close, it was a man, or rather a poussa, the interior
extremity of whom, spreading over the interior of the box,
entirely filled it, when still closer, the man was
Mousqueton -- Mousqueton, with gray hair and a face as red
as Punchinello's.

"Pardieu!" cried D'Artagnan; "why, that's my dear Monsieur
Mousqueton!"

"Ah!" cried the fat man -- "ah! what happiness! what joy!
There's M. d'Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!" These last words
were addressed to the lackeys who pushed and dragged him.
The box stopped, and the four lackeys, with a precision
quite military, took off their laced hats and ranged
themselves behind it.

"Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said Mousqueton, "why can I not
embrace your knees? But I have become impotent, as you see."

"Dame! my dear Mousqueton, it is age."

"No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities --
troubles."

"Troubles! you, Mousqueton?" said D'Artagnan making the tour
of the box; "are you out of your mind, my dear friend? Thank
God! you are as hearty as a three-hundred-year-old oak."

"Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!" groaned the faithful
servant.