Under the reign of François I, the wall had been considerably enlarged. But, in the year 1536, the Cardinal du Bellai, lieutenant-general of the armies of King François, being informed of the approach of the English, who were already devastating Normandie and Picardie, and dreading the result of an attack upon Paris, ordered trenches and moats to be dug from Porte Saint-Antoine to Porte Saint-Honoré. These were afterward called the Fossés Jaunes [yellow moats].
This little digression into the domain of history is necessary to recall old Paris to the minds of our readers, especially so that they may be able to form an accurate idea of the localities where the events took place which we are about to describe.
Pont Saint-Louis, otherwise called the Pont-aux-Choux, because of the proximity of Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and because it was principally used by the market gardeners, who crossed it to carry their vegetables into the heart of the city, was situated between Porte du Temple and Porte Saint-Antoine, and was built over the moats of which we have just described the origin. Over this bridge, which was a dismal and often deserted structure, there was a gate of a commonplace type of architecture, called Porte Saint-Louis. But as it had not been closed for many years, there was no keeper; it was very dilapidated, and on the point of falling in ruins.
All about the Pont-aux-Choux were swamps, a large portion of which was uncultivated. Tall grass grew along the edges of the moat, which contained nothing but a little slimy water, through which it would have been difficult to force a boat. Thus the whole locality had a sort of wild and forbidding aspect, well calculated to inspire terror in the solitary traveller whom the darkness surprised on that road.
However, on a certain lovely night in summer, several young gentlemen, some of whom were acquaintances of ours, having crossed the Pont-aux-Choux on their way back to Paris, halted about three hundred yards beyond it, and one of them threw himself on the turf, crying:
"Faith, I don't care! go on if you choose, my masters; but I am going to rest here; it is very comfortable on the grass. Besides, I feel that I am drunk; I cannot stand on my legs."
"How now, my poor Monclair! Can you carry your wine no better than this? What a pity!"
"Don't put on airs, Sénange! You are at least as drunk as I am, if not more so."
"The fact is that I am quite as willing to sit down as to stumble at every step on these horrible roads.—What an infernal way for Léodgard to make us take!—I say, Comte de Marvejols, where are you? I want to congratulate you!—Where in the devil is my valet Bruno? Let him bring a torch here, and we will have another game."
"Your esquire is ahead; he walked on."