LITMIR.BIZ

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there was just enough blue, and no more, to fill one of the sacks of lentils, or haricots, which formed the principal furniture of the shop on the ground floor. Thus extended at his ease, and sheltered in his place of observation behind the window, D’Artagnan seemed as if he had ceased to be a soldier, as if he were no longer an officer belonging to the palace, but was, on the contrary, a quiet, easy-going citizen in a state of stagnation between his dinner and supper, or between his supper and his bed; one of those strong, ossified brains, which have no more room for a single idea, so fiercely does animal matter keep watch at the doors of intelligence, narrowly inspecting the contraband trade which might result from the introduction into the brain of a symptom of thought. We have already said night was closing in, the shops were being lighted, while the windows of the upper apartments were being closed, and the rhythmic steps of a patrol of soldiers forming the night watch could be heard retreating. D’Artagnan continued, however, to think of nothing, except the blue corner of the sky. A few paces from him, completely in the shade, lying on his stomach, upon a sack of Indian corn, was Planchet, with both his arms under his chin, and his eyes fixed on D’Artagnan, who was either thinking, dreaming, or sleeping, with his eyes open. Planchet had been watching him for a tolerably long time, and, by way of interruption, he began by exclaiming, “Hum! hum!” But D’Artagnan did not stir. Planchet then saw that it was necessary to have recourse to more effectual means still: after a prolonged reflection on the subject, the most ingenious means that suggested itself to him under the present circumstances, was to let himself roll off the sack on to the floor, murmuring, at the same time, against himself, the word “stupid.” But, notwithstanding the noise produced by Planchet’s fall, D’Artagnan, who had in the course of his existence heard many other, and very different falls, did not appear to pay the least attention to the present one. Besides, an enormous cart, laden with stones, passing from the Rue Saint-Mederic, absorbed, in the noise of its wheels, the noise of Planchet’s tumble. And yet Planchet fancied that, in token of tacit approval, he saw him imperceptibly smile at the word “stupid.” This emboldened him to say, “Are you asleep, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

      “No, Planchet, I am not even asleep,” replied the musketeer.

      “I am in despair,” said Planchet, “to hear such a word as even.”

      “Well, and why not; is it not a grammatical word, Monsieur Planchet?”

      “Of course, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

      “Well!”

      “Well, then, the word distresses me beyond measure.”

      “Tell me why you are distressed, Planchet,” said D’Artagnan.

      “If you say that you are not even asleep, it is as much as to say that you have not even the consolation of being able to sleep; or, better still, it is precisely the same as telling me that you are getting bored to death.”

      “Planchet, you know that I am never bored.”

      “Except to-day, and the day before yesterday.”

      “Bah!”

      “Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is a week since you returned here from Fontainebleau; in other words, you have no longer your orders to issue, or your men to review and maneuver. You need the sound of guns, drums, and all that din and confusion; I, who have myself carried a musket, can easily believe that.”

      “Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, “I assure you I am not bored in the least in the world.”

      “In that case, what are you doing, lying there, as if you were dead?”

      “My dear Planchet, there was, once upon a time, at the siege of La Rochelle, when I was there, when you were there, when we both were there, a certain Arab, who was celebrated for the manner in which he adjusted culverins. He was a clever fellow, although of a very odd complexion, which was the same color as your olives. Well, this Arab, whenever he had done eating or working, used to sit down to rest himself, as I am resting myself now, and smoked I cannot tell you what sort of magical leaves, in a large amber-mouthed tube; and if any officers, happening to pass, reproached him for being always asleep, he used quietly to reply: ‘Better to sit down than to stand up, to lie down than to sit down, to be dead than to lie down.’ He was an acutely melancholy Arab, and I remember him perfectly well, form the color of his skin, and the style of his conversation. He used to cut off the heads of Protestants with the most singular gusto!”

      “Precisely; and then used to embalm them, when they were worth the trouble; and when he was thus engaged with his herbs and plants about him, he looked like a basket-maker making baskets.”

      “You are quite right, Planchet, he did.”

      “Oh! I can remember things very well, at times!”

      “I have no doubt of it; but what do you think of his mode of reasoning?”

      “I think it good in one sense, but very stupid in another.”

      “Expound your meaning, M. Planchet.”

      “Well, monsieur, in point of fact, then, ‘better to sit down than to stand up,’ is plain enough, especially when one may be fatigued,” and Planchet smiled in a roguish way; “as for ‘better to be lying down,’ let that pass, but as for the last proposition, that it is ‘better to be dead than alive,’ it is, in my opinion, very absurd, my own undoubted preference being for my bed; and if you are not of my opinion, it is simply, as I have already had the honor of telling you, because you are boring yourself to death.”

      “Planchet, do you know M. La Fontaine?”

      “The chemist at the corner of the Rue Saint-Mederic?”

      “No, the writer of fables.”

      “Oh! Maitre Corbeau!”

      “Exactly; well, then, I am like his hare.”

      “He has got a hare also, then?”

      “He has all sorts of animals.”

      “Well, what does his hare do, then?”

      “M. La Fontaine’s hare thinks.”

      “Ah, ah!”

      “Planchet, I am like that hare—I am thinking.”

      “You are thinking, you say?” said Planchet, uneasily.

      “Yes; your house is dull enough to drive people to think; you will admit that, I hope.”

      “And yet, monsieur, you have a look-out upon the street.”

      “Yes; and wonderfully interesting that is, of course.”

      “But it is no less true, monsieur, that, if you were living at the back of the house, you would bore yourself—I mean, you would think—more than ever.”

      “Upon my word, Planchet, I hardly know that.”

      “Still,” said the grocer, “if your reflections are at all like those which led you to restore King Charles II.—” and Planchet finished by a little laugh which was not without its meaning.

      “Ah! Planchet, my friend,” returned D’Artagnan, “you are getting ambitious.”

      “Is there no other king to be restored, M. d’Artagnan—no second Monk to be packed up, like a salted hog, in a deal box?”

      “No, my dear Planchet; all the kings are seated on their respective thrones; less comfortably so, perhaps, than I am upon this chair; but, at all events, there they are.” And D’Artagnan sighed deeply.

      “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Planchet, “you are making me very uneasy.”

      “You are very good, Planchet.”

      “I begin to suspect something.”

      “What is it?”

      “Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are

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