looked steadily at this singular youth, who possessed the
resignation of a martyr with the smile of an atheist. "Is not Heaven in
everything?" he murmured in a reproachful tone.

"Say rather, at the end of everything," answered the prisoner, firmly.

"Be it so," said Aramis; "but let us return to our starting-point."

"I ask nothing better," returned the young man.

"I am your confessor."

"Yes."

"Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth."

"My whole desire is to tell it you."

"Every prisoner has committed some crime for which he has been
imprisoned. What crime, then, have you committed?"

"You asked me the same question the first time you saw me," returned the
prisoner.

"And then, as now you evaded giving me an answer."

"And what reason have you for thinking that I shall now reply to you?"

"Because this time I am your confessor."

"Then if you wish me to tell what crime I have committed, explain to
me in what a crime consists. For as my conscience does not accuse me, I
aver that I am not a criminal."

"We are often criminals in the sight of the great of the earth, not
alone for having ourselves committed crimes, but because we know that
crimes have been committed."

The prisoner manifested the deepest attention.

"Yes, I understand you," he said, after a pause; "yes, you are right,
monsieur; it is very possible that, in such a light, I am a criminal in
the eyes of the great of the earth."

"Ah! then you know something," said Aramis, who thought he had pierced
not merely through a defect in the harness, but through the joints of
it.

"No, I am not aware of anything," replied the young man; "but sometimes
I think--and I say to myself--"

"What do you say to yourself?"

"That if I were to think but a little more deeply I should either go mad
or I should divine a great deal."

"And then--and then?" said Aramis, impatiently.

"Then I leave off."

"You leave off?"

"Yes; my head becomes confused and my ideas melancholy; I feel _ennui_
overtaking me; I wish--"

"What?"

"I don't know; but I do not like to give myself up to longing for things
which I do not possess, when I am so happy with what I have."

"You are afraid of death?" said Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.

"Yes," said the young man, smiling.

Aramis felt the chill of that smile, and shuddered. "Oh, as you fear
death, you know more about matters than you say," he cried.

"And you," returned the prisone