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The Three Musketeers

The Interior Of "The Musketeers"
When d'Artagnan was out of the Louvre, and consulted his friends upon the use he had
best make of his share of the forty pistoles, Athos advised him to order a good repast at
the Pomme-de-Pin, Porthos to engage a lackey, and Aramis to provide himself with a
suitable mistress.
The repast was carried into effect that very day, and the lackey waited at table. The repast
had been ordered by Athos, and the lackey furnished by Porthos. He was a Picard, whom
the glorious Musketeer had picked up on the Bridge Tournelle, making rings and plashing
in the water.
Porthos pretended that this occupation was proof of a reflective and contemplative
organization, and he had brought him away without any other recommendation. The
noble carriage of this gentleman, for whom he believed himself to be engaged, had won
Planchet--that was the name of the Picard. He felt a slight disappointment, however,
when he saw that this place was already taken by a compeer named Mousqueton, and
when Porthos signified to him that the state of his household, though great, would not
support two servants, and that he must enter into the service of d'Artagnan. Nevertheless,
when he waited at the dinner given my his master, and saw him take out a handful of gold
to pay for it, he believed his fortune made, and returned thanks to heaven for having
thrown him into the service of such a Croesus. He preserved this opinion even after the
feast, with the remnants of which he repaired his own long abstinence; but when in the
evening he made his master's bed, the chimeras of Planchet faded away. The bed was the
only one in the apartment, which consisted of an antechamber and a bedroom. Planchet
slept in the antechamber upon a coverlet taken from the bed of d'Artagnan, and which
d'Artagnan from that time made shift to do without.
Athos, on his part, had a valet whom he had trained in his service in a thoroughly peculiar
fashion, and who was named Grimaud. He was very taciturn, this worthy signor. Be it
understood we are speaking of Athos. During the five or six years that he had lived in the
strictest intimacy with his companions, Porthos and Aramis, they could remember having
often seen him smile, but had never heard him laugh. His words were brief and
expressive, conveying all that was meant, and no more; no embellishments, no
embroidery, no arabesques. His conversation a matter of fact, without a single romance.
Although Athos was scarcely thirty years old, and was of great personal beauty and
intelligence of mind, no one knew whether he had ever had a mistress. He never spoke of
women. He certainly did not prevent others from speaking of them before him, although
it was easy to perceive that this kind of conversation, in which he only mingled by bitter
words and misanthropic remarks, was very disagreeable to him. His reserve, his
roughness, and his silence made almost an old man of him. He had, then, in order not to
disturb his habits, accustomed Grimaud to obey him upon a simple gesture or upon a
simple movement of his lips. He never spoke to him, except under the most extraordinary
occasions.
 
 
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