'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 such a stay-at-home!"

"Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man than 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