After some further conversation Dame Moret rose to retire, telling the gentleman he would find his room ready, and that one of her daughters would be in attendance morning and evening. Our hero insisted that she should not take that trouble, as Bill was an excellent cook, as most seamen are, and that a few simple necessaries was all that they required, and it would attract less observation. Dame Moret smiled. “Oh, as to that, monsieur, there is no fear, for every day some of my family come here to dust the furniture and keep things neat; besides, they all know the intendant is expected in a few days, and may bring visitors with him.” After Dame Moret had retired, our hero sat down, taking paper, pens, and ink from an open desk the old dame showed him, and spent an hour or two writing to Madame Coulancourt the full particulars of everything that had occurred to Mabel and himself since their parting from her. He also mentioned the discovery he had made, through Madame Volney’s communication, with respect to her brother, and the finding of the portrait, asking if she thought it were possible to trace the papers and effects lost by Madame Volney when forced to fly from Paris. This detail committed to paper, he resolved to await the return of an answer to his letter before he made any attempt at an escape. He had a great desire to hear what became of his commander, Sir Sidney Smith, whether he remained at Havre, or was sent further into the interior. The next day Rose, the youngest daughter of Dame Moret, the damsel he had first spoken to, and who had so kindly and fortunately directed him to her mother’s, came to the château to take his letter, and to provide for their wants for the day. She brought in her basket coffee, eggs, and poultry. Rose was a very pretty modest girl of seventeen, and looked quite pleased at being of service to our hero, who, not being in love, could see that Rose had a pair of very bright and sparkling eyes, and as neat a foot and ankle as any maiden in the province. “I have brought you the key of the saloon, monsieur,” said Rose; “you may like to look at the pictures; and there is a piano and harp there. They belonged to Madame Coulancourt, she played so beautifully; but I was only a child in those days. But Mademoiselle Plessis plays the piano; they will be here in a few days, and then it will not be so lonely for you.” “I shall not be lonely,” replied our hero, helping Rose to unlock the door of the grand saloon, “if you will pay me a visit daily. Your pretty face will drive away all my gloomy thoughts.” Rose blushed, but laughing, said— “You will have Mademoiselle Julia to chat with. She is so pretty and lively, that you cannot be dull where she is.” “Did you hear anything at Havre yesterday, Rose,” questioned our hero, as they opened the shutters to admit the light, which before only entered from loopholes left in the shutters, “anything about the English prisoners taken on board the Vengeance, I mean?”