ess, "if there is nothing disagreeable predicted to you by your
sword, I am to conclude that it is not disagreeable for you to arrest
me."

"You! arrest _you!_"

"Of course. The warning--"

"Does not concern you, since you have been arrested ever since
yesterday. It is not you I shall have to arrest, be assured of that.
That is the reason why I am delighted, and also the reason why I said
that my day will be a happy one."

And with these words, pronounced with the most affectionate graciousness
of manner, the captain took leave of Fouquet in order to wait upon the
king. He was on the point of leaving the room, when Fouquet said to him,
"One last mark of kindness."

"What is it, monseigneur?"

"M. d'Herblay; let me see Monsieur d'Herblay."

"I am going to try and get him to come to you."

D'Artagnan did not think himself so good a prophet. It was written that
the day would pass away and realize all the predictions that had been
made in the morning. He had accordingly knocked, as we have seen, at the
king's door. The door opened. The captain thought that it was the king
who had just opened it himself; and this supposition was not altogether
inadmissible, considering the state of agitation in which he had left
Louis XIV. the previous evening; but instead of his royal master, whom
he was on the point of saluting with the greatest respect, he perceived
the long, calm features of Aramis. So extreme was his surprise that
he could hardly refrain from uttering a loud exclamation. "Aramis!" he
said.

"Good morning, dear D'Artagnan," replied the prelate, coldly.

"You here!" stammered out the musketeer.

"His majesty desires you to report that he is still sleeping, after
having been greatly fatigued during the whole night."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, who could not understand how the bishop of
Vannes, who had been so indifferent a favorite the previous evening, had
become in half a dozen hours the most magnificent mushroom of fortune
that had ever sprung up in a sovereign's bedroom. In fact, to transmit
the orders of the king even to the mere threshold of that monarch's
room, to serve as an intermediary of Louis XIV. so as to be able to
give a single order in his name at a couple paces from him, he must have
become more than Richelieu had ever been to Louis XIII. D'Artagnan's
expressive eye, half-opened lips, his curling mustache, said as much
indeed in the plainest language to the chief favorite, who remained calm
and