“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 strength has all taken refuge in his arms, so that—” “So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used to 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.”