“No more friends! no more future! no more anything! My energies are broken like the bonds of our ancient friendship. Oh, old age is coming, cold and inexorable; it envelopes in its funeral crepe all that was brilliant, all that was embalming in my youth; then it throws that sweet burthen on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest into the fathomless gulf of death.” A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strong against all the misfortunes of life; and during some moments the clouds appeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that of cemeteries. “Whither am I going?” said he to himself. “What am I going to do! Alone, quite alone—without family, without friends! Bah!” cried he all at once. And he clapped spurs to his horse, who, having found nothing melancholy in the heavy oats of Pierrefonds, profited by this permission to show his gayety in a gallop which absorbed two leagues. “To Paris!” said D’Artagnan to himself. And on the morrow he alighted in Paris. He had devoted ten days to this journey. Chapter XIX. What D’Artagnan went to Paris for. The lieutenant dismounted before a shop in the Rue des Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d’Or. A man of good appearance, wearing a white apron, and stroking his gray mustache with a large hand, uttered a cry of joy on perceiving the pied horse. “Monsieur le chevalier,” said he, “ah, is that you?” “Bon jour, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, stooping to enter the shop. “Quick, somebody,” cried Planchet, “to look after Monsieur d’Artagnan’s horse,—somebody to get ready his room,—somebody to prepare his supper.” “Thanks, Planchet. Good-day, my children!” said D’Artagnan to the eager boys. “Allow me to send off this coffee, this treacle, and these raisins,” said Planchet; “they are for the store-room of monsieur le surintendant.” “Send them off, send them off!” “That is only the affair of a moment, then we shall sup.” “Arrange it that we may sup alone; I want to speak to you.” Planchet looked at his old master in a significant manner. “Oh, don’t be uneasy, it is nothing unpleasant,” said D’Artagnan. “So much the better—so much the better!” And Planchet breathed freely again, whilst D’Artagnan seated himself quietly down in the shop, upon a bale of corks, and made a survey of the premises. The shop was well stocked; there was a mingled perfume of ginger, cinnamon, and ground pepper, which made D’Artagnan sneeze. The shop-boy, proud of being in company with so renowned a warrior, of a lieutenant of musketeers, who approached the person of the king, began to work with an enthusiasm which was something like delirium, and to serve the customers with a disdainful haste that was noticed by several.