I have two windows on this side, a paltry, insignificant view, for there is always that bustling and noisy inn, which is a very disagreeable neighbor. I had four windows here, but I bricked up two.”
“Let us go on,” said D’Artagnan.
They entered a corridor leading to the bedrooms, and Planchet pushed open the outside blinds.
“Hollo! what is that out yonder?” said Porthos.
“The forest,” said Planchet. “It is the horizon, – a thick line of green, which is yellow in the spring, green in the summer, red in the autumn, and white in the winter.”
“All very well, but it is like a curtain, which prevents one seeing a greater distance.”
“Yes,” said Planchet; “still, one can see, at all events, everything that intervenes.”
“Ah, the open country,” said Porthos. “But what is that I see out there, – crosses and stones?”
“Ah, that is the cemetery,” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“Precisely,” said Planchet; “I assure you it is very curious. Hardly a day passes that some one is not buried there; for Fontainebleau is by no means an inconsiderable place. Sometimes we see young girls clothed in white carrying banners; at others, some of the town-council, or rich citizens, with choristers and all the parish authorities; and then, too, we see some of the officers of the king’s household.”
“I should not like that,” said Porthos.
“There is not much amusement in it, at all events,” said D’Artagnan.
“I assure you it encourages religious thoughts,” replied Planchet.
“Oh, I don’t deny that.”
“But,” continued Planchet, “we must all die one day or another, and I once met with a maxim somewhere which I have remembered, that the thought of death is a thought that will do us all good.”
“I am far from saying the contrary,” said Porthos.
“But,” objected D’Artagnan, “the thought of green fields, flowers, rivers, blue horizons, extensive and boundless plains, is not likely to do us good.”
“If I had any, I should be far from rejecting them,” said Planchet; “but possessing only this little cemetery, full of flowers, so moss-grown, shady, and quiet, I am contented with it, and I think of those who live in town, in the Rue des Lombards, for instance, and who have to listen to the rumbling of a couple of thousand vehicles every day, and to the soulless tramp, tramp, tramp of a hundred and fifty thousand foot-passengers.”
“But living,” said Porthos; “living, remember that.”
“That is exactly the reason,” said Planchet, timidly, “why I feel it does me good to contemplate a few dead.”
“Upon my word,” said D’Artagnan, “that fellow Planchet is born a philosopher as well as a grocer.”
“Monsieur,” said Planchet, “I am one of those good-humored sort of men whom Heaven created for the purpose of living a certain span of days, and of considering all good they meet with during their transitory stay on earth.”
D’Artagnan sat down close to the window, and as there seemed to be something substantial in Planchet’s philosophy, he mused over it.
“Ah, ah!” exclaimed Planchet, “if I am not mistaken, we are going to have a representation now, for I think I heard something like chanting.”
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “I hear singing too.”
“Oh, it is only a burial of a very poor description,” said Planchet, disdainfully; “the officiating priest, the beadle, and only one chorister boy, nothing more. You observe, messieurs, that the defunct lady or gentleman could not have been of very high rank.”
“No; no one seems to be following the coffin.”
“Yes,” said Porthos; “I see a man.”
“You are right; a man wrapped in a cloak,” said D’Artagnan.
“It’s not worth looking at,” said Planchet.
“I find it interesting,” said D’Artagnan, leaning on the window-sill.
“Come, come, you are beginning to take a fancy to the place already,” said Planchet, delightedly; “it is exactly my own case. I was so melancholy at first that I could do nothing but make the sign of the cross all day, and the chants were like so many nails being driven into my head; but now, they lull me to sleep, and no bird I have ever seen or heard can sing better than those which are to be met with in this cemetery.”
“Well,” said Porthos, “this is beginning to get a little dull for me, and I prefer going downstairs.”
Planchet with one bound was beside his guest, whom he offered to lead into the garden.
“What!” said Porthos to D’Artagnan, as he turned round, “are you going to remain here?”
“Yes, I will join you presently.”
“Well, M. D’Artagnan is right, after all,” said Planchet: “are they beginning to bury yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Ah! yes, the grave-digger is waiting until the cords are fastened round the bier. But, see, a woman has just entered the cemetery at the other end.”
“Yes, yes, my dear Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, quickly, “leave me, leave me; I feel I am beginning already to be much comforted by my meditations, so do not interrupt me.”
Planchet left, and D’Artagnan remained, devouring with his eager gaze from behind the half-closed blinds what was taking place just before him. The two bearers of the corpse had unfastened the straps by which they carried the litter, and were letting their burden glide gently into the open grave. At a few paces distant, the man with the cloak wrapped round him, the only spectator of this melancholy scene, was leaning with his back against a large cypress-tree, and kept his face and person entirely concealed from the grave-diggers and the priests; the corpse was buried in five minutes. The grave having been filled up, the priests turned away, and the grave-digger having addressed a few words to them, followed them as they moved away. The man in the mantle bowed as they passed him, and put a piece of gold into the grave-digger’s hand.
“Mordioux!” murmured D’Artagnan; “it is Aramis himself.”
Aramis, in fact, remained alone, on that side at least; for hardly had he turned his head when a woman’s footsteps, and the rustling of her dress, were heard in the path close to him. He immediately turned round, and took off his hat with the most ceremonious respect; he led the lady under the shelter of some walnut and lime trees, which overshadowed a magnificent tomb.
“Ah! who would have thought it,” said D’Artagnan; “the bishop of Vannes at a rendezvous! He is still the same Abbe Aramis as he was at Noisy-le-Sec. Yes,” he added, after a pause; “but as it is in a cemetery, the rendezvous is sacred.” But he almost laughed.
The conversation lasted for fully half an hour. D’Artagnan could
