“But why did you not dare to speak aloud, Planchet—because you are afraid?”
“Afraid of being heard? Yes, Monsieur.”
“Afraid of being heard! Why, there is nothing improper in our conversation, my dear Planchet, and no one could find fault with it.”
“Ah, Monsieur!” replied Planchet, recurring to his besetting idea, “that M. Bonacieux has something vicious in his eyebrows, and something very unpleasant in the play of his lips.”
“What the devil makes you think of Bonacieux?”
“Monsieur, we think of what we can, and not of what we will.”
“Because you are a coward, Planchet.”
“Monsieur, we must not confound prudence with cowardice; prudence is a virtue.”
“And you are very virtuous, are you not, Planchet?”
“Monsieur, is not that the barrel of a musket which glitters yonder? Had we not better lower our heads?”
“In truth,” murmured d’Artagnan, to whom M. de Tréville’s recommendation recurred, “in truth, this animal will end by making me afraid.” And he put his horse into a trot.
Planchet followed the movements of his master as if he had been his shadow, and was soon trotting by his side.
“Are we going to continue this pace all night?” asked Planchet.
“No; you are at your journey’s end.”