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.”

“Mordioux! Aramis, that is a word which reconciles me with your greatness.  To appearances!  That is a musketeer’s word, in good truth! Vivent les apparences, Aramis!”

“Instead of felicitating me upon it, pardon me, D’Artagnan.  It is a very mundane word which I had allowed to escape me.”

“Must I leave you, then?”

“I want time to collect my thoughts, my friend, and for my usual prayers.”

“Well, I leave you to them; but on account of that poor pagan, D’Artagnan, abridge them for once, I beg; I thirst for speech with you.”

“Well, D’Artagnan, I promise you that within an hour and a half — "