Baisemeaux bowed, and made way for Aramis, who took the lantern and entered, and then signed to them to close the door behind him. For an instant he remained standing, listening to learn whether Baisemeaux and the turnkey had retired; but as soon as he was assured by the dying sound of their footsteps that they had left the tower, he put the lantern on the table and gazed around. On a bed of green serge, similar in all respects to the other beds in the Bastille, save that it was newer, under ample curtains half drawn, reposed a young man to whom we have once before introduced Aramis. According to custom, the prisoner was without a light. At the hour of curfew he was bound to extinguish his lamp; it may be seen how much he was favored in being allowed to keep it burning until that hour. Near the bed a large leathern arm-chair, with twisted legs, held his clothes. A little table- without pens, books, paper, or ink- stood deserted near the window; while several plates, still unemptied, showed that the prisoner had scarcely touched his recent repast. Aramis saw that the young man was stretched upon his bed, his face half concealed by his arms. The arrival of a visitor did not cause any change of position; either he was waiting in expectation or he was asleep. Aramis lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back the arm-chair, and approached the bed with an appearance of mingled interest and respect.
The young man raised his head. “What is it?” said he.
“Have you not desired a confessor?” replied Aramis.
“Yes.”
“Because you are ill?”
“Yes.”
“Very ill?”
The young man gave Aramis a piercing glance, and answered, “I thank you.” After a moment’s silence, “I have seen you before,” he continued.
Aramis bowed.
Doubtless the scrutiny which the prisoner had just made of the cold, crafty, and imperious character stamped upon the features of the bishop of Vannes was little reassuring to one in his situation, for he added, “I am better.”
“And then?” said Aramis.
“Why, then, being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor, I think.”
“Not even of the haircloth, of which the note you found in your bread informed you?”
The young man started; but before he had either assented or denied, Aramis continued, “Not even of the ecclesiastic from whom you were to hear an important revelation?”
“If it be so,” said the young man, sinking again on his pillow, “it is different; I listen.”
Aramis then looked at him more closely, and was struck with the easy majesty of his mien,- one which can never be acquired unless Heaven has implanted it in the blood or in the heart.
“Sit down, Monsieur!” said the prisoner.
Aramis bowed and obeyed.
“How does the Bastille agree with you?” asked the bishop.
“Very well.”
“You do not suffer?”
“No.”
“You have nothing to regret?”
“Nothing.”
“Not even your liberty?”
“What do you call liberty, Monsieur?” asked the prisoner, with the tone of a man who is preparing for a struggle.
“I call liberty the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the happiness of going whithersoever the nervous limbs of twenty years of age may wish to carry you.”
The young man smiled,- whether in resignation or contempt, it would have been difficult to tell. “Look!” said he; “I have in that Japanese vase two roses gathered yesterday evening in the bud from the governor’s garden. This morning they have blown and spread their vermilion chalices beneath my gaze; with every opening petal they unfold the treasures of their perfume, filling my chamber with fragrance. Look now on these two roses; even among roses these are beautiful, and the rose is the most beautiful of flowers. Why, then, do you bid me desire other flowers when I possess the loveliest of all?”
Aramis gazed at the young man in surprise.
“If flowers constitute liberty,” sadly resumed the captive, “I am free, for I possess them.”
“But the air!” cried Aramis,- “air so necessary to life!”
“Well, Monsieur,” returned the prisoner, “draw near to the window; it is open. Between Heaven and earth the wind whirls its storms of hail and lightning, wafts its warm mists, or breathes in gentle breezes. It caresses my face. When mounted on the back of this arm-chair, with my arm around the bars of the window to sustain myself, I fancy I am swimming in the wide expanse.”