Mousqueton colored. "What do you mean by that, monsieur?" said he,
casting down his eyes.

"I mean the table--good wine--evenings occupied in passing the bottle."

"Ah, monsieur, we don't reckon those pleasures,--we practice them every
day."

"My brave Mousqueton," resumed D'Artagnan, "pardon me, but I was so
absorbed in your charming recital that I have forgotten the
principal object of our conversation, which was to learn what M. le
Vicaire-General d'Herblay could have to write to your master about."

"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."

"I think so; therefore," continued Mousqueton, "monseigneur set out
the very same day with his secretary, in order to endeavor to arrive in
time."

"And did he arrive in time?"

"I hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know, monsieur, repeated
incessantly, '_Tonne Dieu!_ What can this mean? The Equinox? Never mind,
a fellow must be well mounted to arrive before I do.'"

"And you think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"I am sure of it. This Equinox, however rich he may be, has certainly no
horses so good as monseigneur's."

D'Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the brevity of
Aramis's letter gave rise to reflection. He followed Mousqueton, or
rather Mousqueton's chariot, to the castle. He sat down to a sumptuous
table, of which they did him the honors as to a king. But he could draw
nothing from Mousqueton,--the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at
will, but that was all.

D'Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected much
upon the meaning of Aramis's letter; puzzled himself as to the relation
of the Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and being unable to make
anything out unless it concerned some amour of the bishop's, for which
it was necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D'Art