pack-horse, at the corner of the Rue des Lombards, under a pent-house, and calling one of Planchet’s boys, he desired him not only to take care of the two horses, but to watch the postilion; after which he entered the shop of the grocer, who had just finished supper, and who, in his little private room, was, with a degree of anxiety, consulting the calendar, on which, every evening, he scratched out the day that was past. At the moment when Planchet, according to his daily custom, with the back of his pen, erased another day, D’Artagnan kicked the door with his foot, and the blow made his steel spur jingle. “Oh! good Lord!” cried Planchet. The worthy grocer could say no more; he had just perceived his partner. D’Artagnan entered with a bent back and a dull eye: the Gascon had an idea with regard to Planchet.