If I think of touching, even with my finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true king of this realm of France--if I have not the firm intention of prostrating myself before his throne--if in every idea I may entertain to-morrow, here at Vaux, will not be the most glorious day my king ever enjoyed--may Heaven's lightning blast me where I stand!" Aramis had pronounced these words with his face turned towards the alcove of his own bedroom, where D'Artagnan, seated with his back towards the alcove, could not suspect that any one was lying concealed.

The earnestness of his words, the studied slowness with which he pronounced them, the solemnity of his oath, gave the musketeer the most complete satisfaction.

He took hold of both Aramis's hands, and shook them cordially.

Aramis had endured reproaches without turning pale, and had blushed as he listened to words of praise.

D'Artagnan, deceived, did him honor; but D'Artagnan, trustful and reliant, made him feel ashamed.