Mouston appeared, with a most piteous face.
“What is the matter, my dear M. Mouston?” asked D’Artagnan. “Are you ill?”
“Sir, I am very hungry,” replied Mouston.
“Well, it is just for that reason that we have called you, my good M. Mouston. Could you not procure us a few of those nice little rabbits, and some of those delicious partridges, of which you used to make fricassees at the hotel — — ?
‘Faith, I do not remember the name of the hotel.”
“At the hotel of — — ,” said Porthos; “by my faith — nor do I remember it either.”