“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. 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 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?”