it to-morrow before mid-day.”
“He shall.”
“And do not forget one thing, my friend.”
“What is that?”
“That you are riding out on a hunt for your brevet of duc
and peer.”
“Oh! oh!” said Porthos, with his eyes sparkling; “I will do
it in twenty-four hours, in that case.”
“Try.”
“Then let go the bridle — and forward, Goliath!”
Aramis did let go, not the bridle, but the horse’s nose.
Porthos released his hand, clapped spurs to his horse, which
set off at a gallop. As long as he could distinguish Porthos
through the darkness, Aramis followed him with his eyes:
when he was completely out of sight, he re-entered the yard.
Nothing had stirred in D’Artagnan’s apartment. The valet
placed on watch at the door had neither seen any light, nor
heard any noise. Aramis closed his door carefully, sent the
lackey to bed, and quickly sought his own. D’Artagnan really
suspected nothing, therefore thought he had gained
everything, when he awoke in the morning, about halfpast
four. He ran to the window in his shirt. The window looked
out upon the court. Day was dawning. The court was deserted;
the fowls, even, had not left their roosts. Not a servant
appeared. Every door was closed.
“Good! all is still,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “Never
mind: I am up first in the house. Let us dress; that will be
so much done.” And D’Artagnan dressed himself. But, this
time, he endeavored not to give to the costume of M. Agnan
that bourgeoise and almost ecclesiastical rigidity he had
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affected before; he managed, by drawing his belt tighter, by
buttoning his clothes in a different fashion, and by putting
on his hat a little on one side, to restore to his person a
little of that military character, the absence of which had
surprised Aramis. This being done, he made free, or affected
to make free with his host, and entered his chamber without
ceremony. Aramis was asleep or feigned to be so. A large
book lay open upon his night-desk, a wax-light was still
burning in its silver sconce. This was more than enough to
prove to D’Artagnan the quiescence of the prelate’s night,
and the good intentions of his waking. The musketeer did to
the bishop precisely as the bishop had done to Porthos — he
tapped him on the shoulder. Evidently Aramis pretended to
sleep; for, instead of waking suddenly, he who slept so
lightly required a repetition of the summons.
“Ah! ah! is that you?” said he, stretching his arms. “What
an agreeable surprise! Ma foi! Sleep had made me forget I
had the happiness to possess you. What o’clock is it?”
“I do not know,” said D’Artagnan, a little embarrassed.
“Early, I believe. But, you know, that devil of a habit of
waking with the day sticks to me still.”
“Do you wish that we should go out so soon?” asked Aramis.
“It appears to me to be very early.”
“Just as you like.”
“I thought we had agreed not to get on horseback before
eight.”
“Possibly; but I had so great a wish to see you, that I said
to myself, the sooner the better.”
“And my seven hours, sleep!” said Aramis: “Take care; I had
reckoned upon them, and what I lose of them I must make up.”
“But it seems to me that, formerly, you were less of a
sleeper than that, dear friend; your blood was alive, and
you were never to be found in bed.”
“And it is exactly on account of what you tell me that I am
so fond of being there now.”
“Then you confess that it is not for the sake of sleeping
that you have put me off till eight o’clock.”
“I have been afraid you would laugh at me, if I told you the
truth.”
“Tell me, notwithstanding.”
“Well, from six to eight, I am accustomed to perform my
devotions.”
“Your devotions?”
“Yes.”
“I did not believe a bishop’s exercises were so severe.”
“A bishop, my friend, must sacrifice more to appearance than
a simple cleric.”
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“Mordioux! Aramis, that is a word which reconciles me with