At half-past eleven, the bell rang for dinner, which was served at twelve. The great hall did duty as both dining-room and drawing-room: we dined and supped at one end, on the east side; when the meal was over, we went and sat at the other end, the west side, before a huge chimney. The hall was wainscoted, painted whity-grey, and adorned with old portraits ranging from the reign of François I. to that of Louis XIV. Among these portraits one recognized those of Condé and Turenne: a picture representing Achilles slaying Hector beneath the walls of Troy hung over the chimney-piece. After dinner we remained together until two o'clock. Then, if it was summer, my father went fishing, visited his kitchen-gardens, walked within the limits of the home park; in the autumn and winter he went shooting. My mother withdrew to the chapel, where she spent some hours in prayer. This chapel was a gloomy oratory, adorned with fine pictures by the greatest masters, such as one would scarcely expect to find in a feudal castle in the heart of Brittany. I still have in my possession a Holy Family by Albani, painted on copper, which was taken from this chapel: it is all that remains to me of Combourg. When my father had left the house and my mother gone to her prayers, Lucile withdrew to her room and I either returned to my cell or went out to roam about the country. At eight o'clock the bell rang for supper. After supper, in fine weather, we sat out on the steps. My father, armed with his gun, shot at the brown owls which issued from the battlements at nightfall. My mother, Lucile and I watched the sky, the woods, the dying rays of the sun, the rising stars. At ten o'clock we went in and retired to bed.