"Upon my word," said D'Artagnan, "that fellow Planchet was born to be a poet as well as a grocer."
"Monsieur," said Planchet, "I am one of those good-humored sort of men whom Heaven created for the purpose of living a certain space of time, and of considering all things good which they meet with during their stay on earth."
D'Artagnan sat down close to the window, and as there seemed to be something substantial in Planchet's philosophy, he mused over it.
"Ah, ah!" exclaimed Porthos, "if I am not mistaken, we are going to have a representation now, for I think I heard something like chanting."
"Yes," said D'Artagnan, "I hear singing too."
"Oh, it is only a burial of a very poor description," said Planchet, disdainfully; "the officiating priest, the beadle, and only one chorister boy, nothing more. You observe, messieurs, that the defunct lady or gentleman could not have been of very high rank."
"No; no one seems to be following the coffin."
"Yes," said Porthos; "I see a man."
"You are right; a man wrapped up in a cloak," said D'Artagnan.
"It's not worth looking at," said Planchet.