ntinuing his imperceptible tone of
irony, "I had no idea such a thing was possible."

"You have not seen me dance, then?" inquired the king.

"Yes; but I always thought dancers went from easy to difficult acrobatic
feats. I was mistaken; all the more greater reason, therefore, that I
should leave for a time. Sire, I repeat, you have no present occasion
for my services; besides, if your majesty should have any need of me,
you would know where to find me."

"Very well," said the king, and he granted him leave of absence.

We shall not look for D'Artagnan, therefore, at Fontainebleau, for to do
so would be useless; but, with the permission of our readers, follow him
to the Rue des Lombards, where he was located at the sign of the Pilon
d'Or, in the house of our old friend Planchet. It was about eight
o'clock in the evening, and the weather was exceedingly warm; there
was only one window open, and that one belonging to a room on the
_entresol_. A perfume of spices, mingled with another perfume less
exotic, but more penetrating, namely, that which arose from the street,
ascended to salute the nostrils of the musketeer. D'Artagnan, reclining
in an immense straight-backed chair, with his legs not stretched out,
but simply placed upon a stool, formed an angle of the most obtuse form
that could possibly be seen. Both his arms were crossed over his head,
his head reclining upon his left shoulder, like Alexander the Great.
His eyes, usually so quick and intelligent in their expression, were
now half-closed, and seemed fastened, as it were, upon a small corner of
blue sky that was visible behind the opening of the chimneys; there was
just enough blue, and no more, to fill one of the sacks of lentils, or
haricots, which formed the principal furniture of the shop on the
ground floor. Thus extended at his ease, and sheltered in his place of
observation behind the window, D'Artagnan seemed as if he had ceased
to be a soldier, as if he were no longer an officer belonging to the
palace, but was, on the contrary, a quiet, easy-going citizen in a state
of stagnation between his dinner and supper, or between his supper and
his bed; one of those strong, ossified brains, which have no more room
for a single idea, so fiercely does animal matter keep watch at the
doors of intelligence, narrowly inspecting the contraband trade which
might result from the introduction into the brain of a symptom of
thought. We have already said night was closi