entered his chamber without ceremony. Aramis was asleep or feigned to be so. A large book lay open upon his night-desk, a wax-light was still burning in its silver sconce. This was more than enough to prove to D’Artagnan the quiescence of the prelate’s night, and the good intentions of his waking. The musketeer did to the bishop precisely as the bishop had done to Porthos — he tapped him on the shoulder. Evidently Aramis pretended to sleep; for, instead of waking suddenly, he who slept so lightly required a repetition of the summons.

“Ah! ah! is that you?” said he, stretching his arms. “What an agreeable surprise! Ma foi! Sleep had made me forget I had the happiness to possess you. What o’clock is it?”

“I do not know,” said D’Artagnan, a little embarrassed.