“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 been sufficient to disperse the four lackeys. D’Artagnan seated himself on the shaft of the box and opened his ears. “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?”
“Yes, monsieur; we have so many pleasures to take in this delightful country, that we were encumbered by them; so much so, that we have been forced to regulate the distribution of them.”