then only half-lied, which is lying but little, when he said that by going in search of Milady he at the same time went in search of Constance.
Thinking of all this, and from time to time giving a touch of the spur to his horse, d’Artagnan completed his short journey, and arrived at St. Germain. He had just passed by the pavilion in which ten years later Louis XIV was born. He rode up a very quiet street, looking to the right and the left to see if he could catch any vestige of his beautiful Englishwoman, when from the ground floor of a pretty house, which, according to the fashion of the time, had no window toward the street, he saw a face peep out with which he thought he was acquainted. This person walked along the terrace, which was ornamented with flowers. Planchet recognized him first.
“Eh, Monsieur!” said he, addressing d’Artagnan, “don’t you remember that face which is blinking yonder?”
“No,” said d’Artagnan, “and yet I am certain it is not the first time I have seen that visage.”
“ Parbleu , I believe it is not,” said Planchet. “Why, it is poor Lubin, the lackey of the Comte de Wardes—he whom you took such good care of a month ago at Calais, on the road to the governor’s country house!”
“So it is!” said d’Artagnan; “I know him now. Do you think he would recollect you?”
“My faith, Monsieur, he was in such trouble that I doubt if he can have retained a very clear recollection of me.”
“Well, go and talk with the boy,” said d’Artagnan, “and make out if you can from his conversation whether his master is dead.”
Planchet dismounted and went straight up to Lubin, who did not at all remember him, and the two lackeys began to chat with the best