months, and now his hopes were soon to be realized. In an hour perhaps he
would stand and look upon a canvas painted by Rubens, the immortal
Rubens!

His enthusiasm grew warm.

The girl who had served him with coffee stood near and was looking at him
with a sort of silent admiration, such as she might bestow upon a curious
animal.

He looked up; their eyes met.

"Is it true--is it true that there are pictures by Rubens in the Louvre?"
asked the young man.

The oddity of the question from such a being and the queer Normandy
accent amused the girl, and she burst out laughing. She did not answer
the question, but going over to a man seated at another table whispered
to him. Then they both looked at the queer youth and laughed.

The young countryman did not know what they were laughing at--probably
they did not, either--but he flushed scarlet, and soon made his way out
into the street, his luggage on his back. He wanted to go to the Louvre,
but dare not ask the way--he did not care to be laughed at.

And so he wandered forth.

The shops were very marvelous, and now and again he lingered long before
some window where colored prints and paintings were displayed. He
wondered if the places were artists' studios; and at one place as he