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.
