“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. Chapter XII. Porthos was Discontented with his Condition. 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.”