In spite of this uncongenial employment, pursued amid such uncomfortable surroundings, Michel's face was serene, even happy; but when the clock in a neighbouring church rang out the third quarter of an hour, it was with the smiling, affectionate expression of a person who is about to bid a dear friend good morning that the young man rose from the table and, hastening towards the fireplace, rapped twice with the handle of his pocket-knife upon the party wall that separated the house in which he lived from the adjoining house. Two similar raps answered him almost instantly, and Michel smiled with a satisfied air, as if the most agreeable remark conceivable had been addressed to him. He was preparing to reply, doubtless, in fact he had already lifted the handle of his knife for that purpose, when a faint, almost mysterious knock, followed by two louder ones, reached his ear. Michel's face flushed, and his eyes brightened. One would have supposed that he had received a favour as precious as it was unexpected, and it was with an expression of intense gratitude that he replied with a series of quick, irregular raps, as hurried and feverish as the violent throbbings of his own heart. This rapping would doubtless have been prolonged several seconds with ever increasing ardour, if it had not been suddenly checked by a single incisive knock which resounded from the other side of the wall like an imperative command. Michel obeyed this order respectfully, and immediately suspended his rather too lively manifestation of delight. A moment afterwards, four slow, distinct knocks, prolonged like the striking of a clock, coming from the other side of the wall, put an end to this singular conversation quite worthy of a lodge of freemasons. "She is right," murmured Michel. "It is almost four o'clock." And he immediately set to work to arrange his books and put his room in order before leaving it for the day. While he is engaged in these preparations for departure we will conduct the reader up to the fourth floor of the adjoining house,--Number 59,--and into the apartment of Madame de Luceval, separated, as we have before remarked, from that of Michel Renaud by a party wall. That young lady is now about twenty-one years of age, and as charming as ever, though not quite as stout. She, too, like her neighbour, was busily engaged in her preparations for departure. A lamp, like that used by engravers who work at night, stood on a large table strewn with several partially coloured lithographs, boxes of water-colour paints, pieces of embroidery and tapestry work, and a number of those music-books into which orchestral scores are copied. Several of these last were already filled. The plainly furnished room was exquisitely neat, and Florence's hat and cloak were already laid out on the carefully made bed.