“No, take a more stylish horse, Phoebus or Superbe; we are going with some ceremony.”
“Ah,” said Mousqueton, breathing more freely, “you are only going, then, to make a visit?”
“Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid risk, put the pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on my saddle, already loaded.”
Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn’t understand visits of ceremony made under arms.
“Indeed,” said Porthos, looking complacently at his old lackey as he went away, “you are right, D’Artagnan; Mouston will do; Mouston has a very fine appearance.”
D’Artagnan smiled.
“But you, my friend—are you not going to change your dress?”
“No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to show the cardinal my haste to obey his commands.”
They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Mousqueton on Phoebus, and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter to seven. The streets were crowded, for it was the day of Pentecost, and the crowd looked in wonder at these two cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come out of a bandbox, the other so covered with dust that he looked as if he had but just come off a field of battle.
Mousqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of Don Quixote was then the fashion, they said that he was Sancho, who, after having lost one master, had found two.