CHAPTER 65
Philosophy of the Heart and Mind
For a man who had seen so many much more dangerous ones, the
position of D'Artagnan with respect to M. Colbert was only
comic. D'Artagnan, therefore, did not deny himself the
satisfaction of laughing at the expense of monsieur
l'intendant, from the Rue des Petits-Champs to the Rue des
Lombards. It was a great while since D'Artagnan 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'Artagnan had only done from Rue-Neuve des
Petits-Champs to the Rue des Lombards.
"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 an
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 pass
to what concerns me -- my supper?"
"Ready. A smoking roast joint, white wine, crayfish and
fresh-gathered cherries. All ready, my master."
"You are a capital fellow, Planchet; come on, then, let us
sup, and I will go to bed."
During supper D'Artagnan 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. Mordioux! 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 am 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 livres upon the idea you are about to
carry out." And so saying, Planchet rubbed his hands one
against the other with a rapidity evincing great delight.
"Planchet," said D'Artagnan, "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 Avarice 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'Artagnan, 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, counsels and traps were all useless,
D'Artagnan let nothing confidential escape him. The evening
passed thus. After supper the portmanteau occupied
D'Artagnan, he took a turn to the stable, patted 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'Artagnan 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 Rue des Lombards had its share of the
caresses of Aurora with the rosy fingers, and D'Artagnan
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 Bretagne. 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 Calchas or the Pythian Apollo. D'Artagnan thus
sent back the order to Fouquet, without compromising
himself, and without having thenceforward any reproaches to
make himself. When he had effected 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 in our
little calculations. It is time," said D'Artagnan, "to form
a plan of the campaign, and, according to the method of M.
Turenne, who has a large head full of all sorts of good
counsels, 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, M. Fouquet presents himself.
What is M. Fouquet? M. Fouquet," replied D'Artagnan 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 execrated 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 M. de Turenne found himself when opposed to the
Prince de Conde at Jargeau, Gien and the Faubourg
Saint-Antoine. He did not execrate monsieur le prince, it is
true, but he obeyed the king. Monsieur le prince is an
agreeable man, but the king is king. Turenne heaved a deep
sigh, called Conde `My cousin,' and swept away his army. Now
what does the king wish? That does not concern me. Now, what
does M. Colbert wish? Oh, that's another thing. M. Colbert
wishes all that M. Fouquet does not wish. Then what does M.
Fouquet wish? Oh, that is serious. M. Fouquet wishes
precisely for all which the king wishes."
This 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 in the hedges, listening to
the livres 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 M. Monk took me to see in
London, which was called, I think, `Much Ado about
Nothing.'"
