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Mouston appeared, with a most piteous face. "What is the matter, my dear M. Mouston?" asked D'Artagnan. "Are you ill?" "Sir, I am very hungry," replied Mouston. "Well, it is just for that reason that we have called you, my good M. Mouston.
"An expedition, sir?" asked the steward, whose roses began to change into lilies. "We are going to return to the service, Mouston," replied Porthos, still trying to restore his mustache to the military curl it had long lost. "Into the service the king's service?"
Mouston trotted on ahead into the room with the confident air of a proprietor, fussily inspecting the contents with the usual canine interest as if suspicious that some familiar article of furniture had been removed during his absence and anxious to reassure himself that all things were as he had left them.
To be deliberately cruel to an animal, no matter how great the provocation, was unlike Craven; she felt convinced that Mouston was not the primary cause of his irritability. Something must have occurred previously to disturb him the business, perhaps, for which he had waited in London, and, seeking her, the scene he had surprised had grated on fretted nerves.
As for Porthos, he assaulted the foe with such violence that, although his sword was thrust aside, the enemy was thrown off his horse and fell about ten steps from it. "Finish, Mouston, finish the work!" cried Porthos. And he darted on beside his friend, who had already begun a fresh pursuit. "Well?" said Porthos. "I've broken my man's skull," cried D'Artagnan. "And you "
But it wants only two days to the fete; I received the invitation yesterday; made Mouston post hither with my wardrobe, and only this morning discovered my misfortune; and from now till the day after to-morrow, there isn't a single fashionable tailor who will undertake to make me a suit." "That is to say, one covered all over with gold, isn't it?" "I wish it so! undoubtedly, all over."
"I am glad to see," said D'Artagnan, "that you have still that honest lad with you." "He is my steward," replied Porthos; "he will never leave me. Go away now, Mouston." "So he's called Mouston," thought D'Artagnan; "'tis too long a word to pronounce 'Mousqueton." "Well," he said aloud, "let us resume our conversation later, your people may suspect something; there may be spies about.
"Where is the faithful Mouston? Not in disgrace, surely the paragon?" he teased, and was disconcerted at the painful flush that overspread her face. But she thrust her arm through his and forced a little laugh. "Mouston is becoming rather incorrigible, I'm afraid I've spoiled him hopelessly. I'll tell him you inquired, it will cheer him up, poor darling. He's doing penance with a bone upstairs.
Rob your master, eat his sweetmeats, and drink his wine; but, by Jove! don't be a coward, or I shall cut off your ears. Look at Monsieur Mouston, see the honorable wounds he has received, observe how his habitual valor has given dignity to his countenance."
"Just David," he said, with rather a sad little smile, "I was passing and Mouston told me you were here." He spoke slowly, giving her time to recover herself, thanking fate that she had collapsed into his arms rather than into those of some chattering village busybody.
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