conversation. Besides, they felt that, upon their guard as
each one had been, they could neither of them boast of
having the advantage. Porthos had understood nothing of what
had been meant. He had held himself motionless, because
Aramis had made him a sign not to stir. Supper for him, was
nothing but supper; but that was quite enough for Porthos.
The supper, then, went off very well. D’Artagnan was in high
spirits. Aramis exceeded himself in kind affability. Porthos
ate like old Pelops. Their talk was of war, finance, the
arts, and love. Aramis played astonishment at every word of
politics. D’Artagnan risked. This long series of surprises
increased the mistrust of D’Artagnan, as the eternal
indifference of D’Artagnan provoked the suspicions of
Aramis. At length D’Artagnan, designedly, uttered the name
of Colbert; he had reserved that stroke for the last.
“Who is this Colbert?” asked the bishop.
“Oh! come,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “that is too strong!
We must be careful, mordioux! we must be careful.”
And he then gave Aramis all the information respecting M.
Colbert he could desire. The supper, or rather, the
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conversation, was prolonged till one o’clock in the morning
between D’Artagnan and Aramis. At ten o’clock precisely,
Porthos had fallen asleep in his chair and snored like an
organ. At midnight he woke up and they sent him to bed.
“Hum!” said he, “I was near falling asleep; but that was all
very interesting you were talking about.”
At one o’clock Aramis conducted D’Artagnan to the chamber
destined for him, which was the best in the episcopal
residence. Two servants were placed at his command.
To-morrow, at eight o’clock,” said he, taking leave of
D’Artagnan, “we will take, if agreeable to you, a ride on
horseback with Porthos.”
“At eight o’clock!” said D’Artagnan, “so late?”
“You know that I require seven hours, sleep.” said Aramis.
“That is true.”
“Good-night, dear friend!” And he embraced the musketeer
cordially.
D’Artagnan allowed him to depart; then, as soon as the door
closed, “Good!” cried he, “at five o’clock I will be on
foot.”
This determination being made, he went to bed and quietly
“put two and two together,” as people say.
CHAPTER 73
In which Porthos begins to be sorry
for having come with D’Artagnan
Scarcely had D’Artagnan extinguished his taper, when Aramis,
who had watched through his curtains the last glimmer of
light in his friend’s apartment, traversed the corridor on
tiptoe, and went to Porthos’s room. The giant, who had been
in bed nearly an hour and a half, lay grandly stretched out
on the down bed. He was in that happy calm of the first
sleep, which, with Porthos, resisted the noise of bells or
the report of cannon; his head swam in that soft oscillation
which reminds us of the soothing movement of a ship. In a
moment Porthos would have begun to dream. The door of the
chamber opened softly under the delicate pressure of the
hand of Aramis. The bishop approached the sleeper. A thick
carpet deadened the sound of his steps, besides which
Porthos snored in a manner to drown all noise. He laid one
hand on his shoulder — “Rouse,” said he, “wake up, my dear
Porthos.” The voice of Aramis was soft and kind, but it
conveyed more than a notice, — it conveyed an order. His
hand was light, but it indicated a danger. Porthos heard the
voice and felt the hand of Aramis, even in the depth of his
sleep. He started up. “Who goes there?” cried he, in his
giant’s voice.
“Hush! hush! It is I,” said Aramis.
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“You, my friend? And what the devil do you wake me for?”
“To tell you that you must set off directly.”
“Set off?”
“Yes.”
“Where for?”
“For Paris.”
Porthos bounded up in his bed, and then sank back again,
fixing his great eyes in agitation upon Aramis.
“For Paris?”
“Yes.”
“A hundred leagues?” said he.
“A hundred and four,” replied the bishop.
“Oh! mon Dieu!” sighed Porthos, lying down again, like
children who contend with their bonne to gain an hour or two