We walked through the great hall of sculpture and the one hundred and fifty galleries of paintings in the palace of Versailles, and felt that to be in such a place was useless unless one had a whole year at his disposal.  These pictures are all battle scenes, and only one solitary little canvas among them all treats of anything but great French victories.  We wandered, also, through the Grand Trianon and the Petit Trianon, those monuments of royal prodigality, and with histories so mournful—­filled, as it is, with souvenirs of Napoleon the First, and three dead kings and as many queens.  In one sumptuous bed they had all slept in succession, but no one occupies it now.  In a large dining room stood the table at which Louis XIV and his mistress Madame Maintenon, and after them Louis xv, and Pompadour, had sat at their meals naked and unattended—­for the table stood upon a trapdoor, which descended with it to regions below when it was necessary to replenish its dishes.  In a room of the Petit Trianon stood the furniture, just as poor Marie Antoinette left it when the mob came and dragged her and the King to Paris, never to return.  Near at hand, in the stables, were prodigious carriages that showed no color but gold—­carriages used by former kings of France on state occasions, and never used now save when a kingly head is to be crowned or an imperial infant christened.  And with them were some curious sleighs, whose bodies were shaped like lions, swans, tigers, etc.—­vehicles that had once been handsome with pictured designs and fine workmanship, but were dusty and decaying now.  They had their history.  When Louis XIV had finished the Grand Trianon, he told Maintenon he had created a Paradise for her, and asked if she could think of anything now to wish for.  He said he wished the Trianon to be perfection—­nothing less.  She said she could think of but one thing—­it was summer, and it was balmy France—­yet she would like well to sleigh ride in the leafy avenues of Versailles!  The next morning found miles and miles of grassy avenues spread thick with snowy salt and sugar, and a procession of those quaint sleighs waiting to receive the chief concubine of the gaiest and most unprincipled court that France has ever seen!

From sumptuous Versailles, with its palaces, its statues, its gardens, and its fountains, we journeyed back to Paris and sought its antipodes —­the Faubourg St. Antoine.  Little, narrow streets; dirty children blockading them; greasy, slovenly women capturing and spanking them; filthy dens on first floors, with rag stores in them (the heaviest business in the Faubourg is the chiffonier’s); other filthy dens where whole suits of second and third-hand clothing are sold at prices that would ruin any proprietor who did not steal his stock; still other filthy dens where they sold groceries—­sold them by the half-pennyworth—­five dollars would buy the man out, goodwill and all.  Up these little crooked streets they will murder a man for seven dollars and dump the body in the Seine.  And up some other of these streets—­most of them, I should say —­live lorettes.