s made him drowsy, and he fell asleep.

* * * * *

He was awakened by the stirring of his fellow-passengers, by the rich
Norman voices, by the jostling and moving among the occupants of the
carriage, and he gathered his thoughts together, took his valise in his
hand and climbed down from the car.

He passed out with the crowd through the St. Lazare station. He had in
Havre observed with interest the novel constructions of the engines and
the rolling stock. The crowd of market-women, peasants, cures, was
anonymous to him, but as he passed the engine which had brought him from
Havre, he glanced up at the mechanician, a big, blond-moustached fellow
in a blue blouse. The engineer's face streamed with perspiration and he
was smoking a cigarette.

He had shunned engines and yards, and everything that had to do with his
old existence, for months; now he nodded with a friendly sympathetic
smile to the engine-driver.

"Bien le bonjour," he said cheerfully, as he had heard the people in the
train say it, "Bien le bonjour."

The Frenchman nodded and grinned and watched him limp down and out with
the others to the waiting-room called, picturesquely, the Hall of the
Lost Footsteps--"La Salle des Pas Perdus."

And Antony's light step and his heavy step fell among the countless
millions that come and go, go and come, unmarked, forgotten--to walk
with the Paris multitudes into paths of obscurity or fame--"_les pas
perdus_."

CHAPTER II

It was the first beginning of summer dawn when he turned breathlessly
into the Rue de Rome and stood at length in Paris. He shouldered his big
bag and took his bearings. At that early hour there were few people
abroad--here and there a small open carriage, drawn by a limp,
melancholy horse and dominated by what he thought a picturesque cabby,
passed him invitingly. A drive in a cab in America is not for a man of
uncertain means, and the folly of taking a vehicle did not occur to him.
Along the broad avenue at the street's foot, lights were still lit in
the massive lamps, shops and houses were closed, and by a blue sign on
the wall he read that he was crossing a great avenue. The Boulevard
Haussmann was as tranquil as a village street. A couple of good-looking
men, whom he thought were soldiers, caught his eye in their uniforms of
white trousers and blue coats. He asked them, touching his hat, the
first thing that came to his mind: "La Rue Mazarine, Messi