the Rue St. Denis, saw my tired horse well cared for by an hostler, who
seemed amazed at my rustic solicitude for details, had my portmanteau
deposited in a clean, white-washed chamber, overlooking the street, ate a
supper such as only a Paris innkeeper can serve and a ravenous youth from
the country can devour, and went forth afoot, after curfew, into the now
entirely dark and no longer crowded street, to find what might befall me.

It had grown colder at nightfall, and I had to draw my cloak closely
around me. A wind had come up, too, and the few people whom I met were
walking with head thrust forward, the better to resist the breeze when it
should oppose them. Some were attended by armed servants bearing
lanterns. The sign-boards, that hung from the projecting stories of the
tall houses, swung as the wind swayed, and there was a continual sound of
creaking. Clouds had risen, and the moon was obscured much of the time,
so that when I looked down some of the narrower streets I could not see
whether they ended within a short distance, turned out of sight, or
continued far in the same direction. Being accustomed to the country
roads, the squares of smaller towns, and the wide avenues of the little
park at La Tournoire, I was at first surprised at the narrowness of the
streets. Across one of them lay a drunken man, peacefully snoring. His
head touched the house on one side of the street, and his feet pressed
the wall on the opposite side. It surprised me to find so many of the
streets no wider than this. But there was more breathing room wherever
two streets crossed and where several of them opened into some great
place. The crookedness and curvature of the streets constantly tempted me
to seek what might be beyond, around the corner, or the bend; and
whenever I sought, I found still other corners or bends hiding the
unknown, and luring me to investigate.

I had started westward from the inn, intending to proceed towards the