“Yes, monsieur; my sister told me they had been marched to Rouen, and that the Commander and the young officer with him were to be sent to Paris.” “To Paris!” repeated Lieutenant Thornton, in a tone of regret; “I am sorry for that. I fear they will endure a long captivity.” Our hero now looked round the noble saloon, full sixty feet in length, and hung round with pictures in antique frames. “That is, I suppose, the late Duke de Coulancourt?” he inquired, looking at a half-length portrait, suspended over the lofty white marble chimney-piece. “Yes, monsieur, that is his picture; he was a young man when that was taken, in the Royal Guards of Louis XVI. There, on the wall opposite, is his grandfather, who commanded the famous Musketeers. I will go now, monsieur, because your letter must be enclosed, and sent from Havre before night.” “I am giving you and all your family a great deal of trouble, and they and you may incur some risk from protecting me and my comrade.” “Not at all, monsieur; especially as Captain Gaudet has got plenty of employment. He is going to repair the Vengeance, and he thinks of nothing else. He fancies also that you and your man were either drowned or burned in the vessel; for my brother, who was with my mother this morning, says he does not seem to trouble about anything but the repairs of the craft.” After the departure of Rose, Lieutenant Thornton spent some time in examining the pictures and the saloon itself, which was finished in the costly but heavy style of the preceding century. The late duke’s portrait was that of a remarkably handsome man of some five-and-twenty years, but there was an expression of great melancholy over the features, which our hero judged was habitual to them and not the fault of the artist, for the portrait was beautifully and artistically painted. He took a survey of every article in the saloon, which, however, created a painful sensation, as they recalled those that were gone, and the melancholy fate of those whom neither rank, wealth, virtue, nor position, could save from the doom of the criminal. Several days passed over, somewhat tedious, it is true, to our hero, though he chatted for an hour or two daily with pretty Rose Moret, who did all she could to please her handsome and rather dangerous guest. She showed him the gardens, gathered him the choicest flowers for his chamber, and told him all the news. William Thornton was grateful, kind, and attentive to his engaging companion, and his heart and principles were too good and upright to take any undue advantage of Rose’s innocence and naïvetê. Bill Saunders smoked, and cooked, and feasted, and made love to Rose’s sister when she came. And she appeared to enjoy Bill’s method of learning French, for many a cheerful laugh did our hero hear from below, and an incessant clatter of tongues; how they understood one another he could not say, but they seemed remarkably pleasant together.