"Hotel of the Universe"--Hotel de l'Univers.

That was hospitable enough, wide enough to take Antony Fairfax in.
Behind the bay-trees a dirty, discouraged looking waiter, to whom the
universe had apparently not been generous, welcomed, or at least
glanced, at Fairfax. The fellow wore a frayed, colourless dress-suit;
his linen was suspicious, but his head at this early hour was sleekly
brushed and oiled.

"No, the hotel is not yet full," he told the stranger, as though he
said, "The entire universe, thank God, has not yet descended upon us."

For one franc fifty a room could be had on the sixth floor. Antony
yielded up his bag and bade the man show the way.

CHAPTER III

He could hardly wait to make his hasty toilet and set forth into the
city. He saw something of it from the eave-window in his microscopic
room. Chimney-pots, stained, mossy roofs, the flash of old spires, the
round of a dome, the river, the bridges, all under the supernal blue of,
to him, a friendly sky--he felt that he must quaff it all at a draught.
But the fatigue of his lame limb began to oppress him. There was the
weight of sleep on his eyelids, and he turned gratefully to the small
bed under the red rep curtains. It was ridiculously small for his six
feet of body, but he threw himself down thankfully and slept.

Dreams chased each other through his brain and he stretched out his
hands toward elusive forms in his sleep. He seized upon one, thinking it
was Bella, and when he pressed his cheek to hers, the cheek was cold and
the form was cold. He slept till afternoon and rose still with the daze
upon him of his arrival and his dreams, and the first excitement
somewhat calmed. He had enough change for his lodging and dinner, but
nothing more.

He walked across the bridge and the light and brilliance of the city
dazzled him. He went into the Louvre, and the coolness and breadth of
the place fell on him like a spell. He wondered if any in that vast
place was as athirst as he was and as mad for beauty. He wandered
through the rooms enthralled, and made libations to the relics of old
Egypt; he sent up hymns to the remains of ancient Greece, and before the
Venus of Milo gave up his heart, standing long absorbed before the
statue, swearing to slave for the production of beauty. He found himself
stirred to his most passionate depths, musing on form and artistic
creation, and when the pulse in his heart became too strong and the
Venus oppress