atively even harder, attacked the bed as
bravely as he had done the fowl; and, as he had as good an inclination
to sleep as he had had to eat, he took scarcely longer time to be
snoring harmoniously than he had employed in picking the last bones of
the bird.

Since he was no longer in the service of any one, D'Artagnan had
promised himself to indulge in sleeping as soundly as he had formerly
slept lightly; but with whatever good faith D'Artagnan had made himself
this promise, and whatever desire he might have to keep it religiously,
he was awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise of carriages,
and servants on horseback. A sudden illumination flashed over the walls
of his chamber; he jumped out of bed and ran to the window in his shirt.
"Can the king be coming this way?" he thought, rubbing his eyes; "in
truth, such a suite can only be attached to royalty."

"Vive monsieur le surintendant!" cried, or rather vociferated, from a
window on the ground-floor, a voice which he recognized as Bazin's, who
at the same time waved a handkerchief with one hand, and held a large
candle in the other. D'Artagnan then saw something like a brilliant
human form leaning out of the principal carriage; at the same time loud
bursts of laughter, caused, no doubt, by the strange figure of Bazin,
and issuing from the same carriage, left, as it were, a train of joy
upon the passage of the rapid cortege.

"I might easily see it was not the king," said D'Artagnan; "people don't
laugh so heartily when the king passes. Hola, Bazin!" cried he to his
neighbor, three-quarters of whose body still hung out of the window, to
follow the carriage with his eyes as long as he could. "What is all that
about?"

"It is M. Fouquet," said Bazin, in a patronizing tone.

"And all those people?"

"That is the court of M. Fouquet."

"Oh, oh!" said D'Artagnan; "what would M. de Mazarin say to that if he
heard it?" And he returned to his bed, asking himself how Aramis
always contrived to be protected by the most powerful personages in the
kingdom. "Is it that he has more luck than I, or that I am a greater
fool than he? Bah!" that was the concluding word by the aid of which
D'Artagnan, having become wise, now terminated every thought and every
period of his style. Formerly he said, "Mordioux!" which was a prick
of the spur, but now he had become older, and he murmured that
philosophical "Bah!" which served as a bridle to all the passions.

CHAP