ound of guns, drums,
and all that din and confusion; I, who have myself carried a musket, can
easily believe that."

"Planchet," replied D'Artagnan, "I assure you I am not bored in the
least in the world."

"In that case, what are you doing, lying there, as if you were dead?"

"My dear Planchet, there was, once upon a time, at the siege of La
Rochelle, when I was there, when you were there, when we both were
there, a certain Arab, who was celebrated for the manner in which he
adjusted culverins. He was a clever fellow, although of a very odd
complexion, which was the same color as your olives. Well, this Arab,
whenever he had done eating or working, used to sit down to rest
himself, as I am resting myself now, and smoked I cannot tell you
what sort of magical leaves, in a large amber-mouthed tube; and if any
officers, happening to pass, reproached him for being always asleep, he
used quietly to reply: 'Better to sit down than to stand up, to lie
down than to sit down, to be dead than to lie down.' He was an acutely
melancholy Arab, and I remember him perfectly well, form the color of
his skin, and the style of his conversation. He used to cut off the
heads of Protestants with the most singular gusto!"

"Precisely; and then used to embalm them, when they were worth the
trouble; and when he was thus engaged with his herbs and plants about
him, he looked like a basket-maker making baskets."

"You are quite right, Planchet, he did."

"Oh! I can remember things very well, at times!"

"I have no doubt of it; but what do you think of his mode of reasoning?"

"I think it good in one sense, but very stupid in another."

"Expound your meaning, M. Planchet."

"Well, monsieur, in point of fact, then, 'better to sit down than to
stand up,' is plain enough, especially when one may be fatigued," and
Planchet smiled in a roguish way; "as for 'better to be lying down,'
let that pass, but as for the last proposition, that it is 'better to
be dead than alive,' it is, in my opinion, very absurd, my own undoubted
preference being for my bed; and if you are not of my opinion, it is
simply, as I have already had the honor of telling you, because you are
boring yourself to death."

"Planchet, do you know M. La Fontaine?"

"The chemist at the corner of the Rue Saint-Mederic?"

"No, the writer of fables."

"Oh! _Maitre Corbeau!_"

"Exactly; well, then, I am like his hare."

"He has got a hare also, then?"

"He has all sorts