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，——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：——
Maitre Corbeau，sur un dossier perche，[13]
Tenait dans son bee une saisie executoire；
Maitre Renard，par l'odeur alleche，
Lui fit a peu pres cette histoire：He！bonjour.
Etc.
[13]Lawyer Corbeau，perched on a docket，held in his beak a writ of execution；Lawyer Renard，attracted by the smell，addressed him nearly as follows，etc.
