“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mousqueton in a melancholy tone, “since monseigneur’s departure all the pleasures have gone too!”

“Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your memory.”

“With what day shall I begin?”

“Eh, pardieux! begin with Sunday; that is the Lord’s day.”

“Sunday, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“Sunday pleasures are religious:  monseigneur goes to mass, makes the bread-offering, and has discourses and instructions made to him by his almoner-in-ordinary.  That is not very amusing, but we expect a Carmelite from Paris who will do the duty of our almonry, and who, we are assured, speaks very well, which will keep us awake, whereas our present almoner always sends us to sleep.  These are Sunday religious pleasures.  On Monday, worldly pleasures.”

“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, “what do you mean by that?  Let us have a glimpse at your worldly pleasures.”

“Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world; we pay and receive visits, we play on the lute, we dance, we make verses, and burn a little incense in honor of the ladies.”

“Peste! that is the height of gallantry,” said the musketeer, who was obliged to call to his aid all the strength of his facial muscles to suppress an enormous inclination to laugh.

“Tuesday, learned pleasures.”

“Good!” cried D’Artagnan.  “What are they?  Detail them, my dear Mousqueton.”

“Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I shall show you; it fills all the perimeter of the great tower, except a gallery which he has had built over the sphere:  there are little strings and brass wires to which the sun and moon are hooked.  It all turns; and that is very beautiful.  Monseigneur points out to me the seas and distant countries.  We don’t intend to visit them, but it is very interesting.”

“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!”