It was several days before Fate led him along the Seine and he found
himself on the Pont Neuf. The palace stretching out before him had a
familiar look. He stopped and stared. There were the palaces where
history had been made. He knew the Tuileries and he knew the Louvre--he
had seen pictures of both.

He walked out across the Place de la Concorde, and seeing others enter,
made his way through the gates of the sacred precinct.

He was in the Palace of the Louvre; he had found the way, unaided and
alone.

His deep religious nature was moved, and taking off his cap he crossed
himself in a silent prayer of gratitude.

What his sensations were he partially pictured to his friend Sensier
thirty years after: "It seemed as though I had at last attained,
achieved. My feelings were too great for words, and I closed my eyes,
lest I be dazzled by the sight and then dare not open them lest I should
find it all a dream. And if I ever reach Paradise I know my joy will be
no greater than it was that first morning when I realized that I stood
within the Louvre Palace."

For a week Millet visited the Louvre every day.

When the doors were unlocked each morning he was waiting on the steps;
and he did not leave in the afternoon until the attendant warned him it
was time to go.