LITMIR.BIZ

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the curtains of his bed, he added, “Fortunately enough, though, they will not see me.”

      “The country is very amusing,” said Porthos, stretching out his legs, which passed through the wooden footboard, and made a tremendous crash, of which, however, no one in the house was capable of taking the slightest notice. By two o’clock in the morning every one was fast asleep.

Chapter VI. Showing What Could Be Seen from Planchet’s House.

       Table of Contents

      The next morning found the three heroes sleeping soundly. Truchen had closed the outside blinds to keep the first rays of the sun from the leaden-lidded eyes of her guests, like a kind, good housekeeper. It was still perfectly dark, then, beneath Porthos’s curtains and under Planchet’s canopy, when D’Artagnan, awakened by an indiscreet ray of light which made its way through a peek-hole in the shutters, jumped hastily out of bed, as if he wished to be the first at a forlorn hope. He took by assault Porthos’s room, which was next to his own. The worthy Porthos was sleeping with a noise like distant thunder; in the dim obscurity of the room his gigantic frame was prominently displayed, and his swollen fist hung down outside the bed upon the carpet. D’Artagnan awoke Porthos, who rubbed his eyes in a tolerably good humor. In the meantime Planchet was dressing himself, and met at their bedroom doors his two guests, who were still somewhat unsteady from their previous evening’s entertainment. Although it was yet very early, the whole household was already up. The cook was mercilessly slaughtering in the poultry-yard; Celestin was gathering white cherries in the garden. Porthos, brisk and lively as ever, held out his hand to Planchet’s, and D’Artagnan requested permission to embrace Madame Truchen. The latter, to show that she bore no ill-will, approached Porthos, upon whom she conferred the same favor. Porthos embraced Madame Truchen, heaving an enormous sigh. Planchet took both his friends by the hand.

      “I am going to show you over the house,” he said; “when we arrived last night it was as dark as an oven, and we were unable to see anything; but in broad daylight, everything looks different, and you will be satisfied, I hope.”

      “If we begin by the view you have here,” said D’Artagnan, “that charms me beyond everything; I have always lived in royal mansions, you know, and royal personages have tolerably sound ideas upon the selection of points of view.”

      “I am a great stickler for a good view myself,” said Porthos. “At my Chateau de Pierrefonds, I have had four avenues laid out, and at the end of each is a landscape of an altogether different character from the others.”

      “You shall see my prospect,” said Planchet; and he led his two guests to a window.

      “Ah!” said D’Artagnan, “this is the Rue de Lyon.”

      “Yes, I have two windows on this side, a paltry, insignificant view, for there is always that bustling and noisy inn, which is a very disagreeable neighbor. I had four windows here, but I bricked up two.”

      “Let us go on,” said D’Artagnan.

      They entered a corridor leading to the bedrooms, and Planchet pushed open the outside blinds.

      “Hollo! what is that out yonder?” said Porthos.

      “The forest,” said Planchet. “It is the horizon—a thick line of green, which is yellow in the spring, green in the summer, red in the autumn, and white in the winter.”

      “All very well, but it is like a curtain, which prevents one seeing a greater distance.”

      “Yes,” said Planchet; “still, one can see, at all events, everything that intervenes.”

      “Ah, the open country,” said Porthos. “But what is that I see out there—crosses and stones?”

      “Ah, that is the cemetery,” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

      “Precisely,” said Planchet; “I assure you it is very curious. Hardly a day passes that some one is not buried there; for Fontainebleau is by no means an inconsiderable place. Sometimes we see young girls clothed in white carrying banners; at others, some of the town-council, or rich citizens, with choristers and all the parish authorities; and then, too, we see some of the officers of the king’s household.”

      “I should not like that,” said Porthos.

      “There is not much amusement in it, at all events,” said D’Artagnan.

      “I assure you it encourages religious thoughts,” replied Planchet.

      “Oh, I don’t deny that.”

      “But,” continued Planchet, “we must all die one day or another, and I once met with a maxim somewhere which I have remembered, that the thought of death is a thought that will do us all good.”

      “I am far from saying the contrary,” said Porthos.

      “But,” objected D’Artagnan, “the thought of green fields, flowers, rivers, blue horizons, extensive and boundless plains, is not likely to do us good.”

      “If I had any, I should be far from rejecting them,” said Planchet; “but possessing only this little cemetery, full of flowers, so moss-grown, shady, and quiet, I am contented with it, and I think of those who live in town, in the Rue des Lombards, for instance, and who have to listen to the rumbling of a couple of thousand vehicles every day, and to the soulless tramp, tramp, tramp of a hundred and fifty thousand foot-passengers.”

      “But living,” said Porthos; “living, remember that.”

      “That is exactly the reason,” said Planchet, timidly, “why I feel it does me good to contemplate a few dead.”

      “Upon my word,” said D’Artagnan, “that fellow Planchet is born a philosopher as well as a grocer.”

      “Monsieur,” said Planchet, “I am one of those good-humored sort of men whom Heaven created for the purpose of living a certain span of days, and of considering all good they meet with during their transitory stay on earth.”

      D’Artagnan sat down close to the window, and as there seemed to be something substantial in Planchet’s philosophy, he mused over it.

      “Ah, ah!” exclaimed Planchet, “if I am not mistaken, we are going to have a representation now, for I think I heard something like chanting.”

      “Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “I hear singing too.”

      “Oh, it is only a burial of a very poor description,” said Planchet, disdainfully; “the officiating priest, the beadle, and only one chorister boy, nothing more. You observe, messieurs, that the defunct lady or gentleman could not have been of very high rank.”

      “No; no one seems to be following the coffin.”

      “Yes,” said Porthos; “I see a man.”

      “You are right; a man wrapped in a cloak,” said D’Artagnan.

      “It’s not worth looking at,” said Planchet.

      “I find it interesting,” said D’Artagnan, leaning on the window-sill.

      “Come, come, you are beginning to take a fancy to the place already,” said Planchet, delightedly; “it is exactly my own case. I was so melancholy at first that I could do nothing but make the sign of the cross all day, and the chants were like so many nails being driven into my head; but now, they lull me to sleep, and no bird I have ever seen or heard can sing better than those which are to be met with in this cemetery.”

      “Well,” said Porthos, “this is beginning to get a little dull for me, and I prefer going downstairs.”

      Planchet with one bound was beside his guest, whom he offered to lead into the garden.

      “What!”

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