display so much
velocity; but as he saw Aramis spurring on furiously, he, Porthos,
spurred on in the same manner. They had soon, in this manner, placed
twelve leagues between them and Vaux; they were then obliged to change
horses, and organize a sort of post arrangement. It was during a relay
that Porthos ventured to interrogate Aramis discreetly.

"Hush!" replied the latter; "know only that our fortune depends upon
our speed."

As if Porthos had still been the musketeer, without a sou or a _maille_,
of 1626, he pushed forward. The magic word "fortune" always means
something in the human ear. It means _enough_ for those who have
nothing; it means _too much_ for those who have enough.

"I shall be made a duke!" said Porthos, aloud. He was speaking to
himself.

"That is possible," replied Aramis, smiling after his own fashion, as
the horse of Porthos passed him. The head of Aramis was,
notwithstanding, on fire; the activity of the body had not yet succeeded
in subduing that of the mind. All that there is in raging passions, in
severe toothaches, or mortal threats twisted, gnawed, and grumbled in
the thoughts of the vanquished prelate. His countenance exhibited very
visible traces of this rude combat. Free upon the highway to abandon
himself to every impression of the moment, Aramis did not fail to swear
at every start of his horse, at every inequality in the road. Pale, at
times inundated with boiling sweats, then again dry and icy, he beat his
horses and made the blood stream from their sides. Porthos, whose
dominant fault was not sensibility, groaned at this. Thus traveled they
on for eight long hours, and then arrived at Orleans. It was four
o'clock in the afternoon. Aramis, on observing this, judged that nothing
demonstrated pursuit to be possible. It would be without example that a
troop capable of taking him and Porthos should be furnished with relays
sufficient to perform forty leagues in eight hours. Thus, admitting
pursuit, which was not at all manifest, the fugitives were five hours in
advance of their pursuers.

Aramis thought that there might be no imprudence in taking a little
rest; but that to continue would make the matter more certain. Twenty
leagues more performed with the same rapidity, twenty more leagues
devoured, and no one, not even D'Artagnan, could overtake the enemies of
the king. Aramis felt obliged, therefore, to inflict upon Porthos the
pain of mounting on horseback again. They rode on ti