“Pardieu!” cried D’Artagnan; “why, that’s my dear Monsieur Mousqueton!” “Ah!” cried the fat man—“ah! what happiness! what joy! There’s M. d’Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!” These last words were addressed to the lackeys who pushed and dragged him. The box stopped, and the four lackeys, with a precision quite military, took off their laced hats and ranged themselves behind it. “Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Mousqueton, “why can I not embrace your knees? But I have become impotent, as you see.” “Dame! my dear Mousqueton, it is age.” “No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities—troubles.” “Troubles! you, Mousqueton?” said D’Artagnan, making the tour 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 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 is such a stay-at-home!” “Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man that 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; “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?”