It was the same place we have already had the honor of describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy ourselves with naming it.

The first thing D'Artagnan perceived after the fine trees, the May sun gilding the sides of the green hills, the long rows of feather-topped trees which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a large rolling box, pushed forward by two servants and dragged by two others.
In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold thing, which went along the smiling glades of the park, thus dragged and pushed.

This thing, at a distance, could not be distinguished, and signified absolutely nothing; nearer, it was a hogshead muffled in gold-bound green cloth; when 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.
"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, apparently." "Alas, yes! They can reproach me with nothing in that respect," said Mousqueton, with a sigh; "I have always done what I could for my poor body; I am not selfish." And Mousqueton sighed afresh.
"I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he sighs after that fashion ?" thought D'Artagnan.
"Mon Dieu, monsieur!" said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself from a painful reverie; "how happy monseigneur will be that you have thought of him!" "Kind Porthos!" cried D'Artagnan, "I am anxious to embrace him." "Oh!" said Mousqueton, much affected, "I shall certainly write to him." "What!" cried D'Artagnan, "you will write to him ?" "This very day; I shall not delay it an hour." "Is he not here, then ?" "No, monsieur." "But is he near at hand ?--is he far off ?" "Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell ?" "Mordioux!" cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, "I am unfortunate.