“At ten years’ purchase, my dear Raoul; a superb affair; I bought the house for thirty thousand livres; it has a garden which opens to the Rue de la Mortillerie; the cabaret lets for a thousand livres, with the first story; the garret, or second floor, for five hundred livres.” “Indeed!” “Yes, indeed.” “Five hundred livres for a garret? Why, it is not habitable.” “Therefore no one inhabits it; only, you see, this garret has two windows which look out upon the Place.” “Yes, monsieur.” “Well, then, every time anybody is broken on the wheel or hung, quartered, or burnt, these two windows let for twenty pistoles.” “Oh!” said Raoul, with horror. “It is disgusting, is it not?” said D’Artagnan. “Oh!” repeated Raoul. “It is disgusting, but so it is. These Parisian cockneys are sometimes real anthropophagi. I cannot conceive how men, Christians, can make such speculation. “That is true.” “As for myself,” continued D’Artagnan, “if I inhabited that house, on days of execution I would shut it up to the very keyholes; but I do not inhabit it.” “And you let the garret for five hundred livres?” “To the ferocious cabaretier, who sub-lets it. I said, then, fifteen hundred livres.” “The natural interest of money,” said Raoul,—“five per cent.” “Exactly so. I then have left the side of the house at the back, store-rooms, and cellars, inundated every winter, two hundred livres; and the garden, which is very fine, well planted, well shaded under the walls and the portal of Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais, thirteen hundred livres.” “Thirteen hundred livres! why, that is royal!” “This is the whole history. I strongly suspect some canon of the parish (these canons are all rich as Croesus)—I suspect some canon of having hired the garden to take his pleasure in. The tenant has given the name of M. Godard. That is either a false name or a real name; if true, he is a canon; if false, he is some unknown; but of what consequence is it to me? he always pays in advance. I had also an idea just now, when I met you, of buying a house in the Place Baudoyer, the back premises of which join my garden, and would make a magnificent property. Your dragoons interrupted my calculations. But come, let us take the Rue de la Vannerie: that will lead us straight to M. Planchet’s.” D’Artagnan mended his pace, and conducted Raoul to Planchet’s dwelling, a chamber of which the grocer had given up to his old master. Planchet was out, but the dinner was ready. There was a remains of military regularity and punctuality preserved in the grocer’s household. D’Artagnan returned to the subject of Raoul’s future. “Your father brings you up rather strictly?” said he. “Justly, monsieur le chevalier.” “Oh, yes, I know Athos is just; but close, perhaps?” “A royal hand, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” “Well, never want, my boy! If ever you stand in need of a few pistoles, the old musketeer is at hand.” “My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan!” “Do you play a little?” “Never.”