baggage as himself, had fared forth into the gloom. Outside, the
artificial light of the station ceased to do battle with nature, and
only an occasional street lamp gave challenge to the gloomy dawn. The
damp mist that all night had enshrouded Paris still clung about the
streets like ragged grave-clothes, and at the edge of the pavement half
a dozen _fiacres_ were ranged in a melancholy line, the wretched horses
dozing as they stood, the drivers huddled into their fur capes and
numbed by the clinging cold. Everywhere was darkness and chill and the
listless misery of a winter dawn, when vitality is at its lowest ebb and
the passions of man are sunk in lethargy.

Only a creature infinitely young could have held firm in face of such
dejection, only eyes as alert and wakeful as those of this wayfaring boy
could possibly have looked undaunted at the shabby streets with their
flaunting travesty of joy exhibited in the dripping awnings of the
deserted _cafés_, that offered _Bière, Billard_, and yet again _Bière_
to an impassive world.

But the eyes were wakeful, the soul of the adventurer was infinitely
young. He looked at it all with a certain steadfastness that seemed to
say, "Yes, I see you! You are hideous, slatternly, unfriendly; but
through all the disguise I recognize you. Through the mask I trace the
features--subtle, alluring, fascinating. You are Paris! Paris!"

The idea quickened action as a draught of wine might quicken thought;
his hand involuntarily tightened upon his valise, his body braced itself
afresh, and, as if resigning himself finally to chance, that deity loved
of all true adventurers, he stepped from the pavement into the greasy
roadway.