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.
When I first wandered about Paris there was little west of the Arch of Stars except groves and meadows.