D’Artagnan thought so well over night that by morning his plan was fully formed. “There!” he said, sitting up on his bed, putting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. “I’ll seek out forty men, sure and solid, recruiting people who are somewhat compromised but with the habit of discipline. I’ll promise each one five hundred livres for a month, if they survive, and nothing if they don’t, or half for their dependents. As for food and lodging, that’s on the English, who have cattle in the pasture, bacon in the smokehouse, chickens in the coop, and barley in the barn. I’ll offer my troop to General Monck and he’ll sign us up. I’ll get into his confidence and abuse it at the first opportunity.”
But d’Artagnan paused there, shook his head, and interrupted himself. “No,” he said, “If I did that, I’d never be able to tell Athos about it. It’s too dishonorable. I can’t resort to violence after committing myself to him,” he continued. “With my forty men, I’ll have to fight a guerilla action. Yes, but what if I run up against, not forty thousand English as Planchet said, but even as few as four hundred? I’ll be beaten, especially since, out of my forty, at least ten will get themselves killed out of stupidity.
“No, in fact, it would be impossible to find forty dependable men; there just aren’t that many. I’ll have to be satisfied with thirty. With ten fewer men I can justify avoiding an encounter, and if one happens anyway, I’ll have thirty good soldiers rather than forty fools. Plus, I save five thousand livres, or an eighth of my capital, which is all to the good. So, then: thirty men. I’ll divide the troop into three squads, we’ll separate, make our way through the country, and meet at a rendezvous point. That way, ten by ten, we’ll raise no alarms, cause no suspicion, and pass unnoticed. Yes, thirty, that’s the number, all right. Three tens; three, the divine number! And then, when we’re reunited, we’ll still be a pretty imposing company. But, oh! I’m an idiot!” continued d’Artagnan. “I’ll need thirty horses. It’s a disaster; how the devil did I forget about horses? You can’t undertake a campaign like this without horses. Well, it has to be done; I can buy the horses once we’re across, and besides, there’s nothing wrong with English horses.
“But also, plague take it, three squads mean three commanders, and that’s another problem. Of the three, I’m one, of course, but hiring the other two will cost almost as much as the rest put together. No, I definitely must have no more than one lieutenant.
“Based on that, I’ll reduce my troop to twenty men. That isn’t very many, just twenty men, but if I was determined to avoid encounters with thirty men, I’ll be even more so with twenty. Twenty is a manageable number, and besides, it reduces the number of horses I’ll need by ten, which is a bonus. And then, with a good lieutenant…
“Mordioux! See where you get with patience and calculation? I started out with forty men, and now I’m going to do the same job with twenty. Ten thousand livres saved at one stroke, and with better results. The critical point now is the finding of this lieutenant. So, I’ll find him, and then… but it won’t be that easy. I need someone brave and experienced, another me.
“Yes, but a lieutenant would have to share my secret, a secret that’s worth a million, and as I’m paying my man only ten thousand livres, or fifteen hundred at best, he’ll sell that secret to Monck. No lieutenants, mordioux! Besides, even if the lieutenant was as mute as a disciple of Pythagoras, he’d be sure to have in his squad a favorite soldier whom he’d make his sergeant, and this sergeant would find out his secret even supposing the lieutenant is honest.
“And the sergeant, cheaper and less honest, will sell the whole thing for fifty thousand livres. Come, come, it’s impossible! Decidedly, the lieutenant is impossible. But then we’re done with fractions, because I can’t divide my troop in two and be in two places at once, without another me who… but why have two squads when I have only one captain? What’s the point of weakening the troop by sending one squad left and the other right? A single troop, mordioux! But a band of twenty men riding cross country looks suspicious to everyone; if a troop of twenty riders is spotted, a company will be sent after them, they’ll demand the password, we won’t know it, and Monsieur d’Artagnan and his men will be shot like rabbits. I’ll reduce my troop to ten men; I’ll act simply and with a unified force; I’ll have no choice but to be prudent, which is already halfway to success in the kind of affair I’m undertaking. A larger troop would have tempted me into some reckless folly. Ten horses can be brought from here or bought over there. An excellent idea! I’m happier already. No suspicions, no passwords, no encounters. A mere ten men, why, they’re just taken for drovers or clerks. Ten men leading ten horses loaded with merchandise will be overlooked, or even well received, no matter where they go.
“Ten men traveling on behalf of the house of Planchet and Co., France. Nothing more need be said. These ten men, dressed like laborers, might carry hunting knives, carbines behind their saddles, even pistols in their holsters. They don’t look suspicious because their business is open and aboveboard. Oh, they might look a bit like smugglers, but so what? Smuggling’s not a hanging offense like polygamy. The worst that can happen to us is that they confiscate our goods.
“Confiscated goods? No big deal. Come, come, this plan is superb. Just ten men, ten men I’ll handpick, ten men who will be as good as forty, and cost me a quarter as much. And for greater security, I won’t speak a word about our goal, I’ll just say, ‘My friends, there’s a blow to strike.’ Satan himself would have to get up extra early to play a trick on us. And fifteen thousand livres saved out of twenty—it’s just superb!”
Thus, comforted by his industrious calculations, d’Artagnan fixed his plan in place and resolved to make no further changes. He already had in mind, on a list furnished by his inexhaustible memory, ten veteran adventurers mistreated by fortune or harried by the law. Therefore, d’Artagnan got up and went right to work, telling Planchet not to expect him at breakfast and maybe not dinner.
A day and a half spent haunting certain Parisian dives reaped him his harvest, a collection of swashbucklers all individually recruited without the knowledge of the others, so that within thirty hours he had a charming crew of ugly customers, most of them speaking a French less pure than the English they were about to attempt. They were former guardsmen for the most part, men whom d’Artagnan had taken the measure of in various encounters, and whom drunkenness, unlucky sword-wounds, unexpected windfalls at gambling, or thinning of the ranks by Monsieur de Mazarin had forced to seek darkness and solitude, the two great consolations of souls misunderstood and mistreated. They wore on their faces and their outfits the marks of their suffering; some of them were scarred, and all of their clothes were threadbare.
D’Artagnan relieved the most urgent miseries of his brothers in arms with an early distribution of a few of the company’s gold crowns; then, having made sure these crowns were employed in the physical rehabilitation of his troopers, he assigned his recruits a rendezvous in northern France, between Berghes and Saint-Omer. They were to meet at the end of six days, and d’Artagnan was sufficiently well acquainted with the goodwill and dependability of these men that he was certain none of them would fail to be waiting.
These orders given, and the rendezvous appointed, d’Artagnan went to make his farewell to Planchet, who was waiting to hear news of his little army. D’Artagnan didn’t think it was wise to inform Planchet about his reduction in personnel, as he thought it might diminish his partner’s confidence in the venture. Planchet was delighted to hear that the army had been raised, and that he was now a sort of little king with a shop for a throne room, from which he was funding troops to wage war against perfidious Albion,69 that enemy of all true French hearts.
Planchet happily counted out twenty thousand livres worth of fine double-louis70 to d’Artagnan on his own account and an equal stack from the fund belonging to d’Artagnan. The Gascon poured the money into two equal purses, and then, weighing them in his hands, he said, “This much money is quite an encumbrance, don’t you think, Planchet? It must weigh thirty pounds.”
“Bah! To your horse it will be no more than a feather.”
D’Artagnan shook his head. “I know what I’m talking about, Planchet. A horse carrying an extra thirty pounds above the weight of his rider and baggage no longer swims a river so easily, nor leaps lightly over a wall or ditch—and if the horse fails, the rider fails. Though of course, you wouldn’t know that, Planchet, as you always served in the infantry.”
“Then what should we do, Monsieur?” said Planchet, genuinely embarrassed.
“Listen,” said d’Artagnan, “I’ll pay my army upon their return to Paris. Keep my half of twenty thousand livres for me, which you can put to use during that time.”
“What about my half of the money?” said Planchet.
“I’ll carry that with me.”
“Your confidence does me honor,” said Planchet, “but what if you don’t come back?”
“I suppose that’s possible, though it isn’t likely. However, Planchet, in case I don’t come back, give me a pen so I can write out my will.”
D’Artagnan took a pen and paper and wrote on a single sheet:
I, d’Artagnan, am in possession of twenty thousand livres saved sou by sou for thirty-three years in the service of His Majesty the King of France. I leave five thousand to Athos, five thousand to Porthos, and five thousand to Aramis, to be given, in my name and theirs, to my young friend Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne. I leave the final five thousand to Planchet, that he may distribute the other fifteen thousand to my friends without regret.
To that end, I sign this present document,
D’ARTAGNAN
Planchet appeared quite curious to know what d’Artagnan had written. “Here,” the musketeer said to him, “read it.”
At the final lines, tears sprang from Planchet’s eyes. “You think I wouldn’t give them your money without this? Take it back—I don’t want your five thousand livres.”
D’Artagnan smiled. “Accept it, Planchet, accept it, and then you’ll lose only fifteen thousand livres instead of twenty. And you won’t be tempted to ignore the signature of your master and friend in order not to lose everything.”
How well d’Artagnan knew the hearts of men—especially grocers! Those who called Don Quixote crazy because he went to conquer an empire with no help but Sancho, his squire, and who called Sancho mad because he followed that master, would certainly not hesitate to pass the same judgment on d’Artagnan and Planchet. However, the first had one of the subtlest minds to be found among the razor-sharp wits of the Court of France. As to the second, he had rightly acquired the reputation of being one of the smartest grocers in the Rue des Lombards—and therefore all of Paris, and thus all of France.
Now, if one considers these two men from the point of view of other men, and the means by which they intended to put a king on his throne compared to other means, those of average mind, an average that’s by no means high, would recoil from the mad arrogance of the lieutenant and the folly of his partner. Fortunately, d’Artagnan wasn’t the sort of man to take his opinions from those around him, especially opinions about himself. He had adopted as his motto, “Do the right thing and let others talk.” Planchet, for his part, had as his slogan, “Do it and say nothing.” And that was how these two flattered themselves that they were right and everyone else was wrong. (Such is the way of geniuses.)
D’Artagnan set out on his journey, and at first he had the most beautiful weather possible, without a cloud in the sky and without a cloud on his spirit, joyful and strong, calm and resolved, and consequently brimming with that fluid energy that powers the human machine when shocks jolt it into action, something that future centuries will probably isolate and reproduce mechanically. As in previous adventures, he went back up the road to Boulogne, now for the fifth time. He could almost, on the way, pick out the footprints of his former travels and recognize the marks of his fist on the doors of roadside inns. His memory, sharp and ever present, brought back the days of his youth, which, thirty years later, hadn’t weakened his steel wrist nor discouraged his brave heart.
What a rich nature was that of this man! He had every passion, every fault, every weakness, and an intellectual spirit of contradiction that turned all these vices into virtues. D’Artagnan, thanks to his restless imagination, started at every shadow, and then, ashamed of that fear, marched bravely into the gloom and confronted it, if he found the danger was real. He reacted to everything with emotion, which brought him enjoyment. He delighted in the company of others but was never bored with his own, and if one could have eavesdropped on him when he was alone, he’d have been heard laughing at the jokes he made for himself, or the imaginary mind games he played where one would expect only boredom.
D’Artagnan was perhaps less cheerful than he would have been if he expected to find his good friends at Calais instead of his ten rogues, but melancholy didn’t afflict him more than once a day, so he had only five visits from that dark deity before sighting the sea at Boulogne, and those visits were brief. Then, once d’Artagnan was nearing the theater of action, every feeling but that of confidence disappeared, to be seen no more.
From Boulogne, he followed the coast to Calais. For Calais was the site of the rendezvous, and in Calais he’d told each of his recruits to await him at the Grand Monarch Inn, where prices were moderate, where sailors took their meals, and where men of the sword, if they kept the blades in their leather scabbards, would find lodging, food, wine, and the other sweet things of life for thirty sous a day.
He arrived at Calais at half past four in the evening. D’Artagnan intended to surprise his recruits in a relaxed state and take stock of them, to judge whether they’d be good and dependable companions.