which I am really in want of, but nothing happens. Either
they respect or they fear me, which is more likely, but they
let me trample down the clover with my dogs, insult and
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obstruct every one, and I come back still more weary and
low-spirited, that’s all. At any rate, tell me: there’s more
chance of fighting in Paris, is there not?”
“In that respect, my dear friend, it’s delightful. No more
edicts, no more of the cardinal’s guards, no more De
Jussacs, nor other bloodhounds. I’Gad! underneath a lamp in
an inn, anywhere, they ask `Are you one of the Fronde?’ They
unsheathe, and that’s all that is said. The Duke de Guise
killed Monsieur de Coligny in the Place Royale and nothing
was said of it.”
“Ah, things go on gaily, then,” said Porthos.
“Besides which, in a short time,” resumed D’Artagnan, “We
shall have set battles, cannonades, conflagrations and there
will be great variety.”
“Well, then, I decide.”
“I have your word, then?”
“Yes, ’tis given. I shall fight heart and soul for Mazarin;
but —- ”
“But?”
“But he must make me a baron.”
“Zounds!” said D’Artagnan, “that’s settled already; I will
be responsible for the barony.”
On this promise being given, Porthos, who had never doubted
his friend’s assurance, turned back with him toward the
castle.
12
In which it is shown that if Porthos was discontented with
his Condition, Mousqueton was completely satisfied with his.
As they returned toward the castle, D’Artagnan thought of
the miseries of poor human nature, always dissatisfied with
what it has, ever desirous of what it has not.
In the position of Porthos, D’Artagnan would have been
perfectly happy; and to make Porthos contented there was
wanting — what? five letters to put before his three names,
a tiny coronet to paint upon the panels of his carriage!
“I shall pass all my life,” thought D’Artagnan, “in seeking
for a man who is really contented with his lot.”
Whilst making this reflection, chance seemed, as it were, to
give him the lie direct. When Porthos had left him to give
some orders he saw Mousqueton approaching. The face of the
steward, despite one slight shade of care, light as a summer
cloud, seemed a physiognomy of absolute felicity.
“Here is what I am looking for,” thought D’Artagnan; “but
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alas! the poor fellow does not know the purpose for which I
am here.”
He then made a sign for Mousqueton to come to him.
“Sir,” said the servant, “I have a favour to ask you.”
“Speak out, my friend.”
“I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will think, sir, that
prosperity has spoiled me?”
“Art thou happy, friend?” asked D’Artagnan.
“As happy as possible; and yet, sir, you may make me even
happier than I am.”
“Well, speak, if it depends on me.”
“Oh, sir! it depends on you only.”
“I listen — I am waiting to hear.”
“Sir, the favor I have to ask of you is, not to call me
`Mousqueton’ but `Mouston.’ Since I have had the honor of
being my lord’s steward I have taken the last name as more
dignified and calculated to make my inferiors respect me.
You, sir, know how necessary subordination is in any large
establishment of servants.”
D’Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to lengthen out his names,
Mousqueton to cut his short.
“Well, my dear Mouston,” he said, “rest satisfied. I will
call thee Mouston; and if it makes thee happy I will not
`tutoyer’ you any longer.”
“Oh!” cried Mousqueton, reddening with joy; “if you do me,
sir, such honor, I shall be grateful all my life; it is too
much to ask.”
“Alas!” thought D’Artagnan, “it is very little to offset the
unexpected tribulations I am bringing to this poor devil who
has so warmly welcomed me.”
“Will monsieur remain long with us?” asked Mousqueton, with a
serene and glowing countenance.
“I go to-morrow, my friend,” replied D’Artagnan.
“Ah, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “then you have come here
only to awaken our regrets.”
“I fear that is true,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone.