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, as you know, monsieur, repeated incessantly, 'Tonno 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 bishop'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:
"No more friends! no more future! no more anything! My energies are broken like the bonds of our ancient friendship. Oh, old age is coming, cold and inexorable; it envelops in its funereal crape all that was brilliant, all that was embalming in my youth; then it throws that sweet burthen on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest into the fathomless gulf of death."
A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strong against all the misfortunes of life; and during some moments the clouds appeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that of cemeteries.
"Whither am I going?" said he
