Behind these palaces， extended in all directions， now broken， fenced in， battlemented like a citadel， now veiled by great trees like a Carthusian convent， the immense and multiform enclosure of that miraculous H？tel de Saint-Pol， where the King of France possessed the means of lodging superbly two and twenty princes of the rank of the dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy， with their domestics and their suites， without counting the great lords， and the emperor when he came to view Paris， and the lions， who had their separate H？tel at the royal H？tel. Let us say here that a prince's apartment was then composed of never less than eleven large rooms， from the chamber of state to the oratory， not to mention the galleries， baths， vapor-baths， and other "superfluous places，" with which each apartment was provided； not to mention the private gardens for each of the king's guests； not to mention the kitchens， the cellars， the domestic offices， the general refectories of the house， the poultry-yards， where there were twenty-two general laboratories， from the bakehouses to the wine-cellars； games of a thousand sorts， malls， tennis， and riding at the ring； aviaries， fishponds， menageries， stables， barns， libraries， arsenals and foundries. This was what a king's palace， a Louvre， a H？tel de Saint-Pol was then. A city within a city.
From the tower where we are placed， the H？tel Saint-Pol， almost half hidden by the four great houses of which we have just spoken， was still very considerable and very marvellous to see. One could there distinguish， very well， though cleverly united with the principal building by long galleries， decked with painted glass and slender columns， the three H？tels which Charles V. had amalgamated with his palace： the H？tel du Petit-Muce， with the airy balustrade， which formed a graceful border to its roof； the H？tel of the Abbe de Saint-Maur， having the vanity of a stronghold， a great tower， machicolations， loopholes， iron gratings， and over the large Saxon door， the armorial bearings of the abbé， between the two mortises of the drawbridge； the H？tel of the Comte d' Etampes， whose donjon keep， ruined at its summit， was rounded and notched like a cock's comb； here and there， three or four ancient oaks， forming a tuft together like enormous cauliflowers； gambols of swans， in the clear water of the fishponds， all in folds of light and shade； many courtyards of which one beheld picturesque bits； the H？tel of the Lions， with its low， pointed arches on short， Saxon pillars， its iron gratings and its perpetual roar； shooting up above the whole， the scale-ornamented spire of the Ave-Maria； on the left， the house of the Provost of Paris， flanked by four small towers， delicately grooved， in the middle； at the extremity， the H？tel Saint-Pol， properly speaking， with its multiplied fa？ades， its successive enrichments from the time of Charles V.， the hybrid excrescences， with which the fancy of the architects had loaded it during the last two centuries， with all the apses of its chapels， all the gables of its galleries， a thousand weathercocks for the four winds， and its two lofty contiguous towers， whose conical roof， surrounded by battlements at its base， looked like those pointed caps which have their edges turned up.
Continuing to mount the stories of this amphitheatre of palaces spread out afar upon the ground， after crossing a deep ravine hollowed out of the roofs in the Town， which marked the passage of the Rue Saint-Antoine， the eye reached the house of Angoulême， a vast construction of many epochs， where there were perfectly new and very white parts， which melted no better into the whole than a red patch on a blue doublet. Nevertheless， the remarkably pointed and lofty roof of the modern palace， bristling with carved eaves， covered with sheets of lead， where coiled a thousand fantastic arabesques of sparkling incrustations of gilded bronze， that roof， so curiously damascened， darted upwards gracefully from the midst of the brown ruins of the ancient edifice； whose huge and ancient towers， rounded by age like casks， sinking together with old age， and rending themselves from top to bottom， resembled great bellies unbuttoned. Behind rose the forest of spires of the Palais des Tournelles. Not a view in the world， either at Chambord or at the Alhambra， is more magic， more aerial， more enchanting， than that thicket of spires， tiny bell towers， chimneys， weather-vanes， winding staircases， lanterns through which the daylight makes its way， which seem cut out at a blow， pavilions， spindle-shaped turrets， or， as they were then called， "tournelles，" all differing in form， in height， and attitude. One would have pronounced it a gigantic stone chess-board.
To the right of the Tournelles， that truss of enormous towers， black as ink， running into each other and tied， as it were， by a circular moat； that donjon keep， much more pierced with loopholes than with windows； that drawbridge， always raised； that portcullis， always lowered，--is the Bastille.
Those sorts of black beaks which project from between the battlements， and which you take from a distance to be cave spouts， are cannons.
Beneath them， at the foot of the formidable edifice， behold the Porte Sainte-Antoine， buried between its two towers.
Beyond the Tournelles， as far as the wall of Charles V.， spread out， with rich compartments of verdure and of flowers， a velvet carpet of cultivated land and royal parks， in the midst of which one recognized， by its labyrinth of trees and alleys， the famous Daedalus garden which Louis XI. had given to Coictier. The doctor's observatory rose above the labyrinth like a great isolated column， with a tiny house for a capital. Terrible astrologies took place in that laboratory.
There to-day is the Place Royale.
