“Eh, gentlemen! you would not disoblige me by thus standing on the staircase, or by going away without having sat down.”
“If we had known you had a lady upstairs,” replied Athos, with his customary coolness, “we would have asked permission to pay our respects to her.”
Planchet was so disconcerted by this little extravagance that he forced the passage, and himself opened the door to admit the count and his son. Truchen was quite dressed,- costume of the shopkeeper’s wife, rich and coquettish; German eyes attacking French eyes. She ceded the apartment after two courtesies, and went down into the shop, but not without having listened at the door, to know what Planchet’s gentlemen visitors would say of her. Athos suspected that, and therefore turned the conversation. Planchet, on his part, was burning to give explanations, which Athos avoided. But as certain tenacities are stronger than all others, Athos was forced to hear Planchet recite his idyls of felicity, translated into a language more chaste than that of Longus. So Planchet related how Truchen had charmed his ripe age, and brought good luck to his business, as Ruth did to Boaz.
“You want nothing now, then, but heirs to your property.”
“If I had one, he would have three hundred thousand livres'” said Planchet.
“Humph! you must have one, then,” said Athos, phlegmatically; “if only to prevent your little fortune being lost.”
The words “little fortune” placed Planchet in his rank, like the voice of the sergeant when Planchet was but a piqueur in the regiment of Piedmont, in which Rochefort had placed him. Athos perceived that the grocer would marry Truchen, and, in spite of fate, establish a family. This appeared the more evident to him when he learned that the young man to whom Planchet was selling his business was her cousin. Having heard all that was necessary of the happy prospects of the retiring grocer, Athos inquired, “What is M. d’Artagnan about? He is not at the Louvre.”
“Ah, Monsieur the Count, M. d’Artagnan has disappeared.”
“Disappeared!” said Athos, with surprise.
“Oh Monsieur, we know what that means.”
“But I do not know.”
“Whenever M. d’Artagnan disappears, it is always on some mission or for some great affair.”
“Has he said anything to you about it?”
“Never.”
“You were acquainted with his departure for England formerly, were you not?”
“On account of the speculation,” replied Planchet, heedlessly.
“The speculation?”
“I mean-” interrupted Planchet, quite confused.
“Well, well; neither your affairs nor those of our friend are in question. The interest we take in him alone has induced me to apply to you. Since the captain of the Musketeers is not here, and as we cannot learn from you where we are likely to find M. d’Artagnan, we will take our leave of you. Au revoir, Planchet, au revoir. Let us go, Raoul.”
“Monsieur the Count, I wish I were able to tell you-”
“Oh, not at all; I am not the man to reproach a servant with discretion.”
This word “servant” struck rudely on the ears of the demi-millionnaire Planchet, but natural respect and bonhomie prevailed over pride. “There is nothing indiscreet in telling you, Monsieur the Count, that M. d’Artagnan came here the other day-”
“Ah, ah!”
“And remained several hours consulting a geographical chart.”
“You are right, then, my friend; say no more about it.”
“And the chart is there as a proof,” added Planchet, who went to fetch from the neighboring wall, where it was suspended by a twist, forming a triangle with the bar of the window to which it was fastened, the plan consulted by the captain on his last visit to Planchet. This plan, which he brought to the count, was a map of France, upon which the practised eye of that gentleman discovered an itinerary, marked out with small pins; where the pin was missing, a hole denoted its having been there. Athos, by following with his eye the pins and holes, saw that d’Artagnan was to take the direction of the south, and go as far as the Mediterranean towards Toulon. It was near Cannes that the marks and the punctured places ceased. The Comte de la Fere puzzled his brains for some time to divine what the musketeer could be going to do at Cannes, and what motive could have led him to examine the banks of the Var. The reflections of Athos suggested nothing; his accustomed perspicacity was at fault. Raoul’s researches were not more successful than his father’s.