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"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?"
All these people entered the chateau silently, handed their horses to a melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps, conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, where Mousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in two days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill-fitting scabbard in which the sword-blade dances at each motion.
"And the legs of mutton of the salt marshes," said Porthos, smacking his lips. "But," suggested D'Artagnan, "have we not our friend Mousqueton, who managed for us so well at Chantilly, Porthos?" "Yes," said Porthos, "we have Mousqueton, but since he has been steward, he has become very heavy; never mind, let us call him, and to make sure that he will reply agreeably "Here! Mouston," cried Porthos.
He came to request his master to return to his lodgings, where his presence was urgent, as he piteously said. "Is it my equipment?" "Yes and no," replied Mousqueton. "Well, but can't you speak?" "Come, monsieur." Porthos rose, saluted his friends, and followed Mousqueton. An instant after, Bazin made his appearance at the door.
Aramis received a ball which passed through his shoulder, and Mousqueton another ball which lodged in the fleshy part which prolongs the lower portion of the loins. Therefore Mousqueton alone fell from his horse, not because he was severely wounded, but not being able to see the wound, he judged it to be more serious than it really was. "It was an ambuscade!" shouted d'Artagnan.
"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."
I am getting more and more seasick." "Go in, then, Grimaud," said Mousqueton, handing him the beer pot and gimlet. "Rinse the glasses," said Grimaud. Then with a friendly gesture toward Mousqueton, that he might forgive him for finishing an enterprise so brilliantly begun by another, he glided like a serpent through the opening and disappeared.
D'Artagnan was secretly touched with remorse, not at inducing Porthos to enter into schemes in which his life and fortune would be in jeopardy, for Porthos, in the title of baron, had his object and reward; but poor Mousqueton, whose only wish was to be called Mouston was it not cruel to snatch him from the delightful state of peace and plenty in which he was?
"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 such a stay-at-home!"
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