“In the first place, monsieur, I ask you pardon for meddling in these things, which have nothing to do with my trade; but since it is an affair that you propose to me—for you are proposing an affair, are you not?—” “A superb one, Planchet.” “But as it is business you propose to me, I have the right to discuss it.” “Discuss it, Planchet; out of discussion is born light.” “Well, then, since I have monsieur’s permission, I will tell him that there is yonder, in the first place, the parliament.” “Well, next?” “And then the army.” “Good! Do you see anything else?” “Why, then the nation.” “Is that all?” “The nation which consented to the overthrow and death of the late king, the father of this one, and which will not be willing to belie its acts.” “Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “you argue like a cheese! The nation—the nation is tired of these gentlemen who give themselves such barbarous names, and who sing songs to it. Chanting for chanting, my dear Planchet; I have remarked that nations prefer singing a merry chant to the plain chant. Remember the Fronde; what did they sing in those times? Well, those were good times.” “Not too good, not too good! I was near being hung in those times.” “Well, but you were not.” “No.” “And you laid the foundations of your fortune in the midst of all those songs?” “That is true.” “Then you have nothing to say against them.” “Well, I return, then, to the army and parliament.” “I say that I borrow twenty thousand livres of M. Planchet, and that I put twenty thousand livres of my own to it; and with these forty thousand livres I raise an army.” Planchet clasped his hands; he saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest, and, in good truth, he believed his master had lost his senses. “An army!—ah, monsieur,” said he, with his most agreeable smile, for fear of irritating the madman, and rendering him furious,—“an army!—how many?” “Of forty men,” said D’Artagnan. “Forty against forty thousand! that is not enough. I know very well that you, M. d’Artagnan, alone, are equal to a thousand men; but where are we to find thirty-nine men equal to you? Or, if we could find them, who would furnish you with money to pay them?” “Not bad, Planchet. Ah, the devil! you play the courtier.” “No, monsieur, I speak what I think, and that is exactly why I say that, in the first pitched battle you fight with your forty men, I am very much afraid—” “Therefore I shall fight no pitched battles, my dear Planchet,” said the Gascon, laughing. “We have very fine examples in antiquity of skillful retreats and marches, which consisted in avoiding the enemy instead of attacking them. You should know that, Planchet, you who commanded the Parisians the day on which they ought to have fought against the musketeers, and who so well calculated marches and countermarches, that you never left the Palais Royal.”