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 another.”
“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 at 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.