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