leep," said Aramis.

"That is true."

"Good-night, dear friend!" And he embraced the musketeer cordially.

D'Artagnan allowed him to depart; then, as soon as the door closed,
"Good!" cried he, "at five o'clock I will be on foot."

This determination being made, he went to bed and quietly, "put two and
two together," as people say.

Chapter LXXIII. In which Porthos begins to be sorry for having come with
D'Artagnan.

Scarcely had D'Artagnan extinguished his taper, when Aramis, who had
watched through his curtains the last glimmer of light in his friend's
apartment, traversed the corridor on tiptoe, and went to Porthos's room.
The giant who had been in bed nearly an hour and a half, lay grandly
stretched out on the down bed. He was in that happy calm of the first
sleep, which, with Porthos, resisted the noise of bells or the report of
cannon: his head swam in that soft oscillation which reminds us of the
soothing movement of a ship. In a moment Porthos would have begun to
dream. The door of the chamber opened softly under the delicate pressure
of the hand of Aramis. The bishop approached the sleeper. A thick carpet
deadened his steps, besides which Porthos snored in a manner to drown
all noise. He laid one hand on his shoulder--"Rouse," said he, "wake up,
my dear Porthos." The voice of Aramis was soft and kind, but it conveyed
more than a notice,--it conveyed an order. His hand was light, but it
indicated danger. Porthos heard the voice and felt the hand of Aramis,
even in the depth of sleep. He started up. "Who goes there?" cried he,
in his giant's voice.

"Hush! hush! It is I," said Aramis.

"You, my friend? And what the devil do you wake me for?"

"To tell you that you must set off directly."

"Set off?"

"Yes."

"Where for?"

"For Paris."

Porthos bounded up in his bed, and then sank back down again, fixing his
great eyes in agitation upon Aramis.

"For Paris?"

"Yes."

"A hundred leagues?" said he.

"A hundred and four," replied the bishop.

"Oh! _mon Dieu!_" sighed Porthos, lying down again, like children who
contend with their _bonne_ to gain an hour or two more sleep.

"Thirty hours' riding," said Aramis, firmly. "You know there are good
relays."

Porthos pushed out one leg, allowing a groan to escape him.

"Come, come! my friend," insisted the prelate with a sort of impatience.

Porthos drew the other leg out of the bed. "And is it absolutely
necessary that I should go, at once