When Porthos had left him to give some orders he saw Mousqueton approaching. The face of the steward, despite one slight shade of care, light as a summer cloud, seemed a physiognomy of absolute felicity.

“Here is what I am looking for,” thought D’Artagnan; “but alas! the poor fellow does not know the purpose for which I am here.”

He then made a sign for Mousqueton to come to him.

“Sir,” said the servant, “I have a favour to ask you.”

“Speak out, my friend.”

“I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will think, sir, that prosperity has spoiled me?”

“Art thou happy, friend?” asked D’Artagnan.

“As