"I will ask your permission to retire, Madame," said he, a trifle formally. "I must be abroad before the village is awake--especially after what you have told me." He got to his feet, and stood leaning on the back of his chair, waiting for his dismissal. She too got up, and, after lighting a rushlight, threw a glance at the ladder-like stairs in the corner behind her. "I must apologise for your quarters, Monsieur Augustin. They are little better than a loft, I fear. Do you think that, crippled as you are, you can manage that steep ascent? And how will you get to Carhoët to-morrow?" "I leave that to Grain d'Orge, Madame," replied the émigré. "He is a person of resource in his own line. Besides, I hope that my foot will be better." The mention of his destination had reminded him of something, and he thrust a hand into his breast. "You were good enough, Madame, to give me some names at Carhoët, and so, to avoid disturbing you in the morning, may I ask you to write them down for me now? I have some paper here." He drew out from an inner pocket a small bundle of loose letters, a couple of which incontinently slipped to the floor. Before he could prevent her she had stooped to pick them up, and had laid them at his elbow on the table. Thanking her, he meanwhile tore off a blank sheet from his correspondence. "Now, if you would be so good, Madame," he said, handing her the piece of paper and instinctively looking round for pen and ink. But Mme. Rozel, at his side, was staring as if transfixed at one of the letters she had rescued, now lying face upwards between them on the table. "Is that your real name, Monsieur Augustin?" she asked, in an odd voice, pointing to the letter. Now in Brittany La Vireville's nom de guerre was so much more significant than his own--which, as has been said, he made some endeavours to keep distinct from it--that it was second nature to him to be called by it, and he had never even thought of informing her of the latter. In Brittany communications also were addressed to "M. Augustin." But the topmost of the two letters which his hostess had picked up chanced to be a note from the Prince de Bouillon sent to him during his recent stay at St. Helier, and, presumably for that reason, directed to him in his real name. Hence a large "M. de la Vireville" looked up at them both from the table, for His Serene Highness wrote no crabbed hand. "Why, yes, Madame," answered the owner carelessly. "Did you not know it? I had no intention of keeping you in the dark on the point." "Nor had I any intention of . . . prying," she said, and, catching up the two letters, she held them out to him almost feverishly. "I will give you the names you want at once." She well-nigh snatched from him the piece of paper he was holding. "Where is the pen?"