“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.”