“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 to 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.