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And she did not want to. At the moment Mouston hardly seemed to matter nothing mattered but the unbearable fact of Craven's displeasure. If she could have known the real cause of that displeasure it would have made speech easier. She feared to aggravate his mood but she knew some answer was expected of her. Silence might be misconstrued.
They marvelled, without comprehension, at the partiality of his mistress; he was the "black French devil" to more households than that of Major, the gamekeeper, an "unorranary brute" to those of less gifted imagination. To Mouston Gillian's periodical visits to the village were a tedium endured for the sake of the coveted seat beside her.
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?
Coaxing the reluctant Mouston from the seat where he still sulked she tied him to the gate, took the armful of flowers from the grave-faced footman, and dismissing the carriage walked slowly up the lime-bordered avenue.
"Without doubt," continued D'Artagnan, unwilling to give his friend time to recollect himself, "I have been to see you at Pierrefonds." "Indeed!" "Yes." "And you did not find me there?" "No, but I found Mouston." "Is he well?" "Peste!" "Well, but Mouston did not tell you I was here." "Why should he not Have I, perchance, deserved to lose his confidence?" "No, but he did not know it."
"Capitally reasoned, Porthos only a man must have a fortune like yours to gratify such whims. Without counting the time lost in being measured, the fashions are always changing." "That is exactly the point," said Porthos, "in regard to which I flattered myself I had hit on a very ingenious device." "Tell me what it is; for I don't doubt your genius." "You remember what Mouston once was, then?"
"Without doubt," continued D'Artagnan, unwilling to give his friend time to recollect himself, "I have been to see you at Pierrefonds." "Indeed!" "Yes." "And you did not find me there?" "No, but I found Mouston." "Is he well?" "Peste!" "Well, but Mouston did not tell you I was here." "Why should he not? Have I, perchance, deserved to lose his confidence?" "No; but he did not know it."
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 while she hesitated in an agony of self-consciousness Mouston precipitated the inevitable by dashing on ahead down, the stairs and plunging into the bearskin hearthrug, ploughing the thick fur with his muzzle and sneezing wildly.
"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."
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