“Oh! how well you manage, Athos!  What order and what liberality!  They are what I wish to unite!  But, of what use trying! that comes from birth, and cannot be acquired.”

“You are a flatterer!  Well! adieu, dear friend. A propos, remember me to Master Planchet; he always was a bright fellow.”

“And a man of heart, too, Athos.  Adieu.”

And the separated.  During all this conversation, D’Artagnan had not for a moment lost sight of a certain pack-horse, in whose panniers, under some hay, were spread the sacoches (messenger’s bags) with the portmanteau.  Nine o’clock was striking at Saint-Merri.  Planchet’s helps were shutting up his shop.  D’Artagnan stopped the postilion who rode the pack-horse, at the corner of the Rue des Lombards, under a pent-house, and calling one of Planchet’s boys, he desired him not only to take care of the two horses, but to watch the postilion; after which he entered the shop of the grocer, who had just finished supper, and who, in his little private room, was, with a degree of anxiety, consulting the calendar, on which, every evening, he scratched out the day that was past.  At the moment when Planchet, according to his daily custom, with the back of his pen, erased another day, D’Artagnan kicked the door with his foot, and the blow made his steel spur jingle.  “Oh! good Lord!” cried Planchet.  The worthy grocer could say no more; he had just perceived his partner.  D’Artagnan entered with a bent back and a dull eye:  the Gascon had an idea with regard to Planchet.

“Good God!” thought the grocer, looking earnestly at the traveler, “he looks sad!” The musketeer sat down.

“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Planchet, with a horrible palpitation of the heart.  “Here you are! and your health?”

“Tolerably good, Planchet, tolerably good!” said D’Artagnan, with a profound sigh.

“You have not been wounded, I hope?”

“Phew!”

“Ah, I see,” continued Planchet, more and more alarmed, “the expedition has been a trying one?”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan.  A shudder ran down Planchet’s back.  “I should like to have something to drink,” said the musketeer, raising his head piteously.

Planchet ran to the cupboard, and poured out to D’Artagnan some wine in a large glass.  D’Artagnan examined the bottle.

“What wine is that?” asked he.

“Alas! that which you prefer, monsieur,” said Planchet; “that good old Anjou wine, which was one day nearly costing us all so dear.”

“Ah!” replied D’Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, “Ah! my poor Planchet, ought I still to drink good wine?”

“Come! my dear master,” said Planchet, making a super-human effort, whilst all his contracted muscles, his pallor and his trembling betrayed the most acute anguish.  “Come!  I have been a soldier and consequently have some courage; do not make me linger, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; our money is lost, is it not?”