“Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world; we pay and
receive visits, we play on the lute, we dance, we make
verses, and burn a little incense in honor of the ladies.”
“Peste! that is the height of gallantry,” said the
musketeer, who was obliged to call to his aid all the
strength of his facial muscles to suppress an enormous
inclination to laugh.
“Tuesday, learned pleasures.”
“Good!” cried D’Artagnan. “What are they? Detail them, my
dear Mousqueton.”
“Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I shall
show you; it fills all the perimeter of the great tower,
except a gallery which he has had built over the sphere:
there are little strings and brass wires to which the sun
and moon are hooked. It all turns; and that is very
beautiful. Monseigneur points out to me seas and distant
countries. We don’t intend to visit them, but it is very
interesting.”
“Interesting! yes, that’s the word,” repeated D’Artagnan.
“And Wednesday?”
“Rustic pleasures, as I have had the honor to tell you,
monsieur le chevalier. We look over monseigneur’s sheep and
goats; we make the shepherds dance to pipes and reeds, as is
written in a book monseigneur has in his library, which is
called `Bergeries.’ The author died about a month ago.”
“Monsieur Racan, perhaps,” said D’Artagnan,
“Yes, that was his name — M. Racan. But that is not all: we
angle in the little canal, after which we dine, crowned with
flowers. That is Wednesday.”
“Peste!” said D’Artagnan, “you don’t divide your pleasures
badly. And Thursday? — what can be left for poor Thursday?”
“It is not very unfortunate, monsieur,” said Mousqueton,
smiling. “Thursday, Olympian pleasures. Ah, monsieur, that
is superb! We get together all monseigneur’s young vassals,
and we make them throw the disc, wrestle, and run races.
Monseigneur can’t run now, no more can I; but monseigneur
throws the disc as nobody else can throw it. And when he
does deal a blow, oh, that proves a misfortune!”
“How so?”
“Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to renounce the cestus. He
cracked heads; he broke jaws — beat in ribs. It was
charming sport; but nobody was willing to play with him.”
“Then his wrist —- ”
“Oh, monsieur, firmer than ever. Monseigneur gets a trifle
weaker in his legs, — he confesses that himself; but his
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strength has all taken refuge in his arms, so that —- ”
“So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used formerly.”
“Monsieur, better than that — he beats in walls. Lately,
after having supped with one of our farmers — you know how
popular and kind monseigneur is — after supper as a joke,
he struck the wall a blow. The wall crumbled away beneath
his hand, the roof fell in, and three men and an old woman
were stifled.”
“Good God, Mousqueton! And your master?”
“Oh, monseigneur, a little skin was rubbed off his head. We
bathed the wounds with some water which the monks gave us.
But there was nothing the matter with his hand.”
“Nothing?”
“No, nothing, monsieur.”
“Deuce take the Olympic pleasures! They must cost your
master too dear, for widows and orphans —- ”
“They all had pensions, monsieur; a tenth of monseigneur’s
revenue was spent in that way.”
“Then pass on to Friday,” said D’Artagnan.
“Friday, noble and warlike pleasures. We hunt, we fence, we
dress falcons and break horses. Then, Saturday is the day
for intellectual pleasures: we adorn our minds; we look at
monseigneur’s pictures and statues; we write, even, and
trace plans: and then we fire monseigneur’s cannon.”
“You draw plans, and fire cannon?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Why, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “M. du Vallon, in truth,
possesses the most subtle and amiable mind that I know. But
there is one kind of pleasure you have forgotten, it appears
to me.”
“What is that, monsieur?” asked Mousqueton, with anxiety.
“The material pleasures.”
Mousqueton colored. “What do you mean by that, monsieur?”
said he, casting down his eyes.
“I mean the table — good wine — evenings occupied in
passing the bottle.”
“Ah, monsieur, we don’t reckon those pleasures, — we
practice them every day.”