of the Louvre, and so ancient even in the time of Philippe-le-Bel, that it was then sought to discover the traces of the magnificent buildings erected there by King Robert, and described by Helgaldus. Nearly all has disappeared. What has become of the chancery chamber; what of the garden in which Saint Louis administered justice, "clad in a cotte of camlet, a surcoat of tiretaine without sleeves, and over it a mantle of black sendal, lying upon carpets with Joinville?" Where is the chamber of the Emperor Sigismund; that of Charles IV.; that of Jeansans-Terre? Where is the staircase from which Charles VI. promulgated his edict of pardon; the flag-stone on which Marcel, in the presence of the Dauphin, murdered Robert de Clermont and the Marshal de Champagne; the wicket at which the bulls of the anti-pope Benedict were torn, and through which the bearers of them set out on their return coped and mitred in derision, and thus making the amende honorable through all Paris; and the great hall itself, with its gildings, its azure, its pointed arches, its statues, its pillars, its immense vaults all variegated with carving; and the gilded chamber; and the stone lion which knelt at its door, with his head bowed down and his tail between his legs, like the lions of Solomon's throne, in the posture of humiliation appropriate to Strength in the presence of Justice; and the rich doors, and the beautiful stained glass, and the carved iron-work, the perfection of which discouraged Biscornette; and the delicate cabinet-work of Du Hancey? "What has time, what has man done with all those wonders?" asks our author. "What has been given us in exchange for all this, for all that Gaulish history, for all that Gothic art? In art we have the heavy, lowering arches of M. de Brosse, the awkward architect of the Portail St. Gervais; and as for history, we have the gabbling reminiscences of the great pillar, still resounding with the prattle of the Patrus. Here is not much to boast of. Let us go back to the real Grande Salle of the real old Palais."

The two extremities of that vast parallelogram were occupied, the one by the famous marble table of a single piece, so long, so broad, and so thick, that, say the old court-rolls in a style which might have given an appetite to Rabelais' Gargantua, "never was there such a slice of marble seen in the world;" the other by the chapel in which the reigning king, Louis XI., had caused his own figure to be sculptured kneeling before the Virgin, and into which he had conveyed, regardless that he was leaving two niches empty in the file of the royal statues, those of Charlemagne and Saint Louis, - two saints whom, as kings of France, he supposed to be very influential in heaven. This chapel, which was still quite new, having been built scarcely six years, was all in that charming taste of delicate architecture, miraculous sculpture, and bold and exquisite carving, which characterizes the close of the Gothic era, and which we find perpetuated through the first half of the sixteenth century in the fantastic fairy-work of the period of the revival. The little pierced rosace or rose-shaped window above the entrance of the chapel was, in particular, a masterpiece of grace and lightness; it had almost the airiness of lace. In the middle of the hall, opposite the great door, an estrade, covered with gold brocade fixed against the wall with a private entrance contrived by means of a funnel window of the gilded chamber, had been erected for the Flemish envoys and the other personages invited to the performance of the mystery.

It was upon the marble table that, according to custom, this exhibition was to take place. It had been prepared for that purpose early in the morning; and the rich slab of marble, scrawled all over by the heels of the lawyers' clerks, supported a high wooden framework, the upper surface of which, visible from every part of the hall, was to form the stage, while its interior, hidden by drapery, was to serve the actors as a dressing-room. A ladder placed with great simplicity outside established a communication between the stage and the dressing-room, serving alike for entrance and for exit. No character, however unexpected its appearance, no turn of events, no stroke of stage effect, but had to ascend this ladder. Innocent and venerable infancy of art and of machinery !

Four sergeants of the bailiff of the Palais, the appointed guardians of all the popular pleasures, whether on holidays or on execution days, stood on duty at the four corners of the marble table.

The piece was not to commence until the twelfth stroke of noon from the great clock of the Palais. This was undoubtedly thought very late for a theatrical performance; but it had been necessary to consult the convenience of the ambassadors,

Now, all this multitude had been waiting since the early morning. A good many of these worthy people had stood shivering since daybreak before the great steps of the Palais; some even affirmed that they had lain all night against the great door, to be sure of getting in first. The crowd was growing denser every moment, and, like a body of water overflowing its borders, began to ascend the walls, to squeeze round the pillars, to inundate the architraves, the cornices, the window-cases, every architectural or sculptural projection. The general impatience and uncomfortableness, the freedom allowed by a licentious holiday, the quarrels incessantly produced by the pressure of some sharp elbow or iron heel, and the wearisomeness of long expectation, infused, long before the hour at which the ambassadors were to arrive, a tone of sourness and bitterness into the clamors of this shut-up, squeezed, trodden, and stifled multitude. Nothing was heard but complaints and imprecations against the Flemings, the prevôt des marchands, the Cardinal de Bourbon, the bailiff of the Palais, the Lady Marguerite d'Autriche, the sergeants of the wand, the cold, the heat, the bad weather, the Bishop of Paris, the fools' pope, the pillars, the statues, a door shut here, a window open there, - all to the great amusement of the tribes of scholars from the University, and of lackeys from all quarters, scattered among the crowd, who mingled up with this mass of dissatisfaction all their mischievous tricks and jests, thus goading, as it were, the general ill-humor.

Among others, there was a group of these merry devils, who, after bursting out the glass of a window, had boldly seated themselves upon the entablature, and from thence cast their looks and their railleries by turns within and without the hall, upon the internal and the external crowd. By their mimic gestures, their peals of laughter, and the jocoseness with which they exchanged calls with their comrades the whole length of the hall, it was evident enough that those young clerks did not share the weariness and exhaustion of the rest of the assemblage, and that they very well knew how, for their own particular enjoyment, to extract from what was already under their eyes an entertainment which enabled them to wait patiently for the other.

"Upon my soul, it's you, Joannes Frollo de Molendino," shouted one of them to a little light-complexioned fellow, with a pretty, roguish face, clinging to the foliage of one of the capitals; "rightly are you called John of the Mill, for your arms and legs look very much like four sails flapping in the wind. How long have you been here?"

"By the devil's mercy," answered Jehan Frollo, commonly called Du Moulin (or "of the Mill"), "above four hours; and I'm in good hopes that they 'll be deducted from my time in purgatory. I heard the King of Sicily's eight chanters strike up the first verse of the high mass of seven hours, in the Sainte Chapelle."

"Fine chanters, truly," returned the other, “with voices still sharper than the points of their caps. Before founding a mass in honor of Saint John, it would have been as well if the king had inquired