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，——a memorable morning in July，1845，——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.
MASTER GORBEAU
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，——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.
