"What you ask, monsieur, is impossible for quite a number of reasons." "Do not refuse my request, I beg of you. There seem to be so many points of similarity in our lot; besides, there are still many things I would like to tell you in relation to my South American journey, and the cause of it. Our meeting, too, has been so extraordinary, that I feel sure all these reasons will decide you to grant the favour I ask, though I should not dare to insist in the name of the very slight service which I was so fortunate as to be able to render you, and which you are extremely kind to even remember." "I am not ungrateful, believe me, monsieur. I admit, too, that it would give me great pleasure to see you again, and yet, I shall probably be obliged to renounce this hope." "Ah, madame--" "Well, I will propose this, monsieur. To-day is Monday--" "Yes, madame." "Be here under the arcade at noon on Thursday." "I will, madame, I will." "If I am not here at the end of an hour,--which is more than probable,--we shall never see each other again, monsieur." "But why do you say that, madame?" "It is impossible for me to explain now, monsieur; but, whatever happens, you must rest assured that I have been very glad of an opportunity to thank you for a service I shall always remember with gratitude." "What, madame, I may never see you again, yet I am leaving you without even knowing your name." "If we are never to meet again, monsieur, what is the use of knowing my name? If, on the contrary, we do meet here again on Thursday I will tell you who I am, and, if you still desire it, we will continue the acquaintance begun in a different hemisphere, and renewed by an unexpected meeting." "I thank you for this hope, madame, uncertain though it be. I will not insist further, so farewell,--until Thursday, madame." "Until Thursday, monsieur." And the two separated. CHAPTER XI. NEAR NEIGHBOURS. The morning after this interview between these two travellers who had met in Chili, the following scene occurred in the fourth story of house Number 57, on the Rue de Vaugirard. It was quarter of four, but a remarkably handsome young man was already writing by the light of a shaded lamp. Need we say that this young man was M. Michel Renaud, the model tenant who left home regularly every morning at four o'clock and never returned before midnight. He was engaged in copying into one of those big leather-bound books, used in business houses, a long row of figures and entries from some carelessly kept day-books, and more than once this uninteresting, monotonous work seemed to benumb both brain and hands, but he bravely overcame the inclination to sleep, wrapped the blanket in which he had enveloped his legs and feet more closely around him, blew on his fingers to warm them, for there was not a spark of fire in the little room, and then resumed his work.