Aramis then assisted Porthos to dress, piece by piece, with as much celerity as the most skillful valet de chambre could have done.  Porthos, half stupefied, let him do as he liked, and confounded himself in excuses.  When he was ready, Aramis took him by the hand, and led him, making him place his foot with precaution on every step of the stairs, preventing him running against door-frames, turning him this way and that, as if Aramis had been the giant and Porthos the dwarf.  Soul set fire to and animated matter.  A horse was waiting, ready saddled, in the courtyard.  Porthos mounted.  Then Aramis himself took the horse by the bridle, and led him over some dung spread in the yard, with the evident intention of suppressing noise.  He, at the same time, held tight the horse’s nose, to prevent him neighing.  When arrived at the outward gate, drawing Porthos towards him, who was going off without even asking him what for:  “Now, friend Porthos, now; without drawing bridle, till you get to Paris,” whispered he in his ears; “eat on horseback, drink on horseback, but lose not a minute.”

“That’s enough; I will not stop.”

“This letter to M. Fouquet; cost what it may, he must have it to-morrow before mid-day.”

“He shall.”

“And do not forget one thing, my friend.”

“What is that?”

“That you are riding out on a hunt for your brevet of duc and peer.”

“Oh! oh!” said Porthos, with his eyes sparkling; “I will do it in twenty-four hours, in that case.”

“Try.”

“Then let go the bridle — and forward, Goliath!”

Aramis did let go, not the bridle, but the horse’s nose.  Porthos released his hand, clapped spurs to his horse, which set off at a gallop.  As long as he could distinguish Porthos through the darkness, Aramis followed him with his eyes:  when he was completely out of sight, he re-entered the yard.  Nothing had stirred in D’Artagnan’s apartment.  The valet placed on watch at the door had neither seen any light, nor heard any noise.  Aramis closed his door carefully, sent the lackey to bed, and quickly sought his own.  D’Artagnan really suspected nothing, therefore thought he had gained everything, when he awoke in the morning, about half-past four.  He ran to the window in his shirt.  The window looked out upon the court.  Day was dawning.  The court was deserted; the fowls, even, had not left their roosts.  Not a servant appeared.  Every door was closed.

“Good! all is still,” said D’Artagnan to himself.  “Never mind:  I am up first in the house.  Let us dress; that will be so much done.”  And D’Artagnan dressed himself.  But, this time, he endeavored not to give to the costume of M. Agnan that bourgeoise and almost ecclesiastical rigidity he had affected before; he managed, by drawing his belt tighter, by buttoning his clothes in a different fashion, and by putting on his hat a little on one side, to restore