“Oh, monsieur!” said Bazin, clasping his hands supplicatingly.
“Come, no hypocrisy! you know that I don’t like it. You will do much better to open the window and let down some bread, a chicken and a bottle of wine to your friend Planchet, who has been this last hour killing himself clapping his hands.”
Planchet, in fact, had bedded and fed his horses, and then coming back under the window had repeated two or three times the signal agreed upon.
Bazin obeyed, fastened to the end of a cord the three articles designated and let them down to Planchet, who then went satisfied to his shed.
“Now to supper,” said Aramis.
The two friends sat down and Aramis began to cut up fowls, partridges and hams with admirable skill.
“The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan; “do you live in this way always?”
“Yes, pretty well. The coadjutor has given me dispensations from fasting on the jours maigres, on account of my health; then I have engaged as my cook the cook who lived with Lafollone—you know the man I mean?—the friend of the cardinal, and the famous epicure whose grace after dinner used to be, ‘Good Lord, do me the favor to cause me to digest what I have eaten.’”
“Nevertheless he died of indigestion, in spite of his grace,” said D’Artagnan.
“What can you expect?” replied Aramis, in a tone of resignation. “Every man that’s born must fulfil his destiny.”