“When wealth comes to a man late in life or all at once, that man, in order not to change, must most likely become a miser—that is to say, not spend much more money than he had done before; or else become a prodigal, and contract so many debts as to become poor again.” “Oh! but what you say looks very much like a sophism, my dear philosophic friend.” “I do not think so. Will you become a miser?” “No, pardieu! I was one already, having nothing. Let us change.” “Then be prodigal.” “Still less, Mordioux! Debts terrify me. Creditors appear to me, by anticipation like those devils who turn the damned upon the gridirons, and as patience is not my dominant virtue, I am always tempted to thrash those devils.” “You are the wisest man I know, and stand in no need of advice from any one. Great fools must they be who think they have anything to teach you. But are we not at the Rue Saint Honore?” “Yes, dear Athos.” “Look yonder, on the left, that small, long white house is the hotel where I lodge. You may observe that it has but two stories; I occupy the first; the other is let to an officer whose duties oblige him to be absent eight or nine months in the year,—so I am in that house as in my own home, without the expense.” “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 was always a bright fellow.” “And a man of heart, too, Athos. Adieu.” And they 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 penthouse, 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?”