Editing Volume 2/Book 4/Chapter 1

Les Mis&eacute;rables,  Volume 2: Cosette, Book Fourth: The Gorbeau Hovel, Chapter 1: Master Gorbeau<br />
((Tome 2: Cosette, Livre quatri&egrave;me: La masure Gorbeau, Chapitre 1: Ma&icirc;tre Gorbeau)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
Il y a quarante ans, le promeneur solitaire qui s'aventurait dans les
pays perdus de la Salp&ecirc;tri&egrave;re, et qui montait par le boulevard jusque
vers la barri&egrave;re d'Italie, arrivait &agrave; des endroits o&ugrave; l'on e&ucirc;t pu dire
que Paris disparaissait. Ce n'&eacute;tait pas la solitude, il y avait des
passants; ce n'&eacute;tait pas la campagne, il y avait des maisons et des
rues; ce n'&eacute;tait pas une ville, les rues avaient des orni&egrave;res comme les
grandes routes et l'herbe y poussait; ce n'&eacute;tait pas un village, les
maisons &eacute;taient trop hautes. Qu'&eacute;tait-ce donc? C'&eacute;tait un lieu habit&eacute; o&ugrave;
il n'y avait personne, c'&eacute;tait un lieu d&eacute;sert o&ugrave; il y avait quelqu'un;
c'&eacute;tait un boulevard de la grande ville, une rue de Paris, plus farouche
la nuit qu'une for&ecirc;t, plus morne le jour qu'un cimeti&egrave;re.

 
C'&eacute;tait le vieux quartier du March&eacute;-aux-Chevaux.

 
Ce promeneur, s'il se risquait au del&agrave; des quatre murs caducs de ce
March&eacute;-aux-Chevaux, s'il consentait m&ecirc;me &agrave; d&eacute;passer la rue du
Petit-Banquier, apr&egrave;s avoir laiss&eacute; &agrave; sa droite un courtil gard&eacute; par de
hautes murailles, puis un pr&eacute; o&ugrave; se dressaient des meules de tan
pareilles &agrave; des huttes de castors gigantesques, puis un enclos encombr&eacute;
de bois de charpente avec des tas de souches, de sciures et de copeaux
en haut desquels aboyait un gros chien, puis un long mur bas tout en
ruine, avec une petite porte noire et en deuil, charg&eacute; de mousses qui
s'emplissaient de fleurs au printemps, puis, au plus d&eacute;sert, une
affreuse b&acirc;tisse d&eacute;cr&eacute;pite sur laquelle on lisait en grosses lettres:
DEFENSE D'AFFICHER, ce promeneur hasardeux atteignait l'angle de la rue
des Vignes-Saint-Marcel, latitudes peu connues. L&agrave;, pr&egrave;s d'une usine et
entre deux murs de jardins, on voyait en ce temps-l&agrave; une masure qui, au
premier coup d'&oelig;il, semblait petite comme une chaumi&egrave;re et qui en
r&eacute;alit&eacute; &eacute;tait grande comme une cath&eacute;drale. Elle se pr&eacute;sentait sur la
voie publique de c&ocirc;t&eacute;, par le pignon; de l&agrave; son exigu&iuml;t&eacute; apparente.
Presque toute la maison &eacute;tait cach&eacute;e. On n'en apercevait que la porte et
une fen&ecirc;tre.

 
Cette masure n'avait qu'un &eacute;tage.

 
En l'examinant, le d&eacute;tail qui frappait d'abord, c'est que cette porte
n'avait jamais pu &ecirc;tre que la porte d'un bouge, tandis que cette
crois&eacute;e, si elle e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; coup&eacute;e dans la pierre de taille au lieu de
l'&ecirc;tre dans le moellon, aurait pu &ecirc;tre la crois&eacute;e d'un h&ocirc;tel.

 
La porte n'&eacute;tait autre chose qu'un assemblage de planches vermoulues
grossi&egrave;rement reli&eacute;es par des traverses pareilles &agrave; des b&ucirc;ches mal
&eacute;quarries. Elle s'ouvrait imm&eacute;diatement sur un roide escalier &agrave; hautes
marches, boueux, pl&acirc;treux, poudreux, de la m&ecirc;me largeur qu'elle, qu'on
voyait de la rue monter droit comme une &eacute;chelle et dispara&icirc;tre dans
l'ombre entre deux murs. Le haut de la baie informe que battait cette
porte &eacute;tait masqu&eacute; d'une volige &eacute;troite au milieu de laquelle on avait
sci&eacute; un jour triangulaire, tout ensemble lucarne et vasistas quand la
porte &eacute;tait ferm&eacute;e. Sur le dedans de la porte un pinceau tremp&eacute; dans
l'encre avait trac&eacute; en deux coups de poing le chiffre 52, et au-dessus
de la volige le m&ecirc;me pinceau avait barbouill&eacute; le num&eacute;ro 50; de sorte
qu'on h&eacute;sitait. O&ugrave; est-on? Le dessus de la porte dit: au num&eacute;ro 50; le
dedans r&eacute;plique: non, au num&eacute;ro 52. On ne sait quels chiffons couleur de
poussi&egrave;re pendaient comme des draperies au vasistas triangulaire.

 
La fen&ecirc;tre &eacute;tait large, suffisamment &eacute;lev&eacute;e, garnie de persiennes et de
ch&acirc;ssis &agrave; grands carreaux; seulement ces grands carreaux avaient des
blessures vari&eacute;es, &agrave; la fois cach&eacute;es et trahies par un ing&eacute;nieux bandage
en papier, et les persiennes, disloqu&eacute;es et descell&eacute;es, mena&ccedil;aient
plut&ocirc;t les passants qu'elles ne gardaient les habitants. Les abat-jour
horizontaux y manquaient &ccedil;&agrave; et l&agrave; et &eacute;taient na&iuml;vement remplac&eacute;s par des
planches clou&eacute;es perpendiculairement; si bien que la chose commen&ccedil;ait en
persienne et finissait en volet.

 
Cette porte qui avait l'air immonde et cette fen&ecirc;tre qui avait l'air
honn&ecirc;te, quoique d&eacute;labr&eacute;e, ainsi vues sur la m&ecirc;me maison, faisaient
l'effet de deux mendiants d&eacute;pareill&eacute;s qui iraient ensemble et
marcheraient c&ocirc;te &agrave; c&ocirc;te avec deux mines diff&eacute;rentes sous les m&ecirc;mes
haillons, l'un ayant toujours &eacute;t&eacute; un gueux, l'autre ayant &eacute;t&eacute; un
gentilhomme.

 
L'escalier menait &agrave; un corps de b&acirc;timent tr&egrave;s vaste qui ressemblait &agrave; un
hangar dont on aurait fait une maison. Ce b&acirc;timent avait pour tube
intestinal un long corridor sur lequel s'ouvraient, &agrave; droite et &agrave;
gauche, des esp&egrave;ces de compartiments de dimensions vari&eacute;es, &agrave; la rigueur
logeables et plut&ocirc;t semblables &agrave; des &eacute;choppes qu'&agrave; des cellules. Ces
chambres prenaient jour sur des terrains vagues des environs. Tout cela
&eacute;tait obscur, f&acirc;cheux, blafard, m&eacute;lancolique, s&eacute;pulcral; travers&eacute;, selon
que les fentes &eacute;taient dans le toit ou dans la porte, par des rayons
froids ou par des bises glac&eacute;es. Une particularit&eacute; int&eacute;ressante et
pittoresque de ce genre d'habitation, c'est l'&eacute;normit&eacute; des araign&eacute;es.

 
&Agrave; gauche de la porte d'entr&eacute;e, sur le boulevard, &agrave; hauteur d'homme, une
lucarne qu'on avait mur&eacute;e faisait une niche carr&eacute;e pleine de pierres que
les enfants y jetaient en passant.

 
Une partie de ce b&acirc;timent a &eacute;t&eacute; derni&egrave;rement d&eacute;molie. Ce qui en reste
aujourd'hui peut encore faire juger de ce qu'il a &eacute;t&eacute;. Le tout, dans son
ensemble, n'a gu&egrave;re plus d'une centaine d'ann&eacute;es. Cent ans, c'est la
jeunesse d'une &eacute;glise et la vieillesse d'une maison. Il semble que le
logis de l'homme participe de sa bri&egrave;vet&eacute; et le logis de Dieu de son
&eacute;ternit&eacute;.

 
Les facteurs de la poste appelaient cette masure le num&eacute;ro 50-52; mais
elle &eacute;tait connue dans le quartier sous le nom de maison Gorbeau. Disons
d'o&ugrave; lui venait cette appellation.

 
Les collecteurs de petits faits, qui se font des herbiers d'anecdotes et
qui piquent dans leur m&eacute;moire les dates fugaces avec une &eacute;pingle, savent
qu'il y avait &agrave; Paris, au si&egrave;cle dernier, vers 1770, deux procureurs au
Ch&acirc;telet, appel&eacute;s, l'un Corbeau, l'autre Renard. Deux noms pr&eacute;vus par La
Fontaine. L'occasion &eacute;tait trop belle pour que la basoche n'en f&icirc;t point
gorge chaude. Tout de suite la parodie courut, en vers quelque peu
boiteux, les galeries du Palais:

 
''Ma&icirc;tre Corbeau, sur un dossier perch&eacute;,''<br> ''Tenait dans son bec une saisie ex&eacute;cutoire;''<br> ''Ma&icirc;tre Renard, par l'odeur all&eacute;ch&eacute;,''<br> ''Lui fit &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s cette histoire:''<br> ''H&eacute; bonjour! etc.''<br>

 
Les deux honn&ecirc;tes praticiens, g&ecirc;n&eacute;s par les quolibets et contrari&eacute;s dans
leur port de t&ecirc;te par les &eacute;clats de rire qui les suivaient, r&eacute;solurent
de se d&eacute;barrasser de leurs noms et prirent le parti de s'adresser au
roi. La requ&ecirc;te fut pr&eacute;sent&eacute;e &agrave; Louis XV le jour m&ecirc;me o&ugrave; le nonce du
pape, d'un c&ocirc;t&eacute;, et le cardinal de La Roche-Aymon, de l'autre,
d&eacute;votement agenouill&eacute;s tous les deux, chauss&egrave;rent, en pr&eacute;sence de sa
majest&eacute;, chacun d'une pantoufle les deux pieds nus de madame Du Barry
sortant du lit. Le roi, qui riait, continua de rire, passa ga&icirc;ment des
deux &eacute;v&ecirc;ques aux deux procureurs, et fit &agrave; ces robins gr&acirc;ce de leurs
noms, ou &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s. Il fut permis, de par le roi, &agrave; ma&icirc;tre Corbeau
d'ajouter une queue &agrave; son initiale et de se nommer Gorbeau; ma&icirc;tre
Renard fut moins heureux, il ne put obtenir que de mettre un P devant
son R et de s'appeler Prenard; si bien que le deuxi&egrave;me nom n'&eacute;tait gu&egrave;re
moins ressemblant que le premier.

 
Or, selon la tradition locale, ce ma&icirc;tre Gorbeau avait &eacute;t&eacute; propri&eacute;taire
de la b&acirc;tisse num&eacute;rot&eacute;e 50-52 boulevard de l'H&ocirc;pital. Il &eacute;tait m&ecirc;me
l'auteur de la fen&ecirc;tre monumentale. De l&agrave; &agrave; cette masure le nom de
maison Gorbeau.

 
Vis-&agrave;-vis le num&eacute;ro 50-52 se dresse, parmi les plantations du boulevard,
un grand orme aux trois quarts mort; presque en face s'ouvre la rue de
la barri&egrave;re des Gobelins, rue alors sans maisons, non pav&eacute;e, plant&eacute;e
d'arbres mal venus, verte ou fangeuse selon la saison, qui allait
aboutir carr&eacute;ment au mur d'enceinte de Paris. Une odeur de couperose
sort par bouff&eacute;es des toits d'une fabrique voisine.

 
La barri&egrave;re &eacute;tait tout pr&egrave;s. En 1823, le mur d'enceinte existait encore.

 
Cette barri&egrave;re elle-m&ecirc;me jetait dans l'esprit des figures funestes.
C'&eacute;tait le chemin de Bic&ecirc;tre. C'est par l&agrave; que, sous l'Empire et la
Restauration, rentraient &agrave; Paris les condamn&eacute;s &agrave; mort le jour de leur
ex&eacute;cution. C'est l&agrave; que fut commis vers 1829 ce myst&eacute;rieux assassinat
dit &laquo;de la barri&egrave;re de Fontainebleau&raquo; dont la justice n'a pu d&eacute;couvrir
les auteurs, probl&egrave;me fun&egrave;bre qui n'a pas &eacute;t&eacute; &eacute;clairci, &eacute;nigme
effroyable qui n'a pas &eacute;t&eacute; ouverte. Faites quelques pas, vous trouvez
cette fatale rue Croulebarbe o&ugrave; Ulbach poignarda la chevri&egrave;re d'Ivry au
bruit du tonnerre, comme dans un m&eacute;lodrame. Quelques pas encore, et vous
arrivez aux abominables ormes &eacute;t&ecirc;t&eacute;s de la barri&egrave;re Saint-Jacques, cet
exp&eacute;dient des philanthropes cachant l'&eacute;chafaud, cette mesquine et
honteuse place de Gr&egrave;ve d'une soci&eacute;t&eacute; boutiqui&egrave;re et bourgeoise, qui a
recul&eacute; devant la peine de mort, n'osant ni l'abolir avec grandeur, ni la
maintenir avec autorit&eacute;.

 
Il y a trente-sept ans, en laissant &agrave; part cette place Saint-Jacques qui
&eacute;tait comme pr&eacute;destin&eacute;e et qui a toujours &eacute;t&eacute; horrible, le point le plus
morne peut-&ecirc;tre de tout ce morne boulevard &eacute;tait l'endroit, si peu
attrayant encore aujourd'hui, o&ugrave; l'on rencontrait la masure 50-52.

 
Les maisons bourgeoises n'ont commenc&eacute; &agrave; poindre l&agrave; que vingt-cinq ans
plus tard. Le lieu &eacute;tait morose. Aux id&eacute;es fun&egrave;bres qui vous y
saisissaient, on se sentait entre la Salp&ecirc;tri&egrave;re dont on entrevoyait le
d&ocirc;me et Bic&ecirc;tre dont on touchait la barri&egrave;re; c'est-&agrave;-dire entre la
folie de la femme et la folie de l'homme. Si loin que la vue p&ucirc;t
s'&eacute;tendre, on n'apercevait que les abattoirs, le mur d'enceinte et
quelques rares fa&ccedil;ades d'usines, pareilles &agrave; des casernes ou &agrave; des
monast&egrave;res; partout des baraques et des pl&acirc;tras, de vieux murs noirs
comme des linceuls, des murs neufs blancs comme des suaires; partout des
rang&eacute;es d'arbres parall&egrave;les, des b&acirc;tisses tir&eacute;es au cordeau, des
constructions plates, de longues lignes froides, et la tristesse lugubre
des angles droits. Pas un accident de terrain, pas un caprice
d'architecture, pas un pli. C'&eacute;tait un ensemble glacial, r&eacute;gulier,
hideux. Rien ne serre le c&oelig;ur comme la sym&eacute;trie. C'est que la sym&eacute;trie,
c'est l'ennui, et l'ennui est le fond m&ecirc;me du deuil. Le d&eacute;sespoir
b&acirc;ille. On peut r&ecirc;ver quelque chose de plus terrible qu'un enfer o&ugrave; l'on
souffre, c'est un enfer o&ugrave; l'on s'ennuierait. Si cet enfer existait, ce
morceau du boulevard de l'H&ocirc;pital en e&ucirc;t pu &ecirc;tre l'avenue.

 
Cependant, &agrave; la nuit tombante, au moment o&ugrave; la clart&eacute; s'en va, l'hiver
surtout, &agrave; l'heure o&ugrave; la bise cr&eacute;pusculaire arrache aux ormes leurs
derni&egrave;res feuilles rousses, quand l'ombre est profonde et sans &eacute;toiles,
ou quand la lune et le vent font des trous dans les nuages, ce boulevard
devenait tout &agrave; coup effrayant. Les lignes droites s'enfon&ccedil;aient et se
perdaient dans les t&eacute;n&egrave;bres comme des tron&ccedil;ons de l'infini. Le passant
ne pouvait s'emp&ecirc;cher de songer aux innombrables traditions patibulaires
du lieu. La solitude de cet endroit o&ugrave; il s'&eacute;tait commis tant de crimes
avait quelque chose d'affreux. On croyait pressentir des pi&egrave;ges dans
cette obscurit&eacute;, toutes les formes confuses de l'ombre paraissaient
suspectes, et les longs creux carr&eacute;s qu'on apercevait entre chaque arbre
semblaient des fosses. Le jour, c'&eacute;tait laid; le soir, c'&eacute;tait lugubre;
la nuit, c'&eacute;tait sinistre.

 
L'&eacute;t&eacute;, au cr&eacute;puscule, on voyait &ccedil;&agrave; et l&agrave; quelques vieilles femmes,
assises au pied des ormes sur des bancs moisis par les pluies. Ces
bonnes vieilles mendiaient volontiers.

 
Du reste ce quartier, qui avait plut&ocirc;t l'air surann&eacute; qu'antique, tendait
d&egrave;s lors &agrave; se transformer. D&egrave;s cette &eacute;poque, qui voulait le voir devait
se h&acirc;ter. Chaque jour quelque d&eacute;tail de cet ensemble s'en allait.
Aujourd'hui, et depuis vingt ans, l'embarcad&egrave;re du chemin de fer
d'Orl&eacute;ans est l&agrave;, &agrave; c&ocirc;t&eacute; du vieux faubourg, et le travaille. Partout o&ugrave;
l'on place, sur la lisi&egrave;re d'une capitale, l'embarcad&egrave;re d'un chemin de
fer, c'est la mort d'un faubourg et la naissance d'une ville. Il semble
qu'autour de ces grands centres du mouvement des peuples, au roulement
de ces puissantes machines, au souffle de ces monstrueux chevaux de la
civilisation qui mangent du charbon et vomissent du feu, la terre pleine
de germes tremble et s'ouvre pour engloutir les anciennes demeures des
hommes et laisser sortir les nouvelles. Les vieilles maisons croulent,
les maisons neuves montent.

 
Depuis que la gare du railway d'Orl&eacute;ans a envahi les terrains de la
Salp&ecirc;tri&egrave;re, les antiques rues &eacute;troites qui avoisinent les foss&eacute;s
Saint-Victor et le Jardin des Plantes s'&eacute;branlent, violemment travers&eacute;es
trois ou quatre fois chaque jour par ces courants de diligences, de
fiacres et d'omnibus qui, dans un temps donn&eacute;, refoulent les maisons &agrave;
droite et &agrave; gauche; car il y a des choses bizarres &agrave; &eacute;noncer qui sont
rigoureusement exactes, et de m&ecirc;me qu'il est vrai de dire que dans les
grandes villes le soleil fait v&eacute;g&eacute;ter et cro&icirc;tre les fa&ccedil;ades des maisons
au midi, il est certain que le passage fr&eacute;quent des voitures &eacute;largit les
rues. Les sympt&ocirc;mes d'une vie nouvelle sont &eacute;vidents. Dans ce vieux
quartier provincial, aux recoins les plus sauvages, le pav&eacute; se montre,
les trottoirs commencent &agrave; ramper et &agrave; s'allonger, m&ecirc;me l&agrave; o&ugrave; il n'y a
pas encore de passants. Un matin, matin m&eacute;morable, en juillet 1845, on y
vit tout &agrave; coup fumer les marmites noires du bitume; ce jour-l&agrave; on put
dire que la civilisation &eacute;tait arriv&eacute;e rue de Lourcine et que Paris
&eacute;tait entr&eacute; dans le faubourg Saint-Marceau.

 
==English text==

 
Forty years ago, a rambler who had ventured into that unknown country of
the Salpetriere, and who had mounted to the Barriere d'Italie by way of
the boulevard, reached a point where it might be said that Paris
disappeared. It was no longer solitude, for there were passers-by; it was
not the country, for there were houses and streets; it was not the city,
for the streets had ruts like highways, and the grass grew in them; it was
not a village, the houses were too lofty. What was it, then? It was an
inhabited spot where there was no one; it was a desert place where there
was some one; it was a boulevard of the great city, a street of Paris;
more wild at night than the forest, more gloomy by day than a cemetery.

 
It was the old quarter of the Marche-aux-Chevaux.

 
The rambler, if he risked himself outside the four decrepit walls of this
Marche-aux-Chevaux; if he consented even to pass beyond the Rue du
Petit-Banquier, after leaving on his right a garden protected by high
walls; then a field in which tan-bark mills rose like gigantic beaver
huts; then an enclosure encumbered with timber, with a heap of stumps,
sawdust, and shavings, on which stood a large dog, barking; then a long,
low, utterly dilapidated wall, with a little black door in mourning, laden
with mosses, which were covered with flowers in the spring; then, in the
most deserted spot, a frightful and decrepit building, on which ran the
inscription in large letters: POST NO BILLS,&mdash;this daring rambler
would have reached little known latitudes at the corner of the Rue des
Vignes-Saint-Marcel. There, near a factory, and between two garden walls,
there could be seen, at that epoch, a mean building, which, at the first
glance, seemed as small as a thatched hovel, and which was, in reality, as
large as a cathedral. It presented its side and gable to the public road;
hence its apparent diminutiveness. Nearly the whole of the house was
hidden. Only the door and one window could be seen.

 
This hovel was only one story high.

 
The first detail that struck the observer was, that the door could never
have been anything but the door of a hovel, while the window, if it had
been carved out of dressed stone instead of being in rough masonry, might
have been the lattice of a lordly mansion.

 
The door was nothing but a collection of worm-eaten planks roughly bound
together by cross-beams which resembled roughly hewn logs. It opened
directly on a steep staircase of lofty steps, muddy, chalky,
plaster-stained, dusty steps, of the same width as itself, which could be
seen from the street, running straight up like a ladder and disappearing
in the darkness between two walls. The top of the shapeless bay into which
this door shut was masked by a narrow scantling in the centre of which a
triangular hole had been sawed, which served both as wicket and air-hole
when the door was closed. On the inside of the door the figures 52 had
been traced with a couple of strokes of a brush dipped in ink, and above
the scantling the same hand had daubed the number 50, so that one
hesitated. Where was one? Above the door it said, "Number 50"; the inside
replied, "no, Number 52." No one knows what dust-colored figures were
suspended like draperies from the triangular opening.

 
The window was large, sufficiently elevated, garnished with Venetian
blinds, and with a frame in large square panes; only these large panes
were suffering from various wounds, which were both concealed and betrayed
by an ingenious paper bandage. And the blinds, dislocated and unpasted,
threatened passers-by rather than screened the occupants. The horizontal
slats were missing here and there and had been naively replaced with
boards nailed on perpendicularly; so that what began as a blind ended as a
shutter. This door with an unclean, and this window with an honest though
dilapidated air, thus beheld on the same house, produced the effect of two
incomplete beggars walking side by side, with different miens beneath the
same rags, the one having always been a mendicant, and the other having
once been a gentleman.

 
The staircase led to a very vast edifice which resembled a shed which had
been converted into a house. This edifice had, for its intestinal tube, a
long corridor, on which opened to right and left sorts of compartments of
varied dimensions which were inhabitable under stress of circumstances,
and rather more like stalls than cells. These chambers received their
light from the vague waste grounds in the neighborhood.

 
All this was dark, disagreeable, wan, melancholy, sepulchral; traversed
according as the crevices lay in the roof or in the door, by cold rays or
by icy winds. An interesting and picturesque peculiarity of this sort of
dwelling is the enormous size of the spiders.

 
To the left of the entrance door, on the boulevard side, at about the
height of a man from the ground, a small window which had been walled up
formed a square niche full of stones which the children had thrown there
as they passed by.

 
A portion of this building has recently been demolished. From what still
remains of it one can form a judgment as to what it was in former days. As
a whole, it was not over a hundred years old. A hundred years is youth in
a church and age in a house. It seems as though man's lodging partook of
his ephemeral character, and God's house of his eternity.

 
The postmen called the house Number 50-52; but it was known in the
neighborhood as the Gorbeau house.

 
Let us explain whence this appellation was derived.

 
Collectors of petty details, who become herbalists of anecdotes, and prick
slippery dates into their memories with a pin, know that there was in
Paris, during the last century, about 1770, two attorneys at the Chatelet
named, one Corbeau (Raven), the other Renard (Fox). The two names had been
forestalled by La Fontaine. The opportunity was too fine for the lawyers;
they made the most of it. A parody was immediately put in circulation in
the galleries of the court-house, in verses that limped a little:&mdash;

 
<pre>

         Maître Corbeau, sur un dossier perché,[[13]]
              Tenait dans son bec une saisie exécutoire;
         Maître Renard, par l'odeur alléché,
              Lui fit à peu près cette histoire:
                   Hé! bonjour.  Etc.


</pre>
 
The two honest practitioners, embarrassed by the jests, and finding the
bearing of their heads interfered with by the shouts of laughter which
followed them, resolved to get rid of their names, and hit upon the
expedient of applying to the king.

 
Their petition was presented to Louis XV. on the same day when the Papal
Nuncio, on the one hand, and the Cardinal de la Roche-Aymon on the other,
both devoutly kneeling, were each engaged in putting on, in his Majesty's
presence, a slipper on the bare feet of Madame du Barry, who had just got
out of bed. The king, who was laughing, continued to laugh, passed gayly
from the two bishops to the two lawyers, and bestowed on these limbs of
the law their former names, or nearly so. By the kings command, Maitre
Corbeau was permitted to add a tail to his initial letter and to call
himself Gorbeau. Maitre Renard was less lucky; all he obtained was leave
to place a P in front of his R, and to call himself Prenard; so that the
second name bore almost as much resemblance as the first.

 
Now, according to local tradition, this Maitre Gorbeau had been the
proprietor of the building numbered 50-52 on the Boulevard de l'Hopital.
He was even the author of the monumental window.

 
Hence the edifice bore the name of the Gorbeau house.

 
Opposite this house, among the trees of the boulevard, rose a great elm
which was three-quarters dead; almost directly facing it opens the Rue de
la Barrière des Gobelins, a street then without houses, unpaved, planted
with unhealthy trees, which was green or muddy according to the season,
and which ended squarely in the exterior wall of Paris. An odor of
copperas issued in puffs from the roofs of the neighboring factory.

 
The barrier was close at hand. In 1823 the city wall was still in
existence.

 
This barrier itself evoked gloomy fancies in the mind. It was the road to
Bicêtre. It was through it that, under the Empire and the Restoration,
prisoners condemned to death re-entered Paris on the day of their
execution. It was there, that, about 1829, was committed that mysterious
assassination, called "The assassination of the Fontainebleau barrier,"
whose authors justice was never able to discover; a melancholy problem
which has never been elucidated, a frightful enigma which has never been
unriddled. Take a few steps, and you come upon that fatal Rue Croulebarbe,
where Ulbach stabbed the goat-girl of Ivry to the sound of thunder, as in
the melodramas. A few paces more, and you arrive at the abominable
pollarded elms of the Barriere Saint-Jacques, that expedient of the
philanthropist to conceal the scaffold, that miserable and shameful Place
de Grove of a shop-keeping and bourgeois society, which recoiled before
the death penalty, neither daring to abolish it with grandeur, nor to
uphold it with authority.

 
Leaving aside this Place Saint-Jacques, which was, as it were,
predestined, and which has always been horrible, probably the most
mournful spot on that mournful boulevard, seven and thirty years ago, was
the spot which even to-day is so unattractive, where stood the building
Number 50-52.

 
Bourgeois houses only began to spring up there twenty-five years later.
The place was unpleasant. In addition to the gloomy thoughts which
assailed one there, one was conscious of being between the Salpetriere, a
glimpse of whose dome could be seen, and Bicêtre, whose outskirts one was
fairly touching; that is to say, between the madness of women and the
madness of men. As far as the eye could see, one could perceive nothing
but the abattoirs, the city wall, and the fronts of a few factories,
resembling barracks or monasteries; everywhere about stood hovels,
rubbish, ancient walls blackened like cerecloths, new white walls like
winding-sheets; everywhere parallel rows of trees, buildings erected on a
line, flat constructions, long, cold rows, and the melancholy sadness of
right angles. Not an unevenness of the ground, not a caprice in the
architecture, not a fold. The ensemble was glacial, regular, hideous.
Nothing oppresses the heart like symmetry. It is because symmetry is
ennui, and ennui is at the very foundation of grief. Despair yawns.
Something more terrible than a hell where one suffers may be imagined, and
that is a hell where one is bored. If such a hell existed, that bit of the
Boulevard de l'Hopital might have formed the entrance to it.

 
Nevertheless, at nightfall, at the moment when the daylight is vanishing,
especially in winter, at the hour when the twilight breeze tears from the
elms their last russet leaves, when the darkness is deep and starless, or
when the moon and the wind are making openings in the clouds and losing
themselves in the shadows, this boulevard suddenly becomes frightful. The
black lines sink inwards and are lost in the shades, like morsels of the
infinite. The passer-by cannot refrain from recalling the innumerable
traditions of the place which are connected with the gibbet. The solitude
of this spot, where so many crimes have been committed, had something
terrible about it. One almost had a presentiment of meeting with traps in
that darkness; all the confused forms of the darkness seemed suspicious,
and the long, hollow square, of which one caught a glimpse between each
tree, seemed graves: by day it was ugly; in the evening melancholy; by
night it was sinister.

 
In summer, at twilight, one saw, here and there, a few old women seated at
the foot of the elm, on benches mouldy with rain. These good old women
were fond of begging.

 
However, this quarter, which had a superannuated rather than an antique
air, was tending even then to transformation. Even at that time any one
who was desirous of seeing it had to make haste. Each day some detail of
the whole effect was disappearing. For the last twenty years the station
of the Orleans railway has stood beside the old faubourg and distracted
it, as it does to-day. Wherever it is placed on the borders of a capital,
a railway station is the death of a suburb and the birth of a city. It
seems as though, around these great centres of the movements of a people,
the earth, full of germs, trembled and yawned, to engulf the ancient
dwellings of men and to allow new ones to spring forth, at the rattle of
these powerful machines, at the breath of these monstrous horses of
civilization which devour coal and vomit fire. The old houses crumble and
new ones rise.

 
Since the Orleans railway has invaded the region of the Salpetriere, the
ancient, narrow streets which adjoin the moats Saint-Victor and the Jardin
des Plantes tremble, as they are violently traversed three or four times
each day by those currents of coach fiacres and omnibuses which, in a
given time, crowd back the houses to the right and the left; for there are
things which are odd when said that are rigorously exact; and just as it
is true to say that in large cities the sun makes the southern fronts of
houses to vegetate and grow, it is certain that the frequent passage of
vehicles enlarges streets. The symptoms of a new life are evident. In this
old provincial quarter, in the wildest nooks, the pavement shows itself,
the sidewalks begin to crawl and to grow longer, even where there are as
yet no pedestrians. One morning,&mdash;a memorable morning in July, 1845,&mdash;black
pots of bitumen were seen smoking there; on that day it might be said that
civilization had arrived in the Rue de l'Ourcine, and that Paris had
entered the suburb of Saint-Marceau.


==Translation notes==


===all he obtained was leave to place a P in front of his R, and to call himself Prenard===

Prenard could mean the one who takes, taker, receiver. I'm not sure if this is a sex joke.

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
<references />