“Ah, monsieur, we don’t reckon those pleasures,—we practice them every day.” “My brave Mousqueton,” resumed D’Artagnan, “pardon me, but I was so absorbed in your charming recital that I have forgotten the principal object of our conversation, which was to learn what M. le Vicaire-General d’Herblay could have to write to your master about.” “That is true, monsieur,” said Mousqueton; “the pleasures have misled us. Well, monsieur, this is the whole affair.” “I am all attention, Mousqueton.” “On Wednesday—” “The day of the rustic pleasures?” “Yes—a letter arrived; he received it from my hands. I had recognized the writing.” “Well?” Monseigneur read it and cried out, “Quick, my horses! my arms!’” “Oh, good Lord! then it was for some duel?” said D’Artagnan. “No, monsieur, there were only these words: ‘Dear Porthos, set out, if you would wish to arrive before the Equinox. I expect you.’” “Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, thoughtfully, “that was pressing, apparently.” “I think so; therefore,” continued Mousqueton, “monseigneur set out the very same day with his secretary, in order to endeavor to arrive in time.” “And did he arrive in time?” “I hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know, monsieur, repeated incessantly, ‘Tonne Dieu! What can this mean? The Equinox? Never mind, a fellow must be well mounted to arrive before I do.’” “And you think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?” asked D’Artagnan. “I am sure of it. This Equinox, however rich he may be, has certainly no horses so good as monseigneur’s.” D’Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the brevity of Aramis’s letter gave rise to reflection. He followed Mousqueton, or rather Mousqueton’s chariot, to the castle. He sat down to a sumptuous table, of which they did him the honors as to a king. But he could draw nothing from Mousqueton,—the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at will, but that was all. D’Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected much upon the meaning of Aramis’s letter; puzzled himself as to the relation of the Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and being unable to make anything out unless it concerned some amour of the bishopp’s, for which it was necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D’Artagnan left Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had left the chateau of the Comte de la Fere. It was not, however, without a melancholy, which might in good sooth pass for one of the most dismal of D’Artagnan’s moods. His head cast down, his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to hang on each side of his horse, and said to himself, in that vague sort of reverie which ascends sometimes to the sublimest eloquence: