“Too much so—too much so.”
“How can that be?”
“Because fine things never reach the expected point.”
“This is infallible, Planchet, and the proof is that I undertake it. It will be for you a tolerably pretty gain, and for me a very interesting stroke. It will be said, ‘Such was the old age of M. d’Artagnan,’ and I shall hold a place in tales and even in history itself, Planchet. I am greedy of honor.”
“Monsieur,” cried Planchet, “when I think that it is here, in my home, in the midst of my sugar, my prunes, and my cinnamon, that this gigantic project is ripened, my shop seems a palace to me.”
“Beware, beware, Planchet! If the least report of this escapes, there is the Bastile for both of us. Beware, my friend, for this is a plot we are hatching. M. Monk is the ally of M. Mazarin—beware!”
“Monsieur, when a man has had the honor to belong to you, he knows nothing of fear; and when he has the advantage of being bound up in interests with you, he holds his tongue.”
“Very well, that is more your affair than mine, seeing that in a week I shall be in England.”
“Depart, monsieur, depart—the sooner the better.”
“Is the money, then, ready?”