“Well,” said he, “I see how it is. Let us be men! It is all over, is it not? The principal thing is, monsieur, that your life is safe.”
“Doubtless! doubtless!—life is something—but I am ruined!”
“Cordieu! monsieur!” said Planchet, “if it is so, we must not despair for that; you shall become a grocer with me; I shall take you for my partner, we will share the profits, and if there should be no more profits, well, why then we shall share the almonds, raisins and prunes, and we will nibble together the last quarter of Dutch cheese.”
D’Artagnan could hold out no longer. “Mordioux!” cried he, with great emotion, “thou art a brave fellow on my honor, Planchet. You have not been playing a part, have you? You have not seen the pack-horse with the bags under the shed yonder?”
“What horse? What bags?” said Planchet, whose trembling heart began to suggest that D’Artagnan was mad.
“Why, the English bags, Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, all radiant, quite transfigured.
“Ah! good God!” articulated Planchet, drawing back before the dazzling fire of his looks.
“Imbecile!” cried D’Artagnan, “you think me mad! Mordioux! On the contrary, never was my head more clear, or my heart more joyous. To the bags, Planchet, to the bags!”
“But to what bags, good heavens!”
D’Artagnan pushed Planchet towards the window.