al residence. Two servants were
placed at his command. "To-morrow, at eight o'clock," said he, taking
leave of D'Artagnan, "we will take, if agreeable to you, a ride on
horseback with Porthos."

"At eight o'clock!" said D'Artagnan, "so late?"

"You know that I require seven hours, sleep." 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 73. 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 the sound of 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 a danger. Porthos heard the voice and
felt the hand of Aramis, even in the depth of his 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 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,