of the box; “are you out of your mind, my dear friend? Thank
God! you are as hearty as a three-hundred-year-old oak.”
“Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!” groaned the faithful
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servant.
“What’s the matter with your legs?”
“Oh, they will no longer bear me!”
“Ah, the ungrateful things! And yet you feed them well,
Mousqueton, apparently.”
“Alas, yes! They can reproach me with nothing in that
respect,” said Mousqueton, with a sigh; “I have always done
what I could for my poor body; I am not selfish.” And
Mousqueton sighed afresh.
“I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he
sighs after that fashion?” thought D’Artagnan.
“Mon Dieu, monsieur!” said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself
from a painful reverie; “how happy monseigneur will be that
you have thought of him!”
“Kind Porthos!” cried D’Artagnan, “I am anxious to embrace
him.”
“Oh!” said Mousqueton, much affected, “I shall certainly
write to him.”
“What!” cried D’Artagnan, “you will write to him?”
“This very day; I shall not delay it an hour.”
“Is he not here, then?”
“No, monsieur.”
“But is he near at hand? — is he far off?”
“Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell?”
“Mordioux!” cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, “I
am unfortunate. Porthos such a stay-at-home!”
“Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man than
monseigneur, but —- ”
“But what?”
“When a friend presses you —- ”
“A friend?”
“Doubtless — the worthy M. d’Herblay.”
“What, has Aramis pressed Porthos?”
“This is how the thing happened, Monsieur d’Artagnan. M.
d’Herblay wrote to monseigneur —- ”
“Indeed!”
“A letter, monsieur, such a pressing letter that it threw us
all into a bustle.”
“Tell me all about it, my dear friend.” said D’Artagnan;
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“but remove these people a little further off first.”
Mousqueton shouted, “Fall back, you fellows,” with such
powerful lungs that the breath, without the words, would
have been sufficient to disperse the four lackeys.
D’Artagnan seated himself on the shaft of the box and opened
his ears. “Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “monseigneur, then,
received a letter from M. le Vicaire-General d’Herblay,
eight or nine days ago; it was the day of the rustic
pleasures, yes, it must have been Wednesday.”
“What do you mean?” said D’Artagnan. “The day of rustic
pleasures?”
“Yes, monsieur; we have so many pleasures to take in this
delightful country, that we were encumbered by them; so much
so, that we have been forced to regulate the distribution of
them.”
“How easily do I recognize Porthos’s love of order in that!
Now, that idea would never have occurred to me; but then I
am not encumbered with pleasures.”
“We were, though,” said Mousqueton.
“And how did you regulate the matter, let me know?” said
D’Artagnan.
“It is rather long, monsieur.”
“Never mind, we have plenty of time; and you speak so well,
my dear Mousqueton, that it is really a pleasure to hear
you.”
“It is true,” said Mousqueton, with a sigh of satisfaction,
which emanated evidently from the justice which had been
rendered him, “it is true I have made great progress in the
company of monseigneur.”
“I am waiting for the distribution of the pleasures,
Mousqueton, and with impatience. I want to know if I have
arrived on a lucky day.”
“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mousqueton in a melancholy
tone, “since monseigneur’s departure all the pleasures have
gone too!”
“Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your memory.”
“With what day shall I begin?”
“Eh, pardieux! begin with Sunday; that is the Lord’s day.”
“Sunday, monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“Sunday pleasures are religious: monseigneur goes to mass,
makes the bread-offering, and has discourses and
instructions made to him by his almoner-in-ordinary. That is
not very amusing, but we expect a Carmelite from Paris who
will do the duty of our almonry, and who, we are assured,
speaks very well, which will keep us awake, whereas our
present almoner always sends us to sleep. These are Sunday
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religious pleasures. On Monday, worldly pleasures.”
“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, “what do you mean by that? Let us
have a glimpse at your worldly pleasures.”