It was about the end of April, 1634--twelve had tolled from the huge dark towers of Notre Dame, and the night was dark and gusty. I found myself bewildered among the intricate and gloomy streets of old Paris; having lost the way to my hotel, the _Golden Fleur de Lys_, in the ancient Rue d'Ecosse. In my ignorance of the thoroughfares and of their names, having been repeatedly misled by wicked gamins and practical jokers, midnight found me completely entangled among the narrow alleys that bordered on the terrible locality of the Place de la Grève, the lofty, quaint and peculiar mansions of which towered on three sides, while on the fourth, lay the Seine, whose muddy waters have hidden the gas…
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