r, "who bade me to ask to see you;
you, who, when I did ask to see you, came here promising a world of
confidence; how is it that, nevertheless, it is you who are silent,
leaving it for me to speak? Since, then, we both wear masks, either let
us both retain them or put them aside together."

Aramis felt the force and justice of the remark, saying to himself,
"This is no ordinary man; I must be cautious.--Are you ambitious?"
said he suddenly to the prisoner, aloud, without preparing him for the
alteration.

"What do you mean by ambitious?" replied the youth.

"Ambition," replied Aramis, "is the feeling which prompts a man to
desire more--much more--than he possesses."

"I said that I was contented, monsieur; but, perhaps, I deceive myself.
I am ignorant of the nature of ambition; but it is not impossible I may
have some. Tell me your mind; that is all I ask."

"An ambitious man," said Aramis, "is one who covets that which is beyond
his station."

"I covet nothing beyond my station," said the young man, with an
assurance of manner which for the second time made the bishop of Vannes
tremble.

He was silent. But to look at the kindling eye, the knitted brow, and
the reflective attitude of the captive, it was evident that he expected
something more than silence,--a silence which Aramis now broke. "You
lied the first time I saw you," said he.

"Lied!" cried the young man, starting up on his couch, with such a tone
in his voice, and such a lightning in his eyes, that Aramis recoiled, in
spite of himself.

"I _should_ say," returned Aramis, bowing, "you concealed from me what
you knew of your infancy."

"A man's secrets are his own, monsieur," retorted the prisoner, "and not
at the mercy of the first chance-comer."

"True," said Aramis, bowing still lower than before, "'tis true; pardon
me, but to-day do I still occupy the place of a chance-comer? I beseech
you to reply, monseigneur."

This title slightly disturbed the prisoner; but nevertheless he did not
appear astonished that it was given him. "I do not know you, monsieur,"
said he.

"Oh, but if I dared, I would take your hand and kiss it!"

The young man seemed as if he were going to give Aramis his hand;
but the light which beamed in his eyes faded away, and he coldly and
distrustfully withdrew his hand again. "Kiss the hand of a prisoner," he
said, shaking his head, "to what purpose?"

"Why did you tell me," said Aramis, "that you were happy here? Why,