“Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title which you wish for so much.”
Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three bottles fell and were broken. Mousqueton ran thither, hearing the noise.
Porthos waved his hand to Mousqueton to pick up the bottles.
“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. You can suppose, Porthos, that what I have to say relates to most important matters.”
“Devil take them; let us walk in the park,” answered Porthos, “for the sake of digestion.”
“Egad,” said D’Artagnan, “the park is like everything else and there are as many fish in your pond as rabbits in your warren; you are a happy man, my friend since you have not only retained your love of the chase, but acquired that of fishing.”
“My friend,” replied Porthos, “I leave fishing to Mousqueton,—it is a vulgar pleasure,—but I shoot sometimes; that is to say, when I am dull, and I sit on one of those marble seats, have my gun brought to me, my favorite dog, and I shoot rabbits.”