master. It was many years since D’Artagnan had opened his
heart to any one; it happened, however, that these two men,
on meeting again, assimilated perfectly. Planchet was in
truth no vulgar companion in these new adventures; he was a
man of uncommonly sound sense. Without courting danger he
never shrank from an encounter; in short, he had been a
soldier and arms ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the
footing of friends that D’Artagnan and Planchet arrived in
the neighborhood of Blois.
Going along, D’Artagnan, shaking his head, said:
“I know that my going to Athos is useless and absurd; but
still I owe this courtesy to my old friend, a man who had in
him material for the most noble and generous of characters.”
“Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble gentleman,” said Planchet,
“was he not? Scattering money round about him as Heaven
sprinkles rain. Do you remember, sir, that duel with the
Englishman in the inclosure des Carmes? Ah! how lofty, how
magnificent Monsieur Athos was that day, when he said to his
adversary: `You have insisted on knowing my name, sir; so
much the worse for you, since I shall be obliged to kill
you.’ I was near him, those were his exact words, when he
stabbed his foe as he said he would, and his adversary fell
without saying, `Oh!’ ‘Tis a noble gentleman — Monsieur
Athos.”
“Yes, true as Gospel,” said D’Artagnan; “but one single
fault has swallowed up all these fine qualities.”
“I remember well,” said Planchet, “he was fond of drinking
— in truth, he drank, but not as other men drink. One
seemed, as he raised the wine to his lips, to hear him say,
`Come, juice of the grape, and chase away my sorrows.’ And
how he used to break the stem of a glass or the neck of a
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bottle! There was no one like him for that.”
“And now,” replied D’Artagnan, “behold the sad spectacle
that awaits us. This noble gentleman with his lofty glance,
this handsome cavalier, so brilliant in feats of arms that
every one was surprised that he held in his hand a sword
only instead of a baton of command! Alas! we shall find him
changed into a broken down old man, with garnet nose and
eyes that slobber; we shall find him extended on some lawn,
whence he will look at us with a languid eye and
peradventure will not recognize us. God knows, Planchet,
that I should fly from a sight so sad if I did not wish to
show my respect for the illustrious shadow of what was once
the Comte de la Fere, whom we loved so much.”
Planchet shook his head and said nothing. It was evident
that he shared his master’s apprehensions.
“And then,” resumed D’Artagnan, “to this decrepitude is
probably added poverty, for he must have neglected the
little that he had, and the dirty scoundrel, Grimaud, more
taciturn than ever and still more drunken than his master —
stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to merely think of it.”
“I fancy myself there and that I see him staggering and hear
him stammering,” said Planchet, in a piteous tone, “but at
all events we shall soon know the real state of things, for
I imagine that those lofty walls, now turning ruby in the
setting sun, are the walls of Blois.”
“Probably; and those steeples, pointed and sculptured, that
we catch a glimpse of yonder, are similar to those that I
have heard described at Chambord.”
At this moment one of those heavy wagons, drawn by bullocks,
which carry the wood cut in the fine forests of the country
to the ports of the Loire, came out of a byroad full of ruts
and turned on that which the two horsemen were following. A
man carrying a long switch with a nail at the end of it,
with which he urged on his slow team, was walking with the
cart.
“Ho! friend,” cried Planchet.
“What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?” replied the peasant, with
a purity of accent peculiar to the people of that district
and which might have put to shame the cultured denizens of