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.”

“It