carriages drive past. There are sinister places here, especially the
Rue de Langlade, the entrance to the Passage Saint-Guillaume, and the
turnings of some streets.

The municipal council has not yet been to purge this vast lazar-place,
for prostitution long since made it its headquarters. It is, perhaps,
a good thing for Paris that these alleys should be allowed to preserve
their filthy aspect. Passing through them by day, it is impossible to
imagine what they become by night; they are pervaded by strange
creatures of no known world; white, half-naked forms cling to the
walls--the darkness is alive. Between the passenger and the wall a
dress steals by--a dress that moves and speaks. Half-open doors
suddenly shout with laughter. Words fall on the ear such as Rabelais
speaks of as frozen and melting. Snatches of songs come up from the
pavement. The noise is not vague; it means something. When it is
hoarse it is a voice; but if it suggests a song, there is nothing
human about it, it is more like a croak. Often you hear a sharp
whistle, and then the tap of boot-heels has a peculiarly aggressive
and mocking ring. This medley of things makes you giddy. Atmospheric
conditions are reversed there--it is warm in winter and cool in
summer.

Still, whatever the weather, this strange world always wears the same
aspect; it is the fantastic world of Hoffmann of Berlin. The most
mathematical of clerks never thinks of it as real, after returning
through the straits that lead into decent streets, where there are
passengers, shops, and taverns. Modern administration, or modern
policy, more scornful or more shamefaced than the queens and kings of
past ages, no longer dare look boldly in the face of this plague of
our capitals. Measures, of course, must change with the times, and