is quite true," he said, in a low tone, "that he has a
rather strong resemblance to the king; but still less so than you said."

"So that," said Aramis, "you would not have been deceived by the
substitution of the one for the other."

"What a question!"

"You are a most valuable fellow, Baisemeaux," said Aramis; "and now, set
Seldon free."

"Oh, yes. I was going to forget that. I will go and give orders at
once."

"Bah! to-morrow will be time enough."

"'To-morrow!'--oh, no. This very minute."

"Well; go off to your affairs, I shall go away to mine. But it is quite
understood, is it not?"

"What is quite understood?"

"That no one is to enter the prisoner's cell, except with an order from
the king; an order which I will myself bring."

"Quite so. Adieu, monseigneur."

Aramis returned to his companion. "Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back
again to Vaux, and as fast as possible."

"A man is light and easy enough, when he has faithfully served his king;
and, in serving him, saved his country," said Porthos. "The horses will
be as light as if they had nothing at all behind them. So let us be
off." And the carriage, lightened of a prisoner, who might well be--as
he in fact was--very heavy for Aramis, passed across the drawbridge of
the Bastille, which was raised again immediately behind it.

CHAPTER XCII.

A NIGHT AT THE BASTILLE.

Pain, anguish, and suffering in human life, are always in proportion to
the strength with which a man is endowed. We will not pretend to say
that Heaven always apportions to a man's capability of endurance the
anguish with which He afflicts him; such, indeed, would not be exact,
since Heaven permits the existence of death, which is, sometimes, the
only refuge open to those who are too closely pressed--too bitterly
afflicted, as far as the body is concerned. Suffering is in proportion
to the strength which has been accorded to a person; in other words, the
weak suffer more, where the trial is the same, than the strong. And what
are the elementary principles, we may ask, which compose human strength?
Is it not--more than anything else--exercise, habit, experience? We
shall not even take the trouble to demonstrate that, for it is an axiom
in morals, as in physics. When the young king, stupefied and crushed in
every sense and feeling, found himself led to a cell in the Bastille, he
fancied that death itself is but a sleep; that it too, has its dreams as
well; that the bed ha