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.
All through this Faubourg St.Antoine, misery, poverty, vice, and crime go hand in hand, and the evidences of it stare one in the face from every side.