“A fortnight for the execution, and fifteen hundred crowns payable on delivery,” replied the artisan.
D’Artagnan’s brow darkened. A fortnight was delay enough to allow the thieves of London time to remove all occasion for the strong box. As to the fifteen hundred crowns—that would be paying too dear for what a little vigilance would procure him for nothing.
“I will think of it,” said he, “thank you, sir.” And he returned home at full speed; nobody had yet touched his treasure. That same day Athos paid a visit to his friend and found him so thoughtful that he could not help expressing his surprise.
“How is this?” said he, “you are rich and not gay—you, who were so anxious for wealth!”
“My friend, the pleasures to which we are not accustomed oppress us more than the griefs with which we are familiar. Give me your opinion, if you please. I can ask you, who have always had money: when we have money, what do we do with it?”
“That depends.”
“What have you done with yours, seeing that it has not made you a miser or a prodigal? For avarice dries up the heart, and prodigality drowns it—is not that so?”
“Fabricius could not have spoken more justly. But in truth, my money has never been a burden to me.”
“How so? Do you place it out at interest?”
“No; you know I have a tolerably handsome house; and that house composes the better part of my property.”