But the wind passed, and a great stillness fell. Luc returned to the coach. “Will you not have a glass of wine, Monsieur?” asked the man in the frieze coat. “It is a bitter night for spring.” The Marquis declined pleasantly. “I suppose we are near the dawn?” he added. “I think it will be light before the next stage, Monsieur.” They mounted the step, entered, and closed the door. A heavy smell of oil hung in the air, and the lamp burnt raggedly. From without came the clink of glasses and money, voices, and the stamp of feet. Luc was roused from the exaltation of his inner thoughts by the question-- “How far are you travelling, Monsieur?” “To Paris.” “Ah, a long way.” “Yes, a long way.” “A fine city, Paris,” said the other, pulling on his gloves. “Fine, indeed, Monsieur.” They took their seats, and the coach started with a noisy effort. The elder traveller was soon asleep again, but Luc sat awake, alert, watching the blurred misty glass turn a cold white as the dawn came slowly. CHAPTER VI THE GARRET When Luc looked from the window of his room across the Isle of St. Louis he realized the great gulf he had set between himself and his past. The chamber was high up in a tall, straight-fronted house that had once been of some pretensions to splendour, and a man with good vision could have seen a strange array of twisted roofs and chimney-stacks beneath the two dominant towers of Notre-Dame de Paris; and even Luc’s ruined sight could discern a vast, if blurred, sweep of houses, sky, and clouds. Looking down into the street, he could dimly see the dirty house-fronts; the kennels with their up-piled garbage; the poor wine-shop; the people between poverty and draggled fashion, who came and went in this heart of the city that was now so decayed, yet retained still some remnants of splendour; a certain air of being old and royal; a certain pretence of being prosperous and refined; a poor enough pretence, and one fast wearing thin, still there, and sometimes, as on Sundays, when the small lawyers and men of letters with their ladies walked abroad, worn jauntily enough. Newly polished swords, newly powdered wigs, gold lace, and hooped petticoats would then grace the rambling streets. Sedan-chairs would cross the cobbles, and sometimes a great man would dash past in a coach and four to one of the hotels the Isle still boasted, where the wit and learning of France gathered occasionally.