Coua, Pekin, China?

No! Feeble as it is, I detect a movement inside the case! It becomes
more distinct, and I ask if the panel is going to slide, if the
prisoner is coming out of his prison to breathe the fresh air?

What I had better do to see and not to be seen is to hide between two
cases. Thanks to the darkness there is nothing to fear.

Suddenly a slight cracking greets my ear. I am not the sport of an
illusion; it is the crack of a match being lighted.

Almost immediately a few feeble rays pierce the ventilation holes of
the case.

If I had had any doubts as to the position held by the prisoner in the
scale of being, I have none now. At the least it must be an ape who
knows the use of fire, and also the handling of matches. Travelers tell
us that such animals exist, but we have to take the statement on trust.

Why should I not confess it? A certain emotion came over me and I had
to take care I did not run away.

A minute elapsed. Nothing shows that the panel has been moved, nothing
gives me reason to suppose that the unknown is coming out.

Cautiously I wait. Then I have an idea to make something out of this
light. The case is lighted within; if I were to peep through those
holes?

I creep toward the case. A single apprehension chills my brain. If the
light were suddenly extinguished!

I am against the panel, which I take care not to touch, and I put my
eyes close to one of the holes.

There is a man in the box, and it is not the Austrian tailor, Zeitung!
Thank Heaven! I will soon make him my No. 11.

The man's features I can make out clearly. He is from twenty-five to
twenty-six years of age. He does not shave, and his beard is brown. He
is of the true Roumanian type, and that confirms me in my notion
regarding his Roumanian correspondent. He is good-looking, although his
face denotes great energy of character, and he must be energetic to
have shut himself up in a box like this for such a long journey. But if
he has nothing of the malefactor about him, I must confess that he does
not look like the hero I am in search of as the chief personage in my
story.

After all, they were not heroes, that Austrian and that Spaniard who
traveled in their packing cases. They were young men, very simple, very
ordinary, and yet they yielded columns of copy. And so this brave No.
11, with amplifications, antonyms, diaphoreses, epitases, tropes,
metaphors, and other figures of that sort, I will beat out, I will
e