Forty years ago， a rambler who had ventured into that unknown country of the Salpetriere， and who had mounted to the Barriere d'Italie by way of the boulevard， reached a point where it might be said that Paris disappeared. It was no longer solitude， for there were passers-by; it was not the country， for there were houses and streets; it was not the city， for the streets had ruts like highways， and the grass grew in them; it was not a village， the houses were too lofty. What was it， then? It was an inhabited spot where there was no one; it was a desert place where there was some one; it was a boulevard of the great city， a street of Paris; more wild at night than the forest， more gloomy by day than a cemetery.
It was the old quarter of the Marche-aux-Chevaux.
The rambler， if he risked himself outside the four decrepit walls of this Marche-aux-Chevaux; if he consented even to pass beyond the Rue du Petit-Banquier， after leaving on his right a garden protected by high walls; then a field in which tan-bark mills rose like gigantic beaver huts; then an enclosure encumbered with timber， with a heap of stumps， sawdust， and shavings， on which stood a large dog， barking; then a long， low， utterly dilapidated wall， with a little black door in mourning， laden with mosses， which were covered with flowers in the spring; then， in the most deserted spot， a frightful and decrepit building， on which ran the inscription in large letters: POST NO BILLS，--this daring rambler would have reached little known latitudes at the corner of the Rue des Vignes-Saint-Marcel. There， near a factory， and between two garden walls， there could be seen， at that epoch， a mean building， which， at the first glance， seemed as small as a thatched hovel， and which was， in reality， as large as a cathedral. It presented its side and gable to the public road; hence its apparent diminutiveness. Nearly the whole of the house was hidden. Only the door and one window could be seen.
This hovel was only one story high.
The first detail that struck the observer was， that the door could never have been anything but the door of a hovel， while the window， if it had been carved out of dressed stone instead of being in rough masonry， might have been the lattice of a lordly mansion.
The door was nothing but a collection of worm-eaten planks roughly bound together by cross-beams which resembled roughly hewn logs. It opened directly on a steep staircase of lofty steps， muddy， chalky， plaster-stained， dusty steps， of the same width as itself， which could be seen from the street， running straight up like a ladder and disappearing in the darkness between two walls. The top of the shapeless bay into which this door shut was masked by a narrow scantling in the centre of which a triangular hole had been sawed， which served both as wicket and air-hole when the door was closed. On the inside of the door the figures 52 had been traced with a couple of strokes of a brush dipped in ink， and above the scantling the same hand had daubed the number 50， so that one hesitated. Where was one? Above the door it said， "Number 50"; the inside replied， "no， Number 52." No one knows what dust-colored figures were suspended like draperies from the triangular opening.
The window was large， sufficiently elevated， garnished with Venetian blinds， and with a frame in large square panes; only these large panes were suffering from various wounds， which were both concealed and betrayed by an ingenious paper bandage. And the blinds， dislocated and unpasted， threatened passers-by rather than screened the occupants. The horizontal slats were missing here and there and had been naively replaced with boards nailed on perpendicularly; so that what began as a blind ended as a shutter. This door with an unclean， and this window with an honest though dilapidated air， thus beheld on the same house， produced the effect of two incomplete beggars walking side by side， with different miens beneath the same rags， the one having always been a mendicant， and the other having once been a gentleman.
The staircase led to a very vast edifice which resembled a shed which had been converted into a house. This edifice had， for its intestinal tube， a long corridor， on which opened to right and left sorts of compartments of varied dimensions which were inhabitable under stress of circumstances， and rather more like stalls than cells. These chambers received their light from the vague waste grounds in the neighborhood.
All this was dark， disagreeable， wan， melancholy， sepulchral; traversed according as the crevices lay in the roof or in the door， by cold rays or by icy winds. An interesting and picturesque peculiarity of this sort of dwelling is the enormous size of the spiders.
To the left of the entrance door， on the boulevard side， at about the height of a man from the ground， a small window which had been walled up formed a square niche full of stones which the children had thrown there as they passed by.
A portion of this building has recently been demolished. From what still remains of it one can form a judgment as to what it was in former days. As a whole， it was not over a hundred years old. A hundred years is youth in a church and age in a house. It seems as though man's lodging partook of his ephemeral character， and God's house of his eternity.
The postmen called the house Number 50-52; but it was known in the neighborhood as the Gorbeau house.
Let us explain whence this appellation was derived.
Collectors of petty details， who become herbalists of anecdotes， and prick slippery dates into their memories with a pin， know that there was in Paris， during the last century， about 1770， two attorneys at the Chatelet named， one Corbeau (Raven)， the other Renard (Fox). The two names had been forestalled by La Fontaine. The opportunity was too fine for the lawyers; they made the most of it. A parody was immediately put in circulation in the galleries of the court-house， in verses that limped a little:--
Maitre Corbeau， sur un dossier perche，[13] Tenait dans son bee une saisie executoire; Maitre Renard， par l'odeur alleche， Lui fit a peu pres cette histoire: He! bonjour. Etc.
[13] Lawyer Corbeau， perched on a docket， held in his beak a writ of execution; Lawyer Renard， attracted by the smell， addressed him nearly as follows， etc.
The two honest practitioners， embarrassed by the jests， and finding the bearing of their heads interfered with by the shouts of laughter which followed them， resolved to get rid of their names， and hit upon the expedient of applying to the king.
Their petition was presented to Louis XV. on the same day when the Papal Nuncio， on the one hand， and the Cardinal de la Roche-Aymon on the other， both devoutly kneeling， were each engaged in putting on， in his Majesty's presence， a slipper on the bare feet of Madame du Barry， who had just got out of bed. The king， who was laughing， continued to laugh， passed gayly from the two bishops to the two lawyers， and bestowed on these limbs of the law their former names， or nearly so. By the kings command， Maitre Corbeau was permitted to add a tail to his initial letter and to call himself Gorbeau. Maitre Renard was less lucky; all he obtained was leave to place a P in front of his R， and to call himself Prenard; so that the second name bore almost as much resemblance as the first.
Now， according to local tradition， this Maitre Gorbeau had been the proprietor of the building numbered 50-52 on the Boulevard de l'Hopital. He was even the author of the monumental window.
Hence the edifice bore the name of the Gorbeau house.
Opposite this house， among the trees of the boulevard， rose a great elm which was three-quarters dead; almost directly facing it opens the Rue de la Barriere des Gobelins， a street then without houses， unpaved， planted with unhealthy trees， which was green or muddy according to the season， and which ended squarely in the exterior wall of Paris. An odor of copperas issued in puffs from the roofs of the neighboring factory.
The barrier was close at hand. In 1823 the city wall was still in existence.
This barrier itself evoked gloomy fancies in the mind. It was the road to Bicetre. It was through it that， under the Empire and the Restoration， prisoners condemned to death re-entered Paris on the day of their execution. It was there， that， about 1829， was committed that mysterious assassination， called "The assassination of the Fontainebleau barrier，" whose authors justice was never able to discover; a melancholy problem which has never been elucidated， a frightful enigma which has never been unriddled. Take a few steps， and you come upon that fatal Rue Croulebarbe， where Ulbach stabbed the goat-girl of Ivry to the sound of thunder， as in the melodramas. A few paces more， and you arrive at the abominable pollarded elms of the Barriere Saint-Jacques， that expedient of the philanthropist to conceal the scaffold， that miserable and shameful Place de Grove of a shop-keeping and bourgeois society， which recoiled before the death penalty， neither daring to abolish it with grandeur， nor to uphold it with authority.
Leaving aside this Place Saint-Jacques， which was， as it were， predestined， and which has always been horrible， probably the most mournful spot on that mournful boulevard， seven and thirty years ago， was the spot which even to-day is so unattractive， where stood the building Number 50-52.
Bourgeois houses only began to spring up there twenty-five years later. The place was unpleasant. In addition to the gloomy thoughts which assailed one there， one was conscious of being between the Salpetriere， a glimpse of whose dome could be seen， and Bicetre， whose outskirts one was fairly touching; that is to say， between the madness of women and the madness of men. As far as the eye could see， one could perceive nothing but the abattoirs， the city wall， and the fronts of a few factories， resembling barracks or monasteries; everywhere about stood hovels， rubbish， ancient walls blackened like cerecloths， new white walls like winding-sheets; everywhere parallel rows of trees， buildings erected on a line， flat constructions， long， cold rows， and the melancholy sadness of right angles. Not an unevenness of the ground， not a caprice in the architecture， not a fold. The ensemble was glacial， regular， hideous. Nothing oppresses the heart like symmetry. It is because symmetry is ennui， and ennui is at the very foundation of grief. Despair yawns. Something more terrible than a hell where one suffers may be imagined， and that is a hell where one is bored. If such a hell existed， that bit of the Boulevard de l'Hopital might have formed the entrance to it.
Nevertheless， at nightfall， at the moment when the daylight is vanishing， especially in winter， at the hour when the twilight breeze tears from the elms their last russet leaves， when the darkness is deep and starless， or when the moon and the wind are making openings in the clouds and losing themselves in the shadows， this boulevard suddenly becomes frightful. The black lines sink inwards and are lost in the shades， like morsels of the infinite. The passer-by cannot refrain from recalling the innumerable traditions of the place which are connected with the gibbet. The solitude of this spot， where so many crimes have been committed， had something terrible about it. One almost had a presentiment of meeting with traps in that darkness; all the confused forms of the darkness seemed suspicious， and the long， hollow square， of which one caught a glimpse between each tree， seemed graves: by day it was ugly; in the evening melancholy; by night it was sinister.
In summer， at twilight， one saw， here and there， a few old women seated at the foot of the elm， on benches mouldy with rain. These good old women were fond of begging.
However， this quarter， which had a superannuated rather than an antique air， was tending even then to transformation. Even at that time any one who was desirous of seeing it had to make haste. Each day some detail of the whole effect was disappearing. For the last twenty years the station of the Orleans railway has stood beside the old faubourg and distracted it， as it does to-day. Wherever it is placed on the borders of a capital， a railway station is the death of a suburb and the birth of a city. It seems as though， around these great centres of the movements of a people， the earth， full of germs， trembled and yawned， to engulf the ancient dwellings of men and to allow new ones to spring forth， at the rattle of these powerful machines， at the breath of these monstrous horses of civilization which devour coal and vomit fire. The old houses crumble and new ones rise.
Since the Orleans railway has invaded the region of the Salpetriere， the ancient， narrow streets which adjoin the moats Saint-Victor and the Jardin des Plantes tremble， as they are violently traversed three or four times each day by those currents of coach fiacres and omnibuses which， in a given time， crowd back the houses to the right and the left; for there are things which are odd when said that are rigorously exact; and just as it is true to say that in large cities the sun makes the southern fronts of houses to vegetate and grow， it is certain that the frequent passage of vehicles enlarges streets. The symptoms of a new life are evident. In this old provincial quarter， in the wildest nooks， the pavement shows itself， the sidewalks begin to crawl and to grow longer， even where there are as yet no pedestrians. One morning，--a memorable morning in July， 1845，--black pots of bitumen were seen smoking there; on that day it might be said that civilization had arrived in the Rue de l'Ourcine， and that Paris had entered the suburb of Saint-Marceau.
四十年前，有个行人在妇女救济院附近的荒僻地段独自徘徊，继又穿过林荫大道，走上意大利便门，到达了……我们可以说，巴黎开始消失的地方。那地方并不绝对荒凉，也还有些行人来往，也还不是田野，多少还有几栋房屋和几条街道；既不是城市，因为在这些街道上，正和在大路上一样，也有车轮的辙迹；也不是乡村，因为房屋过于高大。那是个什么地方呢？那是一个没有人住的住宅区，无人而又间或有人的僻静处，是这个大都市的一条大路，巴黎的一条街，它在黑夜比森林还苍凉，在白天比坟场更凄惨。
那是马市所在的古老地区。
那行人，假使他闯过马市那四堵老墙，假使他再穿过小银行家街，走过他右边高墙里的一所庄屋，便会看见一片草场，场上竖着一堆堆栎树皮，好象一些庞大的水獭窠；走过以后，又会看见一道围墙，墙里是一片空地，地上堆满了木料、树根、木屑、刨花，有只狗立在一个堆上狂吠；再往前走，便有一道又长又矮的墙，已经残破不全了，墙上长满了苔藓，春季还开花，并且有一扇黑门，好象穿上了丧服似的；更远一点，便会在最荒凉的地方，看见一所破烂房屋，墙上写了几个大字：禁止招贴；那位漫无目标的行人于是就走到了圣马塞尔葡萄园街的转角上，那是个不大有人知道的地方。当时在那地方，在一家工厂附近和两道围墙间有所破屋，乍看起来好象小茅屋，而实际上却有天主堂那么大。它侧面的山尖对着公路，因而显得狭小。几乎整个房屋全被遮住了。只有那扇大门和一扇窗子露在外面。
那所破屋只有一层楼。
我们仔细看去，最先引人注目的便是那扇只配装在破窑上的大门，至于那窗子，假使它不是装在碎石块上而是装在条石墙上，看起来就会象阔人家的窗子了。
大门是用几块到处有虫蛀的木板和几根不曾好好加工的木条胡乱拼凑起来的。紧靠在大门里面的是一道直挺挺的楼梯，梯级高，满是污泥、石膏、尘土，和大门一样宽，我们可以从街上看见它，象梯子一样直立在两堵墙的中间，上端消失在黑影里。在那不成形的门框上端，有一块狭窄的薄木板，板的中间，锯了一个三角洞，那便是在门关了之后的透光洞和通风洞。在门的背面，有一个用毛笔蘸上墨水胡乱涂写的数字：52，横条上面，同一支毛笔却又涂上了另一数字：50，因而使人没法肯定。这究竟是几号？门的上头说五十号，门的背面却反驳说不对，是五十二号。三角通风洞的上面挂着几块说不上是什么的灰溜溜的破布，当作帘子。
窗子很宽，也相当高，装有百叶窗和大玻璃窗框，不过那些大块玻璃都有各种不同的破损，被许多纸条巧妙地遮掩着，同时也显得更加触目，至于那两扇脱了榫和离了框的百叶窗，与其说它能保护窗内的主人，还不如说它只能引起窗外行人的戒惧。遮光的横板条已经散落，有人随意钉上几块垂直的木板，使原来的百叶窗成了板窗。
大门的形象是非常恶劣的，窗子虽破损但还朴实，它们一同出现在同一所房屋的上面，看去就好象是两个萍水相逢的乞丐，共同乞讨，相依为命，都穿着同样的破衣烂衫，却各有不同的面貌，一个生来就穷苦，一个出身于望族。
走上楼梯，便可以看出那原是一栋极大的房屋，仿佛是由一个仓库改建的。楼上中间，有一条长过道，作为房子里的交通要道；过道的左右两旁有着或大或小的房间，必要时也未尝不可作为住屋，但与其说这是些小屋子，还不如说是些鸽子笼。那些房间从周围的旷野取光，每一间都是昏暗凄凉，令人感到怅惘忧郁，阴森得如同坟墓一样；房门和屋顶处处有裂缝，因缝隙所在处不同而受到寒光或冷风的透入，这种住屋还有一种饶有情趣的特点，那便是蜘蛛体格的庞大。
在那临街的大门外的左边，有个被堵塞了的小四方窗口，离地面约有一人高，里面积满了过路的孩子所丢的石块。
这房子最近已被拆去一部分。保留到今天的这一部分还可使人想见当年的全貌。整栋房子的年龄不过才一百挂零儿。一百岁，对礼拜堂来说这是青年时期，对一般房屋来说却是衰朽时期了。人住的房屋好象会因人而短寿，上帝住的房屋也会因上帝而永存似的。
邮差们管这所房子叫五○一五二号，但是在那附近一带的人都称它为戈尔博老屋。
谈谈这个名称是怎么来的。
一般爱搜集珍闻轶事把一些易忘的日期用别针别在大脑上的人们，都知道在前一个世纪，在一七七○年前后，沙特雷法院有两个检察官，一个叫柯尔博，一个叫勒纳。这两个名字都是拉封丹①预见了的。这一巧合太妙了，为使刑名师爷们不要去耍贫嘴。不久，法院的长廊里便传开了这样一首歪诗：
柯尔博老爷高踞案卷上，
嘴里衔着一张缉捕状，
勒纳老爷逐臭来，
大致向他这样讲：
喂，你好！……②
那两位自重的行家受不了这种戏谑，他们经常听到在他们背后爆发出来的狂笑声，头也听大了，于是他们决定要改姓，并向国王提出申请。申请送到路易十五手里时，正是教皇的使臣和拉洛许－艾蒙红衣主教双双跪在地上等待杜巴丽夫人赤着脚从床上下来，以便当着国王的面，每人捧着一只拖鞋替她套在脚上的那一天。国王原就在说笑，他仍在谈笑，把话题从那两位主教转到这两位检察官，并要为这两位法官老爷赐姓，或者就算是赐姓。国王恩准柯尔博老爷在原姓的第一字母上加一条尾巴③，改称戈尔博；勒纳的运气比较差，他所得到的只是在他原姓的第一字母R前面加上P，改称卜勒纳④，因为这个新改的姓并不见得比他原来的姓和他本人有什么不象的地方⑤。
①柯尔博，原文是（Corbeau）（乌鸦），勒纳，原文是Renard（狐狸），都是拉封丹（1621?695）寓言中的人物。
②这是把拉封丹的寓言诗《乌鸦和狐狸》改动几字而成的。
③Corbeau（柯尔博）的第一字母C改为G，而成Gorbeau（戈尔博）。
④Renard（勒纳）改为Prenard（卜勒纳）。Prenard含有小偷的意思。
⑤指他为人小正派，说他象狐狸或小偷。
根据当地历来的传说，这位戈尔博老爷曾是医院路五○一五二号房屋的产业主。他并且还是那扇雄伟的窗子的创造者。
这便是戈尔博老屋这一名称的由来。
在路旁的树木间，有棵死了四分之三的大榆树正对着这五○一五二号，哥白兰便门街的街口也几乎正在对面，当时在这条街上还没有房屋，街心也还没有铺石块，街旁栽着一些怪不顺眼的树，有时发绿，有时沾满了污泥，随着季节而不同，那条街一直通到巴黎的城墙边。阵阵硫酸化合物的气味从附近一家工厂的房顶上冒出来。
便门便在那附近。一八二三年时城墙还存在。
这道便门会使我们想起一些阴惨的情景。那是通往比塞特①的道路。帝国时期和王朝复辟时期的死囚在就刑的那天回到巴黎城里来时，都得经过这个地方。一八二九年的那次神秘的凶杀案，所谓“枫丹白露便门凶杀案”，也就是在这地方发生的，司法机关至今还没有找出凶犯，这仍是一件真相不明的惨案，一个未经揭破的骇人的哑谜。你再向前走几步，便到了那条不祥的落须街，在那街上，于尔巴克，曾象演剧似的，趁着雷声，一刀子刺杀了伊夫里的一个牧羊女。再走几步，你就到了圣雅克便门的那几棵丑恶不堪、断了头的榆树跟前，那几棵树是些慈悲心肠的人用来遮掩断头台的东西，那地方是店铺老板和士绅集团所建的一个卑贱可耻的格雷沃广场①，他们在死刑面前退缩，既没有废止它的气量，也没有保持它的魄力。
①比塞特（Bicetre），巴黎附近的村子，有个救济院收容年老的男疯子。
三十七年前，如果我们把那个素来阴惨、必然阴惨的圣雅克广场置于一边不谈，那么，五○一五二号这所破屋所在的地方，就整个这条死气沉沉的大路来说，也许是最死气沉沉的地段了，这一带直到今天也还是缺少吸引力的。
有钱人家的房屋直到二十五年前才开始在这里出现。这地方在当时是满目凄凉的。妇女救济院的圆屋顶隐约可辨，通往比塞特的便门也近在咫尺，当你在这里感到悲伤压抑的时候，你会感到自己处在妇女救济院和比塞特之间，就是说，处在妇女的疯病和男子的疯病②之间。我们极目四望，看见的只是些屠宰场、城墙和少数几个类似兵营或修院的工厂的门墙，四处都是破屋颓垣、黑到和尸布一样的旧壁、白到和殓巾一样的新墙，四处都是平行排列着的树木、连成直线的房屋、平凡的建筑物、单调的长线条以及那种令人感到无限凄凉的直角。地势毫无起伏，建筑毫无匠心，毫无丘壑。这是一个冷酷、死板、丑不可耐的整体。再没有比对称的格局更令人感到难受的了，因为对称的形象能使人愁闷，愁闷是悲伤的根源，失望的人爱打呵欠。人们如果能在苦难的地狱以外还找得到更可怕的东西，那一定是使人愁闷的地狱了。假使这种地狱确实存在的话，医院路的这一小段地方可以当作通往这种地狱的门。
①格雷沃广场（PlacedeGrève），巴黎的刑场，一八○六年改称市政厅广场。
②妇女救济院同时也收容神经错乱和神经衰弱的妇女。
夜色下沉残辉消逝时，尤其是在冬天，当初起的晚风从成行的榆树上吹落了那最后几片黄叶时，在地黑天昏不见星斗或在风吹云破月影乍明时，这条大路便会陡然显得阴森骇人。那些直线条全会融入消失在黑影中，犹如茫茫宇宙间的寸寸丝缕。路上的行人不能不想到历年来发生在这一带的数不尽的命案，这种流过那么多次血的荒僻地方确会使人不寒而栗。人们认为已感到黑暗中有无数陷阱，各种无可名状的黑影好象也都是可疑的，树与树间的那些望不透的方洞好象是一个个墓穴。这地方，在白天是丑陋的，傍晚是悲凉的，夜间是阴惨的。
夏季，将近黄昏时，这里那里，有些老婆子，带着被雨水浸到发霉的凳子，坐在榆树下向人乞讨。
此外，这个区域的外貌，与其说是古老，不如说是过时，在当时就已有改变面貌的趋势了。从那时起，要看看它的人非赶快不可。这整体每天都在失去它的一小部分。二十年来，直到今天，奥尔良铁路的起点站便建在这老郊区的旁边，对它产生影响。一条铁路的起点站，无论我们把它设在一个都城边缘的任何一处，都等于是一个郊区的死亡和一个城市的兴起。好象在各族人民熙来攘往的这些大中心的四周，在那些强大机车的奔驰中，在吞炭吐火的文明怪马的喘息中，这个活力充沛的大地会震动，吞没人们的旧居并让新的产生出来。旧屋倒下，新屋上升。
自从奥尔良铁路车站侵入到妇女救济院的地段以后，圣维克多沟和植物园附近一带的古老的小街都动摇了，络绎不绝的长途公共马车、出租马车、市区公共马车，每天要在这些小街上猛烈奔驰三四次，并且到了一定时期就把房屋挤向左右两旁。有些奇特而又极其正确的现象是值得一提的，我们常说，大城市里的太阳使房屋的门朝南，这话是实在的，同样，车辆交驰的频繁也一定会扩展街道。新生命的征兆是明显的，在这村气十足的旧城区里，在这些最荒野的角落里，石块路面出现了，即使是在还没有人走的地方，人行道也开始蜿蜒伸展了。在一个早晨，一个值得纪念的早晨，一八四五年七月，人们在这里忽然看到烧沥青的黑锅冒烟；这一天，可以说是文明已来到了鲁尔辛街，巴黎和圣马尔索郊区衔接起来了。
