Porthos pretended that this occupation was proof of a reflective and contemplative organization, and he had brought him away without any other recommendation.  The noble carriage of this gentleman, for whom he believed himself to be engaged, had won Planchet—­that was the name of the Picard.  He felt a slight disappointment, however, when he saw that this place was already taken by a compeer named Mousqueton, and when Porthos signified to him that the state of his household, though great, would not support two servants, and that he must enter into the service of d’Artagnan.  Nevertheless, when he waited at the dinner given my his master, and saw him take out a handful of gold to pay for it, he believed his fortune made, and returned thanks to heaven for having thrown him into the service of such a Croesus.  He preserved this opinion even after the feast, with the remnants of which he repaired his own long abstinence; but when in the evening he made his master’s bed, the chimeras of Planchet faded away.  The bed was the only one in the apartment, which consisted of an antechamber and a bedroom.  Planchet slept in the antechamber upon a coverlet taken from the bed of d’Artagnan, and which d’Artagnan from that time made shift to do without.

Athos, on his part, had a valet whom he had trained in his service in a thoroughly peculiar fashion, and who was named Grimaud.  He was very taciturn, this worthy signor.  Be it understood we are speaking of Athos.  During the five or six years that he had lived in the strictest intimacy with his companions, Porthos and Aramis, they could remember having often seen him smile, but had never heard him laugh.  His words were brief and expressive, conveying all that was meant, and no more; no embellishments, no embroidery, no arabesques.  His conversation a matter of fact, without a single romance.

Although Athos was scarcely thirty years old, and was of great personal beauty and intelligence of mind, no one knew whether he had ever had a mistress.  He never spoke of women.  He certainly did not prevent others from speaking of them before him, although it was easy to perceive that this kind of conversation, in which he only mingled by bitter words and misanthropic remarks, was very disagreeable to him.  His reserve, his roughness, and his silence made almost an old man of him.  He had, then, in order not to disturb his habits, accustomed Grimaud to obey him upon a simple gesture or upon a simple movement of his lips.  He never spoke to him, except under the most extraordinary occasions.

Sometimes, Grimaud, who feared his master as he did fire, while entertaining a strong attachment to his person and a great veneration for his talents, believed he perfectly understood what he wanted, flew to execute the order received, and did precisely the contrary.  Athos then shrugged his shoulders, and, without putting himself in a passion, thrashed Grimaud.  On these days he spoke a little.