The shrewd Planchet had acquired a slight protuberance in front, but his countenance was not puffed.

His keen eye still played with facility in its deep-sunk orbit; and fat, which levels all the characteristic saliences of the human face, had not yet touched either his high cheek-bones, the sign of cunning and cupidity, or his pointed chin, the sign of acuteness and perseverance.

Planchet reigned with as much majesty in his dining-room as in his shop.

He set before his master a frugal, but perfectly Parisian repast: roast meat, cooked at the baker's, with vegetables, salad, and a dessert borrowed from the shop itself.

D'Artagnan was pleased that the grocer had drawn from behind the fagots a bottle of that Anjou wine which during all his life had been D'Artagnan's favorite wine.
"Formerly, monsieur," said Planchet, with a smile full of bonhomie, "it was I who drank your wine; now you do me the honor to drink mine." "And, thank God, friend Planchet, I shall drink it for a long time to come, I hope; for at present I am free." "Free?
You have leave of absence, monsieur ?" "Unlimited." "You are leaving the service ?" said Planchet, stupefied.
"Yes, I am resting." "And the king ?" cried Planchet, who could not suppose it possible that the king could do without the services of such a man as D'Artagnan.
"The king will try his fortune elsewhere.