D’Artagnan was secretly touched with remorse, not at
inducing Porthos to enter into schemes in which his life and
fortune would be in jeopardy, for Porthos, in the title of
baron, had his object and reward; but poor Mousqueton, whose
only wish was to be called Mouston — was it not cruel to
snatch him from the delightful state of peace and plenty in
which he was?
He was thinking of these matters when Porthos summoned him
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to dinner.
“What! to dinner?” said D’Artagnan. “What time is it, then?”
“Eh! why, it is after one o’clock.”
“Your home is a paradise, Porthos; one takes no note of
time. I follow you, though I am not hungry.”
“Come, if one can’t always eat, one can always drink — a
maxim of poor Athos, the truth of which I have discovered
since I began to be lonely.”
D’Artagnan, who as a Gascon, was inclined to sobriety,
seemed not so sure as his friend of the truth of Athos’s
maxim, but he did his best to keep up with his host.
Meanwhile his misgivings in regard to Mousqueton recurred to
his mind and with greater force because Mousqueton, though he
did not himself wait on the table, which would have been
beneath him in his new position, appeared at the door from
time to time and evinced his gratitude to D’Artagnan by the
quality of the wine he directed to be served. Therefore,
when, at dessert, upon a sign from D’Artagnan, Porthos had
sent away his servants and the two friends were alone:
“Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “who will attend you in your
campaigns?”
“Why,” replied Porthos, “Mouston, of course.”
This was a blow to D’Artagnan. He could already see the
intendant’s beaming smile change to a contortion of grief.
“But,” he said, “Mouston is not so young as he was, my dear
fellow; besides, he has grown fat and perhaps has lost his
fitness for active service.”
“That may be true,” replied Porthos; “but I am used to him,
and besides, he wouldn’t be willing to let me go without
him, he loves me so much.”
“Oh, blind self-love!” thought D’Artagnan.
“And you,” asked Porthos, “haven’t you still in your service
your old lackey, that good, that brave, that intelligent
—what, then, is his name?”
“Planchet — yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey
no longer.”
“What is he, then?”
“With his sixteen hundred francs — you remember, the
sixteen hundred francs he earned at the siege of La Rochelle
by carrying a letter to Lord de Winter — he has set up a
little shop in the Rue des Lombards and is now a
confectioner.”
“Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! How does
it happen, then, that he is in your service?”
“He has been guilty of certain escapades and fears he may be
disturbed.” And the musketeer narrated to his friend
Planchet’s adventure.
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“Well,” said Porthos, “if any one had told you in the old
times that the day would come when Planchet would rescue
Rochefort and that you would protect him in it —- ”
“I should not have believed him; but men are changed by
events.”
“There is nothing truer than that,” said Porthos; “but what
does not change, or changes for the better, is wine. Taste
of this; it is a Spanish wine which our friend Athos thought
much of.”
At that moment the steward came in to consult his master
upon the proceedings of the next day and also with regard to
the shooting party which had been proposed.
“Tell me, Mouston,” said Porthos, “are my arms in good
condition?”
“Your arms, my lord — what arms?”
“Zounds! my weapons.”
“What weapons?”
“My military weapons.”
“Yes, my lord; at any rate, I think so.”
“Make sure of it, and if they want it, have them burnished
up. Which is my best cavalry horse?”
“Vulcan.”
“And the best hack?”
“Bayard.”
“What horse dost thou choose for thyself?”
“I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal, whose paces suit
me.”
“Strong, thinkest thou?”
“Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will go night and day.”