As he stepped out into the rue de Dunkerque he scarcely questioned in what direction his feet should carry him.  North, south, east, or west were equal on that first day.  Everywhere was promise—­everywhere a call.  Nonchalantly and without intention he turned to the left and found himself once more in face of the Gare du Nord.

It is a good thing to rejoice in spite of the world; it is an infinitely better thing to rejoice in company with it.  With solitude and freedom, the alarm, the disgust receded, and as he went forward the exultation grew, until once again his mercurial spirits lifted him as upon wings.

The majority of passers-by at this morning hour were workers—­work-girls out upon their errands, business men going to or from the cafes; but here and there was to be seen an artist, consciously indifferent to appearances; here and there an artisan, unconsciously picturesque in his coarse working-clothes; here and there a well-dressed woman, sunning herself in the cold, bright air like a bird of gay plumage.  It was the world in miniature, and it stirred and piqued his interest.  A wish to stop one of these people, and to pour forth his longings, his hopes, his dreams, surged within him in a glow of fellowship and, smiling to himself at the pleasant wildness of the thought, he made his way through the wider spaces of the Place Lafayette and the Square Montholon into the long, busy rue Lafayette.

Here, in the rue Lafayette, the gloomy aspects of the district he had made his own dropped behind him, and a wealth of bustle and gayety greeted and fascinated him.  Here the sun seemed fuller, the traffic was more dense, and the shops offered visions to please every sense.  Wine shops were here, curio shops, shops all golden and tempting with cheeses and butter, and hat shops that foretold the spring in a glitter of blues and greens.  He passed on, jostling the crowd good-humoredly, being jostled in the same spirit, hugging his freedom with a silent joy.

Down the rue Halevy he went and on into the Place de l’Opera; but here he slackened his pace, and something of his insouciance dropped from him.  The wide space filled with its cosmopolitan crowd, the opera-house itself, so aloof in its dark splendor, spoke to him of another Paris—­the Paris that might be Vienna, Petersburg, London, for all it has to say of individual life.  His mood changed; he paused and looked back over his shoulder in the direction from whence he had come.  But the hesitation was fleeting; a quick courage followed on the doubt.  The adventurer must take life in every aspect—­must face all questions, all moments!  He turned up the collar of his coat, as though preparing to face a chillier region, and went forward boldly as before.

One or two narrow streets brought him out upon the Place de Rivoli, where Joan of Arc sat astride her golden horse, and where great heaps of flowers were stacked at the street corners—­mimosa, lilac, violets.  He halted irresistibly to glance at these flowers breathing of the south, and to glance at the shining statue.  Then he crossed the rue de Rivoli and, passing through the garden of the Tuileries, emerged upon the Place de la Concorde.