The Vicomte De Bragelonne eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 712 pages of information about The Vicomte De Bragelonne.

“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 LXXIII:  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 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 danger.  Porthos heard the voice and felt the hand of Aramis, even in the depth of sleep.  He started up.  “Who goes there?” cried he, in his giant’s voice.

“Hush! hush!  It is I,” said Aramis.

“You, my friend?  And what the devil do you wake me for?”

“To tell you that you must set off directly.”

“Set off?”


“Where for?”

“For Paris.”

Porthos bounded up in his bed, and then sank back down again, fixing his great eyes in agitation upon Aramis.

“For Paris?”


“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?”

“Urgently necessary.”

Porthos got upon his feet, and began to shake both walls and floors with his steps of a marble statue.

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The Vicomte De Bragelonne from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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