“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——”