It was indeed Mousqueton—Mousqueton, as fat as a pig, rolling about with rude health, puffed out with good living, who, recognizing D’Artagnan and acting very differently from the hypocrite Bazin, slipped off his horse and approached the officer with his hat off, so that the homage of the assembled crowd was turned toward this new sun, which eclipsed the former luminary.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan! Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried Mousqueton, his fat cheeks swelling out and his whole frame perspiring with joy; “Monsieur d’Artagnan! oh! what joy for my lord and master, Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds!”
“Thou good Mousqueton! where is thy master?”
“You stand upon his property!”
“But how handsome thou art—how fat! thou hast prospered and grown stout!” and D’Artagnan could not restrain his astonishment at the change good fortune had produced on the once famished one.
“Hey, yes, thank God, I am pretty well,” said Mousqueton.
“But hast thou nothing to say to thy friend Planchet?”
“How, my friend Planchet? Planchet—art thou there?” cried Mousqueton, with open arms and eyes full of tears.
“My very self,” replied Planchet; “but I wanted first to see if thou wert grown proud.”
“Proud toward an old friend? never, Planchet! thou wouldst not have thought so hadst thou known Mousqueton well.”