“Exactly; to Fontainebleau.”
“And, in Heaven’s name, what are you going to do at Fontainebleau?”
Planchet answered D’Artagnan by a wink full of sly humor.
“You have some property there, you rascal.”
“Oh, a very paltry affair; a little bit of a house – nothing more.”
“I understand you.”
“But it is tolerable enough, after all.”
“I am going to Planchet’s country-seat!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“Whenever you like.”
“Did we not fix to-morrow?”
“Let us say to-morrow, if you like; and then, besides, to-morrow is the 14th, that is to say, the day before the one when I am afraid of getting bored; so we will look upon it as an understood thing.”
“Agreed, by all means.”
“You will lend me one of your horses?”
“The best I have.”
“No; I prefer the gentlest of all; I never was a very good rider, as you know, and in my grocery business I have got more awkward than ever; besides – ”
“Besides what?”
“Why,” added Planchet, “I do not wish to fatigue myself.”
“Why so?” D’Artagnan ventured to ask.
“Because I should lose half the pleasure I expect to enjoy,” replied Planchet. And thereupon he rose from his sack of Indian corn, stretching himself, and making all his bones crack, one after the other, with a sort of harmony.
“Planchet! Planchet!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “I do declare that there is no sybarite upon the face of the globe who can for a moment be compared to you. Oh, Planchet, it is very clear that we have never yet eaten a ton of salt together.”
“Why so, monsieur?”
“Because, even now I can scarcely say I know you,” said D’Artagnan, “and because, in point of fact, I return to the opinion which, for a moment, I had formed of you that day at Boulogne, when you strangled, or did so as nearly as possible, M. de Wardes’s valet, Lubin; in plain language, Planchet, that you are a man of great resources.”
Planchet began to laugh with a laugh full of self-conceit; bade the musketeer good-night, and went down to his back shop, which he used as a bedroom. D’Artagnan resumed his original position upon his chair, and his brow, which had been unruffled for a moment, became more pensive than ever. He had already forgotten the whims and dreams of Planchet. “Yes,” said he, taking up again the thread of his thoughts, which had been broken by the whimsical conversation in which we have just permitted our readers to participate. “Yes, yes, those three points include everything: First, to ascertain what Baisemeaux wanted with Aramis; secondly, to learn why Aramis does not let me hear from him; and thirdly, to ascertain where Porthos is. The whole mystery lies in these three points. Since, therefore,” continued D’Artagnan, “our friends tell us nothing, we must have recourse to our own poor intelligence. I must do what I can, mordioux, or rather Malaga, as Planchet would say.”
Chapter II. A Letter from M. Baisemeaux
D’Artagnan, faithful to his plan, went the very next morning to pay a visit to M. de Baisemeaux. It was cleaning up or tidying day at the Bastile; the cannons were furbished up, the staircases scraped and cleaned; and the jailers seemed to be carefully engaged in polishing the very keys. As for the soldiers belonging to the garrison, they were walking about in different courtyards, under the pretense that they were clean enough. The governor, Baisemeaux, received D’Artagnan with more than ordinary politeness, but he behaved towards him with so marked a reserve of manner, that all D’Artagnan’s tact and cleverness could not get a syllable out of him. The more he kept himself within bounds, the more D’Artagnan’s suspicion increased. The latter even fancied he remarked that the governor was acting under the influence of a recent recommendation. Baisemeaux had not been at the Palais Royal with D’Artagnan the same cold and impenetrable man which the latter now found in the Baisemeaux of the Bastile. When D’Artagnan wished to make him talk about the urgent money matters which had brought Baisemeaux in search of D’Artagnan, and had rendered him expansive, notwithstanding what had passed on that evening, Baisemeaux pretended that he had some orders to give in the prison, and left D’Artagnan so long alone waiting for him, that our musketeer, feeling sure that he should not get another syllable out of him, left the Bastile without waiting until Baisemeaux returned from his inspection. But D’Artagnan’s suspicions were aroused, and when once that was the case, D’Artagnan could not sleep or remain quiet for a moment. He was among men what the cat is among quadrupeds, the emblem of anxiety and impatience, at the same moment. A restless cat can no more remain the same place than a silk thread wafted idly to and fro with every breath of air. A cat on the watch is as motionless as death stationed at its place of observation, and neither hunger nor thirst can draw it from its meditations. D’Artagnan, who was burning with impatience, suddenly threw aside the feeling, like a cloak which he felt too heavy on his shoulders, and said to himself that that which they were concealing from him was the very thing it was important he should know; and, consequently, he reasoned that Baisemeaux would not fail to put Aramis on his guard, if Aramis had given him any particular recommendation, and this was, in fact, the very thing that happened.
Baisemeaux had hardly had time to return from the donjon, than D’Artagnan placed himself in ambuscade close to the Rue de Petit-Musc, so as to see every one who might leave the gates of the Bastile. After he had spent an hour on the look-out from the “Golden Portcullis,” under the pent-house of which he could keep himself a little in the shade, D’Artagnan observed a soldier leave the Bastile. This was, indeed, the surest indication he could possibly have wished for, as every jailer or warder has certain days, and even certain hours, for leaving the Bastile, since all are alike prohibited from having either wives or lodgings in the castle, and can accordingly leave without exciting any curiosity; but a soldier once in barracks is kept there for four and twenty hours when on duty, – and no one knew this better than D’Artagnan. The guardsman in question, therefore, was not likely to leave his regimentals, except on an express and urgent order. The soldier, we were saying, left the Bastile at a slow and lounging pace, like a happy mortal, in fact, who, instead of mounting sentry before a wearisome guard-house, or upon a bastion no less wearisome, has the good luck to get a little liberty, in addition to a walk – both pleasures being luckily reckoned as part of his time on duty. He bent his steps towards the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, enjoying the fresh air and the warmth of the sun, and looking at all the pretty faces he passed. D’Artagnan followed him at a distance; he had not yet arranged his ideas as what was to be done. “I must, first of all,” he thought, “see the fellow’s face. A man seen is a man judged.” D’Artagnan increased his pace, and, which was not very difficult, by the by, soon got in advance of the soldier. Not only did he observe that his face showed a tolerable amount of intelligence and resolution, but he noticed also that his nose was a little red. “He has a weakness for brandy, I see,” said D’Artagnan to himself. At the same moment that he remarked his red nose, he saw that the soldier had a white paper in his belt.
“Good, he has a letter,” added D’Artagnan. The only difficulty was to get hold of the letter. But a common soldier would, of course, be only too delighted at having been selected by M. de Baisemeaux as a special messenger, and would not be likely to sell his message. As D’Artagnan was biting his nails, the soldier continued to advance more and more into the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. “He is certainly going to Saint-Mande,” he said to himself, “and I shall not be able to learn what the letter contains.” It was enough to drive him wild. “If I were in uniform,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I would have this fellow seized, and his letter with him. I could easily get assistance at the very first guard-house; but the devil take me if I mention my name in an affair of this kind. If I were to treat him to something to drink, his suspicions would be roused; and besides, he might drink me drunk. Mordioux! my wits seem to have left me,” said D’Artagnan; “it is