Chapter 1 - Page 2

dance, then?" inquired the king.

"Yes; but I always thought dancers went from easy to difficult acrobatic
feats. I was mistaken; all the more greater reason, therefore, that I
should leave for a time. Sire, I repeat, you have no present occasion
for my services; besides, if your majesty should have any need of me, you
would know where to find me."

"Very well," said the king, and he granted him leave of absence.

We shall not look for D'Artagnan, therefore, at Fontainebleau, for to do
so would be useless; but, with the permission of our readers, follow him
to the Rue des Lombards, where he was located at the sign of the Pilon
d'Or, in the house of our old friend Planchet. It was about eight
o'clock in the evening, and the weather was exceedingly warm; there was
only one window open, and that one belonging to a room on the
_entresol_. A perfume of spices, mingled with another perfume less
exotic, but more penetrating, namely, that which arose from the street,
ascended to salute the nostrils of the musketeer. D'Artagnan, reclining
in an immense straight-backed chair, with his legs not stretched out, but
simply placed upon a stool, formed an angle of the most obtuse form that
could possibly be seen. Both his arms were crossed over his head, his
head reclining upon his left shoulder, like Alexander the Great. His
eyes, usually so quick and intelligent in their expression, were now half-
closed, and seemed fastened, as it were, upon a small corner of blue sky
that was visible behind the opening of the chimneys; there was just
enough blue, and no more, to fill one of the sacks of lentils, or
haricots, which formed the principal furniture of the shop on the ground
floor. Thus extended at his ease, and sheltered in his place of
observation behind the window, D'Artagnan seemed as if he had ceased to
be a soldier, as if he were no longer an officer belonging to the palace,
but was, on the contrary, a quiet, easy-going citizen in a state of
stagnation between his dinner and supper, or between his supper and his
bed; one of those strong, ossified brains, which have no more room for a
single idea, so fiercely does animal matter keep watch at the doors of
intelligence, narrowly inspecting the contraband trade which might result
from the introduction into the brain of a symptom of thought. We have
already said night was closing in, the shops were being lighted, while
the windows of the upper apartments were being closed, and the rhythmic
steps of a patrol of soldiers forming the night watch could be heard
retreating. D'Artagnan continued, however, to think of nothing, except
the blue corner of the sky. A few paces from him, completely in the
shade, lying on his stomach, upon a sack of Indian corn, was Planchet,
with