d his clothes. A little table--without pens, books, paper,
or ink--stood neglected in sadness near the window; while several
plates, still unemptied, showed that the prisoner had scarcely touched
his recent repast. Aramis saw that the young man was stretched upon his
bed, his face half-concealed by his arms. The arrival of a visitor did
not cause any change of position, either he was waiting in expectation,
or was asleep. Aramis lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back
the armchair, and approached the bed with an evident mixture of interest
and respect. The young man raised his head. "What is it?" said he.

"Have you not desired a confessor?" replied Aramis.

"Yes."

"Because you are ill?"

"Yes."

"Very ill?"

The young man gave Aramis a piercing glance, and answered "I thank you."
After a moment's silence, "I have seen you before," he continued.

Aramis bowed.

Doubtless, the scrutiny the prisoner had just made of the cold, crafty,
and imperious character stamped upon the features of the bishop of
Vannes was little reassuring to one in his situation, for he added, "I
am better."

"And then?" said Aramis.

"Why then--being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor,
I think."

"Not even of the haircloth, 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 listen."

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 Bastille agree with you?" asked
the bishop.

"Very well."

"You do not suffer?"

"No."

"You have nothing to regret?"

"Nothing."

"Not even your liberty?"

"What do you call liberty, monsieur?" asked the prisoner, with the tone
of a man who is preparing for a struggle.

"I call liberty, the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the happiness
of going whithersoever the nervous limbs of twenty years of age may wish
to carry you." The young man smiled, whether in resignation or contempt,
it was difficult to tell. "Look," said he, "I have in that Japanese vase
two roses gathered yesterday evening in t