The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [244]
So far so good; Bazin’s auspicious return had somewhat eased the anxiety that weighed upon our friends. But Planchet remained to be accounted for. Periods of expectation always seem to draw out interminably, and D’Artagnan would have sworn that the days were forty-eight hours long. He forgot the necessary slowness of navigation and he overstressed the power of Milady. Likening this woman to a demon, he endowed her with auxiliaries as supernatural as herself. No noise however slight but he imagined he was about to be arrested and forced with his friends to confront a Planchet in irons. Day by day, hour by hour, his confidence in the worthy Picard lackey waned. Worse, his attack of nerves assumed a sort of panic fear as it spread to Porthos and Aramis. Athos alone remained unshakable, as if, running no danger, he could afford to relax as usual.
On the sixteenth day in particular, the three uneasy friends could not contain themselves; singly or in pairs they wandered like lost souls along the road by which Planchet was expected. Athos, cool as a cucumber, lectured them in his usual dégagé fashion:
“Upon my word, you are behaving like children; surely no woman could so terrify three men? All in all, what is there to fear? Prison, ay; but if we go there, we will get out, just as Madame Bonacieux got out. Execution, ay; but day-in day-out here in the trenches we go cheerfully to expose ourselves to worse than that. Remember that a surgeon would give us more pain by amputating a leg than an execution by chopping off our heads. Wait, be patient, rest easy. In two or four or six hours at most, Planchet will be here; he promised and I trust him implicitly because he seems to be a very good lad indeed.”
“What if he doesn’t come?”
“Well, D’Artagnan, if he doesn’t come, it will be because of some delay. He may have tumbled off his horse or fallen on some slippery deck or ridden so fast against the wind that he is ill with a fever. Let us allow for the unforeseen, gentlemen, since all is a gamble and life a chaplet of minor miseries which, bead by bead, your philosopher tells with a smile. Be philosophers as I am, friends; sit down here and let us drink. Nothing on earth makes the future so rosy as to look at it through a glass of Chambertin.”
“That’s all very well,” D’Artagnan grumbled, “but I am tired of it all! Every time I open up a fresh bottle I tremble lest the wine comes from Milady’s cellar.”
“How fastidious you are, D’Artagnan! Such a beautiful woman!”
“A woman of mark!” Porthos observed, guffawing.
Athos shuddered, mopped his brow and rose to his feet with a kind of irritable movement he could not check.
The day crawled on; evening came slowly but at long last fell. The taverns were filled with drinkers. Athos, who had pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom left the Parpaillot. In Monsieur de Busigny, who incidentally had treated the musketeers to a magnificent dinner, he found a partner worthy of his attention. They were gambling together as usual when seven o’clock sounded; Athos could hear the patrols passing to double the posts. At half-past seven, the drums sounded retreat.
“The game is up, eh?” Athos repeated loudly, drawing four pistoles from his pocket and tossing them on the table. “Come, gentlemen, the tattoo has sounded; let us to bed!”
Very calmly he rose and moved out, D’Artagnan at his heels, Porthos and Aramis arm in arm bringing up the rear. Aramis was mumbling poetry to himself; from time to time Porthos pulled a hair or two from his mustaches to mark his despair.
Suddenly a shadow rose against the darkness . . . a shadow that D’Artagnan knew . . . a shadow that loomed large as life and dearer, even . . . and a familiar voice said very simply:
“Monsieur, I brought you your cloak. It is chilly this evening.”
“Planchet!” D’Artagnan cried, overwhelmed with joy and, “Planchet! Planchet!” Porthos and Aramis echoed.
“Of course it’s Planchet,” Athos said calmly. “What is so strange about that? He promised to be back by eight o