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.

"What's the matter with your legs?"

"Oh, they will no longer bear me!"

"Ah, the ungrateful things! And yet you feed them well, Mousqueton,