Chapter 7

Chapter VII
Another Supper at the Bastille
Seven o’clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastille,- that famous clock which, like all the accessories of the State prison, the very use of which is a torture, brought to the prisoners’ notice the lapse of every hour of their suffering. The timepiece of the Bastille, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented Saint Peter in bonds.

It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the delicacy of which, as M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head cook of the royal fortress, whose trays, full laden, were ascending the steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the bottom of honestly filled bottles. This same hour was that of the governor’s supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges flanked with quails, and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; ham, fried and sprinkled with white wine; cardons of Guipuzcoa and la bisque d’ecrevisses,- these, together with the soups and hors d’oeuvres, constituted the governor’s bill of fare.

Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking at the Bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray, with a sword at his side’ kept talking of his hunger and testifying the liveliest impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not accustomed to the unbending movements of his Greatness my Lord of Vannes; and this evening Aramis, becoming quite sprightly, volunteered confidence on confidence. The prelate had again a little touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de Baisemeaux, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself loose rein, on this touch of abandon on the part of his guest. “Monsieur,” said he,- “for indeed to-night I don’t like to call you Monseigneur-”

“By no means,” said Aramis; “call me Monsieur,- I am booted.”

“Do you know, Monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening?”

“No! faith,” said Aramis, taking up his glass; “but I hope I remind you of a good companion.”

“You remind me of two, Monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind may annoy his Greatness.”

“And let him go,” added Aramis. “The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like extremely to be tête-a-tête when I am with a friend.” Baisemeaux bowed respectfully. “I