“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 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.”