Christians, can make such speculations.”
“That is true.”
“As for myself,” continued D’Artagnan, “if I inhabited that
house, on days of execution I would shut it up to the very
keyholes; but I do not inhabit it.”
“And you let the garret for five hundred livres?”
“To the ferocious cabaretier, who sub-lets it. I said, then,
fifteen hundred livres.”
“The natural interest of money,” said Raoul, — “five per
cent.”
“Exactly so. I then have left the side of the house at the
back, store-rooms, and cellars, inundated every winter, two
hundred livres; and the garden, which is very fine, well
planted, well shaded under the walls and the portal of
Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais, thirteen hundred livres.”
“Thirteen hundred livres! why, that is royal!”
“This is the whole history. I strongly suspect some canon of
the parish (these canons are all as rich as Croesus) — I
suspect some canon of having hired the garden to take his
pleasure in. The tenant has given the name of M. Godard.
That is either a false name or a real name; if true, he is a
canon; if false, he is some unknown; but of what consequence
is it to me? he always pays in advance. I had also an idea
just now, when I met you, of buying a house in the Place
Baudoyer, the back premises of which join my garden, and
would make a magnificent property. Your dragoons interrupted
my calculations. But come, let us take the Rue de la
Vannerie: that will lead us straight to M. Planchet’s.”
D’Artagnan mended his pace, and conducted Raoul to
Planchet’s dwelling, a chamber of which the grocer had given
up to his old master. Planchet was out, but the dinner was
ready. There was a remains of military regularity and
punctuality preserved in the grocer’s household. D’Artagnan
returned to the subject of Raoul’s future.
“Your father brings you up rather strictly?” said he.
“Justly, monsieur le chevalier.”
“Oh, yes, I know Athos is just, but close, perhaps?”
“A royal hand, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
Page 301
Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
“Well, never want, my boy! If ever you stand in need of a
few pistoles, the old musketeer is at hand.”
“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan!”
“Do you play a little?”
“Never.”
“Successful with the ladies, then? — Oh, my little Aramis!
That, my dear friend, costs even more than play. It is true
we fight when we lose, that is a compensation. Bah! that
little sniveller, the king, makes winners give him his
revenge. What a reign! my poor Raoul, what a reign! When we
think that, in my time, the musketeers were besieged in
their houses like Hector and Priam in the city of Troy, and
the women wept, and then the walls laughed, and then five
hundred beggarly fellows clapped their hands, and cried,
`Kill! kill!’ when not one musketeer was hurt. Mordioux! you
will never see anything like that.”
“You are very hard upon the king, my dear Monsieur
d’Artagnan; and yet you scarcely know him.”
“I! Listen, Raoul. Day by day, hour by hour, — take note of
my words, — I will predict what he will do. The cardinal
being dead, he will fret; very well, that is the least silly
thing he will do, particularly if he does not shed a tear.”
“And then?”
“Why then he will get M. Fouquet to allow him a pension, and
will go and compose verses at Fontainebleau, upon some
Mancini or other, whose eyes the queen will scratch out. She
is a Spaniard, you see, — this queen of ours, and she has,
for mother-in-law, Madame Anne of Austria. I know something
of the Spaniards of the house of Austria.”
“And next?”
“Well, after having torn off the silver lace from the
uniforms of his Swiss, because lace is too expensive, he
will dismount the musketeers, because the oats and hay of a
horse cost five sols a day.”
“Oh! do not say that.”
“Of what consequence is it to me? I am no longer a
musketeer, am I? Let them be on horseback, let them be on
foot, let them carry a larding-pin, a spit, a sword, or
nothing — what is it to me?”