starts from the extremity of the Cours Sauvaire, and ascends northwards,
leaving the black masses of the old quarter on its left, and the
light-yellow houses of the new town on its right. It is here, about
half-way along the street, that stands the Sub-Prefecture, in the rear
of a small square planted with sickly trees; the people of Plassans are
very proud of this edifice.

As if to keep more isolated and shut up within itself, the town is
belted with old ramparts, which only serve to increase its gloom and
render it more confined. These ridiculous fortifications, preyed upon by
ivy and crowned with wild gillyflowers, are about as high and as thick
as the walls of a convent, and could be demolished by gunshot. They
have several openings, the principal of which, the Porte de Rome and the
Grand'-Porte, afford access to the Nice road and the Lyons road, at the
other end of town. Until 1853 these openings were furnished with huge
wooden two-leaved gates, arched at the top, and strengthened with bars
of iron. These gates were double-locked at eleven o'clock in summer, and
ten o'clock in winter. The town having thus shot its bolts like a timid
girl, went quietly to sleep. A keeper, who lived in a little cell in one
of the inner corners of each gateway, was authorised to admit belated
persons. But it was necessary to stand parleying a long time. The keeper
would not let people in until, by the light of his lantern, he had
carefully scrutinised their faces through a peep-hole. If their looks
displeased him they had to sleep outside. This custom of locking the
gates every evening was highly characteristic of the spirit of the town,
which was a commingling of cowardice, egotism, routine, exclusiveness,
and devout longing for a cloistered life. Plassans, when it had shut
itself up, would say to itself, "I am at home," with the satisfaction
of some pious bourgeois, who, assured of the safety of his cash-box,
and certain that no noise will disturb him, duly says his prayers and