“And so?” said Aramis.
“Why, then—being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor, I think.”
“Not even of the hair-cloth, which the note you found in your bread informed you of?”
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 am listening.”
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 heart. “Sit down, monsieur,” said the prisoner.
Aramis bowed and obeyed. “How does the Bastile agree with you?” asked the bishop.
“Very well.”
“You do not suffer?”
“No.”