How well that dear Monsieur d’Artagnan knew the hearts of men and grocers!  They who have pronounced Don Quixote mad because he rode out to the conquest of an empire with nobody but Sancho his squire, and they who have pronounced Sancho mad because he accompanied his master in his attempt to conquer the said empire, — they certainly will have no hesitation in extending the same judgment to D’Artagnan and Planchet.  And yet the first passed for one of the most subtle spirits among the astute spirits of the court of France.  As to the second, he had acquired by good right the reputation of having one of the longest heads among the grocers of the Rue des Lombards; consequently of Paris, and consequently of France.  Now, to consider these two men from the point of view from which you would consider other men, and the means by the aid of which they contemplated to restore a monarch to his throne, compared with other means, the shallowest brains of the country where brains are most shallow must have revolted against the presumptuous madness of the lieutenant and the stupidity of his associate.  Fortunately, D’Artagnan was not a man to listen to the idle talk of those around him, or to the comments that were made on himself.  He had adopted the motto, “Act well, and let people talk.”  Planchet, on his part had adopted this, “Act and say nothing.”  It resulted from this, that, according to the custom of all superior geniuses, these two men flattered themselves, intra pectus, with being in the right against all who found fault with them.

As a beginning, D’Artagnan set out in the finest of possible weather, without a cloud in the heavens — without a cloud on his mind, joyous and strong, calm and decided, great in his resolution, and consequently carrying with him a tenfold dose of that potent fluid which the shocks of mind cause to spring from the nerves, and which procure for the human machine a force and an influence of which future ages will render, according to all probability, a more arithmetical account than we can possibly do at present.  He was again, as in times past, on that same road of adventures which had led him to Boulogne, and which he was now traveling for the fourth time.  It appeared to him that he could almost recognize the trace of his own steps upon the road, and that of his fist upon the doors of the hostelries; — his memory, always active and present, brought back that youth which neither thirty years later his great heart nor his wrist of steel would have belied.  What a rich nature was that of this man!  He had all the passions, all the defects, all the weaknesses, and the spirit of contradiction familiar to his understanding changed all these imperfections into corresponding qualities.  D’Artagnan, thanks to his ever active imagination, was afraid of a shadow, and ashamed of being afraid, he marched straight up to that shadow, and then became extravagant in his bravery, if the danger proved to be real.  Thus everything in