And here and there，in the spaces between the roofs，the steeples，the innumerable projections which so fantastically bent and twisted and notched the outermost line of the quarter，you caught a glimpse of a moss-grown wall，a thick-set round tower，an embattled，fortress-like gateway—the wall of Philip Augustus.Beyond this stretched the verdant meadows，ran the great high-roads with a few houses straggling along their sides，growing fewer the farther they were removed from the protecting barrier.Some of these suburbs were considerable.There was first—taking the Tournelle as the point of departure—the market-town of Saint-Victor，with its one-arched bridge spanning the Bièvre；its Abbey，where the epitaph of King Louis the Fat—epitaphium Ludovici Grossi—was to be seen；and its church with an octagonal spire，flanked by four belfry towers of the eleventh century（there is a similar one still to be seen at ètampes）.Then there was Saint-Marceau，which already boasted three churches and a convent；then，leaving on the left the mill of the Gobelins with its white wall of enclosure，you came to the Faubourg Saint-Jacques with its beautifully carved stone cross at the cross-roads；the Church of Saint-Jacques du Haut-Pas，then a charming Gothic structure；Saint-Magloire，with a beautiful nave of the fourteenth century，which Napoleon turned into a hayloft；and Notre-Dame-des-Champs，which contained some Byzantine mosaics.Finally，after leaving in the open fields the Chartreux Monastery，a sumptuous edifice contemporary to the Palais de Justice with its garden divided off into compartments，and the deserted ruins of Vauvert，the eye turned westward and fell upon the three Roman spires of Saint-Germain-des-Près，in the rear of which the market-town of Saint-Germain，already quite a large parish，formed fifteen or twenty streets，the sharp steeple of Saint-Sulpice marking one of the corners of the town boundary.Close by was the square enclosure of the Foire Saint-Germain，where the fairs were held—the present market-place.Then came the abbot's pillory，a charming little round tower，capped by a cone of lead；farther on were the tile-fields and the Rue du Four，leading to the manorial bakehouse；then the mill on its raised mound；finally，the Lazarette，a small，isolated building scarcely discernible in the distance.
But what especially attracted the eye and held it long was the Abbey itself.Undoubtedly this monastery，in high repute both as a religious house and as a manor，this abbey-palace，wherein the Bishop of Paris esteemed it a privilege to pass one night；with a refectory which the architect had endowed with the aspect，the beauty，and the splendid rose-window of a cathedral；its elegant Lady Chapel；its monumental dormitories，its spacious gardens，its portcullis，its drawbridge，its belt of crenated wall，which seemed to stamp its crested outline on the meadow beyond，its court-yards where the glint of armour mingled with the shimmer of gold-embroidered vestments—the whole grouped and marshalled round the three high Roman towers firmly planted on a Gothic transept—all this，I say，produced a magnificent effect against the horizon.
When at length，after long contemplating the University，you turned towards the right bank—the Town—the scene changed its character abruptly.Much larger than the University quarter，the Town was much less of a united whole.The first glance showed it to be divided into several singularly distinct areas.First，on the east，in that part of the Town which still takes its name from the'marais'—the morass into which Camulogènes led Csar—there was a great group of places extending to the water's edge.Four huge mansions，almost contiguous—the Htels Jouy，Sens，Barbeau，and the Logis de la Reine mirrored in the Seine their slated roofs and slender turrets.These four edifices filled the space between the Rue des Nonaindières to the Celestine Abbey，the spire of which formed a graceful relief to their line of gables and battlements.Some squalid，moss-grown hovels overhanging the water in front of these splendid buildings were not sufficient to conceal from view the beautifully ornamented corners of their f des，their great square stone casements，their Gothic porticoes surmounted by statues，the bold，clear-cut parapets of their walls，and all those charming architectural surprises which give Gothic art the appearance of forming her combinations afresh for each new structure.Behind these palaces ran in every direction，now cleft，palisaded，and embattled like a citadel，now veiled by great trees like a Carthusian monastery，the vast and multiform encircling wall of that marvellous Htel Saint-Pol，where the King of France had room to lodge superbly twenty-two princes of the rank of the Dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy with their retinues and their servants，not to mention the great barons，and the Emperor when he came to visit Paris，and the lions，who had a palace for themselves within the royal palace.And we must observe here that a prince's lodging comprised in those days not less than eleven apartments，from the state chamber to the oratory，besides all the galleries，the baths，the'sweating-rooms，'and other'superfluous places'with which each suite of apartments was provided—not to mention the gardens specially allotted to each guest of the King，nor the kitchens，store-rooms，pantries，and general refectories of the household；the inner court-yards in which were situated twenty-two general offices，from the bake-house to the royal cellarage；the grounds for every sort and deion of game—mall，tennis，tilting at the ring，etc.；aviaries，fish-ponds，menageries，stables，cattle-sheds，libraries，armouries，and foundries.Such was，at that day，a King's palace—a Louvre，an Htel Saint-Pol—a city within a city.
