e du Doyenne,
a shudder freezes the soul, and we wonder who can lie there, and what
things may be done there at night, at an hour when the alley is a
cut-throat pit, and the vices of Paris run riot there under the cloak
of night. This question, frightful in itself, becomes appalling when we
note that these dwelling-houses are shut in on the side towards the Rue
de Richelieu by marshy ground, by a sea of tumbled paving-stones between
them and the Tuileries, by little garden-plots and suspicious-looking
hovels on the side of the great galleries, and by a desert of
building-stone and old rubbish on the side towards the old Louvre. Henri
III. and his favorites in search of their trunk-hose, and Marguerite's
lovers in search of their heads, must dance sarabands by moonlight in
this wilderness overlooked by the roof of a chapel still standing
there as if to prove that the Catholic religion--so deeply rooted in
France--survives all else.

For forty years now has the Louvre been crying out by every gap in these
damaged walls, by every yawning window, "Rid me of these warts upon my
face!" This cutthroat lane has no doubt been regarded as useful, and has
been thought necessary as symbolizing in the heart of Paris the intimate
connection between poverty and the splendor that is characteristic
of the queen of cities. And indeed these chill ruins, among which
the Legitimist newspaper contracted the disease it is dying of--the
abominable hovels of the Rue du Musee, and the hoarding appropriated by
the shop stalls that flourish there--will perhaps live longer and more
prosperously than three successive dynasties.

In 1823 the low rents in these already condemned houses had tempted
Lisbeth Fischer to settle there, notwithstanding the necessity imposed
upon her by the state of the neighborhood to get home before nightfall.
This necessity, however, was in accordance with the country habits she
retained, of rising and going to bed with the sun, an arrangement which
saves country folk considerable sums in lights and fuel. She lived
in one of the houses which, since the demolition of the famous Hotel
Cambaceres, command a view of the square.

Just as Baron Hulot set his wife's cousin down at the door of this
house, saying, "Good-night, Cousin," an elegant-looking woman, young,
small, slender, pretty, beautifully dressed, and redolent of some
delicate perfume, passed between the wall and the carriage to go in.
This lady, without any preme