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 looked at a series of sketches the thought came to him that he himself could do better.

This gave him courage, and stepping inside the door he set down his bag and told the astonished shopkeeper that the pictures in the window were very bad—­he could paint better ones—­would the proprietor not hire him to paint pictures?  He would work cheap, and labor faithfully.

He was hastily hustled out into the street—­to harbor lunatics was dangerous.

So he trudged on—­looking for the Louvre.

Night came and the search was without reward.

Seeing a sign of “Apartments for single gentlemen,” he applied and was shown a modest room that seemed within his means.  The landlady was very kind; in fact, she knew people at Gruchy and had often been to Cherbourg—­her uncle lived there.

Jean Francois felt relieved to find that even in busy, bustling, frivolous Paris there were friendly people; and when the kind lady suggested that pickpockets in the streets were numerous, and that he had better give his money over to her for safekeeping, he handed out his store of three hundred francs without question.

He never saw his money again.

The next day he still sought the Louvre—­not caring to reveal his ignorance by asking the way.

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.