“And he has no children with all these titles?”
“Ah!” said Porthos, “I have heard that he had adopted a young man who resembles him greatly.”
“What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen him?”
“No.”
“Well, I shall see him tomorrow and tell him about you; but I’m afraid, entre nous, that his liking for wine has aged and degraded him.”
“Yes, he used to drink a great deal,” replied Porthos.
“And then he was older than any of us,” added d’Artagnan.
“Some years only. His gravity made him look older than he was.”
“Well then, if we can get Athos, all will be well. If we cannot, we will do without him. We two are worth a dozen.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of his former exploits; “but we four, altogether, would be equal to thirty-six, more especially as you say the work will not be child’s play. Will it last long?”
“By’r Lady! two or three years perhaps.”
“So much the better,” cried Porthos. “You have no idea, my friend, how my bones ache since I came here. Sometimes on a Sunday, I take a ride in the fields and on the property of my neighbours, in order to pick up a nice little quarrel, 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 obstruct everyone, 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.
XII
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 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 tomorrow, 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.
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 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
