At first there is nothing but a dull roar in our ears and a dazzle in our eyes.Overhead，a roof of double Gothic arches，panelled with carved wood，painted azure blue，and diapered with golden fleur de lis；underfoot，a pavement in alternate squares of black and white.A few paces off is an enormous pillar，and another—seven in all down the length of the hall，supporing in the centre line the springing arches of the double groining.Around the first four pillars are stalls all glittering with glassware and trinkets，and around the last three are oaken benches，worn smooth and shining by the breeches of the litigants and the gowns of the attorneys.Ranged along the lofty walls，between the doors，between the windows，between the pillars，is the interminable series of statues of the rulers of France from Pharamond downward；the'Rois fainèants，'with drooping eyes and indolent hanging arms；the valiant warrior kings，with head and hands boldly uplifted in the sight of heaven.The tall，pointed windows glow in a thousand colours；at the wide entrances to the Hall are richly carved doors；and the whole—roof，pillars，walls，cornices，doors，statues—is resplendent from top to bottom in a coating of blue and gold，already somewhat tarnished at the period of which we write，but which had almost entirely disappeared under dust and cobwebs in the year of grace 1549，when Du Breuil alluded to it in terms of admiration，but from hearsay only.
Now let the reader picture to himself that immense，oblong Hall under the wan light of a January morning and invaded by a motley，noisy crowd，pouring along the walls and eddying round the pillars，and he will have some idea of the scene as a whole，the peculiarities of which we will presently endeavour to describe more in detail.
Assuredly if Ravaillac had not assassinated Henri IV there would have been no documents relating to his trial to be deposited in the Record office of the Palais de Justice；no accomplices interested in causing those documents to disappear，and consequently no incendiaries compelled，in default of a better expedient，to set fire to the Record office in order to destroy the documents，and to burn down the Palais de Justice in order to burn the Record office—in short，no conflagration of 1618.The old Palais would still be standing with its great Hall，and I could say to the reader'Go and see for yourself，'and we should both be exempt of the necessity，I of writing，he of reading this deion，such as it is.All of which goes to prove the novel truth，that great events have incalculable consequences.
To be sure，it is quite possible that Ravaillac had no accomplices，also that，even if he had，they were in no way accessory to the fire of 1618.There exist two other highly plausible explanations.In the first place，the great fiery star a foot wide and an ell high，which，as every mother's son knows，fell from heaven on to the Palais on the 7th of March just after midnight；and secondly，Thèophile's quatrain，which runs：
'Certes，ce fut un triste jeu Quand á Paris dame Justice，
Pour avoir mangè trop d'èpice Se mit tout le palais en feu.'
Whatever one may think of this triple explanation—political，physical，and poetical—of the burning of the Palais de Justice in 1618，about one fact there is unfortunately no doubt，and that is the fire itself.
Thanks to this disaster，and more still to the successive restorations which destroyed what the fire had spared，very little remains of this first residence of the Kings of France，of this original palace of the Louvre，so old even in the time of Philip the Fair，that in it they sought for traces of the magnificent buildings erected by King Robert and described by Helgaldus.Nearly all has gone.What has become of the Chancery Chamber in which St.Louis'consummated his marriage'？what of the garden where he administered justice，'clad in a jerkin of camlet，a surcoat of coarse woollen stuff without sleeves，and over all a mantle of black'sandal，'and reclining on a carpet with Joinville'？Where is the chamber of the Emperor Sigismun here that of Charles IVthat of John Lackland？Where is the flight of steps from which Charles VI proclaimed his'Edict of Pardon'？the flag-stone whereon，in the presence of the Dauphin，Marcel strangled Robert de Clermont and the Marshal de Champang he wicket where the bulls of the anti-Pope Benedict were torn up，and through which the bearers of them marched out，mitred and coped in mock state，to publicly make the amende honorable through the streets of Pari nd the great Hall with its blue and gold，its Gothic windows，its statues，its pillars，its immense vaulted roof so profusely carved—and the gilded chamber—and the stone lion kneeling at the door with head abased and tail between its legs，like the lions of Solomon's throne，in that attitude of humility which beseems Strength in the presence of Justic nd the beautiful doors，and the gorgeous-hued windows，and the wrought iron-work which discouraged Biscornette—and the delicate cabinet-work of Du Hancy？How has time，how has man，served these marvels？What have they given us in exchange for all this，for this great page of Gallic history，for all this Gothic art？The uncouth，surbased arches of M.de Brosse，the clumsy architect of the great door of Saint-Gervais—so much for art；and as regards history，we have the gossipy memoirs of the Great Pillar，which still resounds with the old wives'tales of such men as Patru.
Well，that is not much to boast of.Let us return to the real great Hall of the real old Palais.
