place of promise; and as they passed on, ever mounting toward
Montmartre, his brain quickened to new joy, new curiosity in every
flaunting advertisement, every cobble-stone in the long steep way of the
Boulevard Barbés, the rue de la Nature, and the rue de Clignancourt,
until at length they emerged into the rue André de Sarte--that narrow
street, quaint indeed in its dark old houses and its small, mysterious
wine shops that savor of Italy or Spain.

They paused, at the corner of the rue André de Sarte, by the doorway of
an old, overcrowded curio shop--the curio shop that in time to come was
destined to become so familiar a landmark to them both, to stand
sentinel at the gateway of so many emotions.

The lights, the shadows, the effects were all uncertain in this strange
and fascinating neighborhood. High above them, white against the winter
sky, glimmered the domes of the Sacré-Coeur, looking down in symbolic
silence upon the restless city; to the left stretched the rue Ronsard,
with its deserted market and lonely pavement; to the right, the Escalier
de Sainte-Marie, picturesque as its name, wound its precipitous way
apparently to the very stars, while at their feet, creeping upward to
the threshold of the church, was the plantation of rocks, trees, and
holly bushes that in the mysterious darkness seemed aquiver with a
thousand whispered secrets. There was deep contrast here to the
excitement, the vivacity of the boulevards; it seemed as if some shadow
from the white domes above had given sanctuary to the spirit of the
place--the familiar spirit of the time-stained houses, the stone steps
worn by many feet, the dark, naked trees.

The boy's hand again pressed his companion's arm.