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 premeditation, glanced up at the Baron merely
to see the lodger's cousin, and the libertine at once felt the swift
impression which all Parisians know on meeting a pretty woman,