Hard by is the house where the Marquise de Brinvilliers--a
gentle, blue-eyed thing they tell us--a poor, insane creature she must have
been--disseminated poison and death, and, just across and beyond the Place
des Vosges, the Hotel de Sens, whither Queen Margot took her doll-rags and
did her spriting after she and Henri Quatre had agreed no longer to slide
down the same cellar door. There is in the Museum a death-mask, colored and
exceeding life-like, taken the day after Ravaillac delivered the finishing
knife-thrust in the Rue de Ferronnerie, which represents the Bearnais as
anything but a tamer of hearts. He was a fighter, however, from Wayback,
and I dare say Dumas' narrative is quite as authentic as any.
One can scarce wonder that men like Hugo and Balzac chose this quarter
of the town to live in--and Rachael, too!--it having given such frequent
shelter to so many of their fantastic creations, having been the real abode
of a train of gallants and bravos, of saints and harlots from the days of
Diane de Poitiers to the days of Pompadour and du Barry, and of statesmen
and prelates likewise from Sully to Necker, from Colbert to Turgot.
III
I speak of the Marais as I might speak of Madison Square, or Hyde Park--as
a well-known local section--yet how few Americans who have gone to Paris
have ever heard of it. It is in the eastern division of the town. One finds
it a curious circumstance that so many if not most of the great cities
somehow started with the rising, gradually to migrate toward the setting
sun.
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