Boulevard S. Michel. Proceed."

Without one backward glance or thought he passed from the attic home,
his foot in fancy already mounting his throne. Marie was forgotten in
the dream of a royal crown and visions of a distant kingdom.

XVII

AT THE HOTEL DES S. CROIX

Some distance back from its fellows on the Boulevard S. Michel, not far
from its intersection with S. Germain, stands the one-time palace of the
Ducs des S. Croix.

Time, the leveler, seemed to have no more effect upon the princely pile
than to increase its hauteur with each passing year. Its every stone
breathed the dominant spirit of its founders, until at last it stood for
all that was patrician, exclusive and unapproachable.

Its eight-foot iron fence, wrought in many an intricate design, formed a
corroding barrier to the over-curious, while its spiked top challenged
the foolish scaler. A clanging gate opened rebelliously to the paved way
which led unto the wide balustraded steps. The windows, each with its
projecting balcony, seemed thrusting back all cordial advances. Along
that side toward the Quai D'Orsay, a cloistered porch joined the terrace
from the steps to rear its carven roof beneath the windows of the upper
floors. Each rigid pillar was lifted like a lance of prohibition. The
walls of either neighbor, unbroken, windowless and blank, were flanking
ramparts of its secrecy.

The casual pedestrian, after dusk, was tempted to tiptoe lightly across
the palace front, so pervasive was its air of mystery. No more fitting
place could be found for plots of deposed monarchies and uncrowned
kings. The last S. Croix, impoverished in the mutations of generations,
reluctantly, half savagely, had swallowed his pride a few years
previously and had consented to rent his ancestral halls. The ideal
locality and its immunity from the over-curious had appealed to one who,
gladly paying the first price asked, had held the place against the day
of need. The lease was in the name of Josef Zorsky, none other than the
Hereditary Servitor.

Behind the mask of night, the new-found king, with his gentlemen, was
driven to the Hotel des S. Croix, where three ordinary Parisian
_fiacres_ discharged the royal party who had come directly from the
attic studio. His Majesty was the last to alight. Taking Colonel
Sutphen's proffered arm, he proceeded toward the entrance, followed by
his suite. The place was dark and grim, no light came through the
heavily curtaine