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 more sleep.
“Thirty hours’ riding,” said Aramis, firmly. “You know there are good relays.”
Porthos pushed out one leg, allowing a groan to escape him.
“Come, come! my friend,” insisted the prelate with a sort of impatience.
Porthos drew the other leg out of the bed. “And is it absolutely necessary that I should go, at once?”