification, is traced back to the remotest antiquity. The ancients called it Calanese, from two Greek words signifying a beautiful isle. Thus, at a distance of eighteen hundred years, it had borne in another idiom the same name as still the bears. There was then something in itself, in this property of Mr. Fouquet's, besides its position of six leagues off the coast of France, a position which makes it a sovereign in its maritime solitude, like a majestic ship which disdains roads and proudly casts anchor in mid-ocean. D'Artagnan learned all this without appearing the least in the world astonished. He also learned that the best way to get intelligence was to go to La Roche-Bernard, a tolerably important city at the mouth of the villian, perhaps there he could embark. If not, crossing the salt marshes he would repair to Girrand en Quasique, to wait for an opportunity to cross over to Belyle. He had discovered, besides, since his departure from Chateaubriand, that nothing would be impossible for Furey under the impulsion of Monsieur Anyan, and nothing to Monsieur Anyan through the initiative of Furey. He prepared, then, to sup off a teal and a torto, an hotel of La Roche-Bernard, an order to be brought from the cellar to wash down these two Breton dishes, some cider, which the moment it touched his lips he perceived to be more Breton still. Chapter 67 of the D'Artagnan Romance's Volume 3 Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson, this Librivox recording is in the public domain. How D'Artagnan became acquainted with a poet, who had turned printer for the sake of printing his own verses. Before taking his place at table, D'Artagnan acquired, as was his custom, all the information he could, but it is an axiom of curiosity that every man who wishes to question well and fruitfully ought in the first place to lay himself open to questions. D'Artagnan sought, then, with his usual skill, a promising questioner in the hostelry of La Roche-Bernard. At the moment there were in the house on the first story two travellers either preparing for supper or at supper itself. D'Artagnan had seen their nags in the stable and their equipages in the sal. One travelled with a lackey, undoubtedly a person of consideration. Two perch-merres, sleek, sound beasts were suitable means of locomotion. The other, a little fellow, a traveller of meager appearance, wearing a dusty shirt out of dirty linen and boots, more worn by the pavement than the stirrup, had come from Naant, with a cart drawn by a horse so like furay in colour that D'Artagnan might have gone a hundred miles without finding a better match. This cart contained divers, large packets wrapped in pieces of old stuff. That traveller yonder, said D'Artagnan to himself, is the man for my money. He will do. He suits me. I ought to do for and suit him. Monsieur Agnan, with the grey doublet, and the rusty collate, is not unworthy of supping with the gentleman of the old boots and still older horse. This said, D'Artagnan called the host and desired him to send his teal-tortot and cider up to the chamber of the gentleman of modest exterior. He himself climbed a plate in his hand, the wooden staircase which led to the chamber, and began to knock at the door. Come in, said the unknown. D'Artagnan entered with a simper on his lips, with his plate under his arm and his hat in one hand, his candle in the other. Excuse me, Monsieur, said he. I am as you are a traveller. I know no one in the hotel, and I have the bad habits of losing my spirits when I eat alone, so that my repast appears a bad one to me, and does not nourish me. Your face, which I saw just now when you came down to have some oysters opened, your face pleases me much. Besides, I have observed you have a horse just like mine, and that the host, no doubt on account of that resemblance, has placed them side by side in the stable, where they appear to agree amazingly well together. I therefore, Monsieur, do not see any reason why the masters should be separated when the horses are united. Accordingly, I am come to request the pleasure of being admitted to your table. My name is Anyan. At your service, Monsieur, the unworthy steward of a rich senior, who wishes to purchase some salt mines in this country, and sends me to examine his future acquisitions. In truth, Monsieur, I should be well pleased if my countenants were as agreeable to you as yours is to me, for upon my honour I am quite at your service. The stranger whom D'Artagnan saw for the first time, for before he had only caught a glimpse of him, the stranger had black and brilliant eyes, a yellow complexion, a brow a little wrinkled by the weight of fifty years, bonnemy in his features collectively, but some cunning in his look. One would say, thought D'Artagnan, that this merry fellow has never exercised more than the upper part of his head, his eyes and his brain. He must be a man of science. His mouth, nose and chin signify absolutely nothing. Monsieur, replied the latter, with whose mind in person we have been making so free, you do me much honour, not that I am ever ennui, for I have, added he smiling, a company which amuses me always, but never mind that, I am very happy to receive you. But when saying this, the man with the worn boots cast an uneasy look at his table, from which the oysters had disappeared, and upon which there was nothing left but a morsel of salt bacon. Monsieur, D'Artagnan hastened to say, the host is bringing me up a pretty piece of roasted poultry and a superb tortelle. D'Artagnan had read in the look of his companion, however rapid it disappeared, the fear of an attack by a parasite. He divined justly. At this opening the features of the man of modest exterior relaxed, and as if he had watched the moment for his entrance as D'Artagnan spoke, the host appeared, bearing the announced dishes. The tortelle and the teal were added to the morsel of broiled bacon. D'Artagnan and his guests bowed, sat down opposite to each other, and like two brothers, shared the bacon and the other dishes. Monsieur, said D'Artagnan, you must confess that association is a wonderful thing. How so? replied the stranger with his mouth full. Well, I will tell you, replied D'Artagnan. The stranger gave a short truce to the movement of his jaws in order to hear the better. In the first place, continued D'Artagnan, instead of one candle which each of us had, we have two. That is true, said the stranger, struck with the extreme lucidity of the observation. Then I see that you eat my tortelle in preference, whilst I in preference eat your bacon. That is true again. And then, in addition to being better lighted and eating what we prefer, I place the pleasure of your company. Truly, Monsieur, you are very jovial, said the unknown cheerfully. Yes, Monsieur, jovial, as all the people who are who carry nothing on their minds, or, for that matter, in their heads, I can see it as quite another sort of thing with you, continued D'Artagnan. I can read in your eyes all sorts of genius. Oh, Monsieur. Come, confess one thing. What is that? That you are a learned man. M'fois, Monsieur. Hine. Almost. Come then. I am an author. There, cried D'Artagnan, clapping his hands, I knew I could not be deceived, it is a miracle. Monsieur. What shall I have the honour of passing the evening in the society of an author, of a celebrated author, perhaps? Oh, said the unknown blushing. Celebrated, Monsieur. Celebrated is not the word. Modest, cried D'Artagnan, transported. He is modest. Then turning toward the stranger with a character of blunt bonnemy, but tell me at least the name of your works, Monsieur, for you were pleased to observe. You have not told me your name, and I have been forced to define your genius. My name is Jupiné, Monsieur, said the author. A fine name, a grand name, upon my honour, and I do not know why. Pardon me the mistake if it be one, but surely I have heard that name somewhere. I have made verses, said the poet modestly. Ha! That is it, then. I have heard them read. A tragedy? I must have seen it played, the poet blushed again and said, I do not think that can be the case, for my verses have never been printed. Well, then it must have been the tragedy which informed me of your name. You are again mistaken, for, Monsieur, the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne would have nothing to do with it. Said the poet with a smile, the receipt for which certain sorts of pride alone knew the secret. D'Artagnan bit his lips. Thus, then, you see, Monsieur, continued the poet, you are in error on my account, and that not being at all known to you, you have never heard tell of me. Ha! That confounds me. That name Jupiné appears to me nevertheless a fine name, and quite as worthy of being known as those of Monsieur's cornet, or Retrou, or Garnier. I hope, Monsieur, you will have the goodness to repeat to me a part of your tragedy presently, by way of dessert, for instance. That will be sugared roast meat. Pardon me, Monsieur, that was a little oath which escaped me, because it is a habit with my lord and master. I sometimes allow myself to usurp that little oath, as it seems in pretty good taste. I take this liberty only in his absence, please to observe, for you may understand that in his presence, but in truth, Monsieur, this cider is abominable. Do you think so? And besides, the pot is of such an irregular shape, it will not stand on the table. Suppose we were to make it level? To be sure, but with what? With this knife. End of the teal. With what shall we cut that up? Do you not by chance mean to touch the teal? Certainly. Well, then, wait. And the poet rummaged in his pocket, and drew out a piece of brass, oblong, quadrangular, about a line in thickness and an inch and a half in length, but scarcely had this little piece of brass seen the light, then the poet appeared to have committed an imprudence, and made a movement to put it back again in his pocket. Dardanian perceived this, for he was a man that nothing escaped. He stretched forth his hand toward the piece of brass. Humph! That which you hold in your hand is pretty. Will you allow me to look at it? Certainly, said the poet, who appeared to have yielded too soon to a first impulse. Certainly. You may look at it, but it will be in vain for you to look at it. Added he with a satisfied air. If I were not to tell you its use, you would never guess it. Dardanian had seized as in a vow all the hesitation of the poet, and his eagerness to conceal the piece of brass, which a first movement had induced him to take out of his pocket. His attention, therefore, once awakened on this point. He surrounded himself with a circumspection which gave him a superiority on all occasions. Besides, whatever Machère Jupiné might say about it, by a simple inspection of the object he perfectly well knew what it was. It was a character in printing. Can you guess now what this is? Continued the poet. No, said Dardanian. No, ma foie. Well, monsieur. Said monsieur Jupiné. This little piece of metal is a printing letter. A capital. Stop, stop, stop. Said Dardanian, opening his eyes very innocently. Yes, monsieur, a capital, the first letter of my name. And this is a letter, is it? Yes, monsieur. Well, I will confess one thing to you. And what is that? No, I will not. I was going to say something stupid. No, no, said master Jupiné with a patronizing air. Well, then, I cannot comprehend if that is a letter. How you can make a word. A word? Yes, a printed word. Oh, that's very easy. Let me see. Does it interest you? Enormously. Well, I will explain the thing to you. Attend. I am attending. That is it. Good. Look, attend to me. I am looking. Dardanian in fact appeared absorbed in observations. Jupiné drew from his pocket seven or eight other pieces of brass smaller than the first. Said Dardanian. What? You have then a whole printing office in your pocket. Peste, that is curious indeed. Is it not? Good God, what a number of things we learn by traveling. To your health. Said Jupiné, quite enchanted. To yours, more due to yours, but an instant, not in this cider. It is an abominable drink, unworthy of a man who quenches his thirst at the hypocrene fountain. Is not it so you call your fountain, you poets? Yes, Monsieur, our fountain is so-called. That comes from two Greek words, hippos, which means a horse, and… Monsieur, interrupted Dardanian. You shall drink of a liquor which comes from one single French word, and is none the worse for that. The word grape. This cider gives me the heartburn. Allow me to inquire of your host, if there is not a good bottle of Bojan sea, or of the saran growth at the back of the large bins in his cellar. The host, being sent for, immediately attended. Monsieur, interrupted the poet. Take care. We shall not have time to drink the wine, unless we make great haste, for I must take advantage of the tide to secure the boat. What boat? asked Dardanian. Why, the boat which sets out for Berliel. Ah, for Berliel, said the musketeer. That is good. Bah, you will have plenty of time, Monsieur, replied the hotelier, uncorking the bottle. The boat will not leave this hour. But who will give me notice, said the poet. Your fellow traveller, replied the host. But I scarcely know him. When you hear him departing, it will be time for you to go. Is he going to Berliel likewise then? The traveller who has a lackey, asked Dardanian. He is some gentleman, no doubt. I know nothing of him. What? know nothing of him? No, all I know is that he is drinking the same wine as you. Pest, that is a great honour for us. Said Dardanian, filling his companion's glass, whilst the host went out. So? Resumed the poet, returning to his dominant ideas. You never saw any printing done? Never. Well, then, take the letters thus, which can pose the word U-C-A-B-Mafwa. Here is an R, two E, E, and then a G. And he assembled the letters with a swiftness and skill which did not escape the eye of Dardanian. Abrege, said he as he ended. Good, said Dardanian. Here are plenty of letters got together. But how are they kept so? And he poured out a second glass for the poet. Monsieur Jupinay smiled like a man who has an answer for everything. Many pulled out, still from his pocket, a little metal ruler composed of two parts, like a carpenter's rule against which he put together and in a line the characters holding them under his left thumb. And what do you call that little metal ruler? Said Dardanian. For I suppose all these things have names. This is called a composing stick. Said Jupinay. It is by the aid of this stick that the lines are formed. Come, then, I was not mistaken in what I said. You have a press in your pocket. Said Dardanian, laughing with an air of simplicity so stupid that the poet was completely his dup. No, replied he. But I am too lazy to write, and when I have a verse in my head, I print it immediately. That is a labor spared. Mordeux, thought Dardanian to himself, this must be cleared up. And under a pretext which did not embarrass the musketeer, who was fertile in expedience, he left the table, went downstairs, ran to the shed under which stood the poet's little cart, poked the point of his poignard into the stuff which enveloped one of the packages, which he found full of types, like those which the poet had in his pocket. Huff! said Dardanian. I do not know yet whether Monsieur Fouquet wishes to fortify Belieu, but at all events here are some spiritual munitions for the castle. Then enchanted with his rich discovery, he ran upstairs again and resumed his place at the table. Dardanian had learned what he wished to know. He however remained, nonetheless, face to face with his partner to the moment when they heard from the next room symptoms of a person's being about to go out. The printer was immediately on foot. He had given orders for his horse to be got ready. His carriage was waiting at the door. The second traveller got into his saddle in the courtyard with his lackey. Dardanian followed Jupiné to the door. He embarked his cart and horse on board the boat. As to the opulent traveller, he did the same with his two horses and servant, but all the wit Dardanian employed in endeavouring to find out his name was lost. He could learn nothing. Only he took such notice of his countenance that it was impressed upon his mind—forever. Dardanian had a great inclination to embark with the two travellers, but an interest more powerful than curiosity—that of success— repelled him from the shore and brought him back again to the hostelry. He entered with a sigh and went to bed directly in order to be ready early in the morning with fresh ideas and the sage-council of sufficing sleep.