LITMIR.BIZ

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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 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."

      "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 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."

      "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,

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