The Shadow of Great Britain

As a top European city alongside London, Paris is also divided into numerous districts according to streets, waterways, and history.

However, unlike the name-loving British, Paris's administrative divisions are rather succinct in their official titles, consisting only of numerical identifiers from 1 to 48.

Among these 48 districts, many have been prominent at various historical periods, yet most fall into long periods of decline after their glory.

Much like the St Giles Church Parish of West London, during the Middle Ages, St Giles Church Parish was a residential area for nobles and high officials. However, nowadays the residents of St Giles are left with a group of impoverished people who cannot afford high rents yet need to commute to central London daily for work.

They crowd into mansions that once belonged to nobility and great merchants, yet due to long-term disrepair, one can only find traces of past glory on the half-collapsed walls.

In Paris, there is also a district with similar characteristics to the St Giles Church Parish, which is the Twelfth District of Paris.

This land, in the thirteenth century, once housed the University of Paris, an educational jewel of the French nation comparable to Cambridge and Oxford in England, located on rue de Foy in the Twelfth District.

But after six hundred years of time, this administrative district, once a source of pride for Parisians, has become the poorest area in all of Paris.

And rue de Foy, which once held the University of Paris, finds itself in an even more awkward position, as it is still recognized as the filthiest, most dangerous street in the Twelfth District.

One-third of its residents lack firewood for heating in winter. Everywhere you can see children who should be sent to orphanages, patients needing hospital treatment, beggars on the streets, vagrants scavenging in alleyways, and sickly old men and women basking in the sun against walls.

As for the unemployed workers idling in squares all over Paris, and defendants escorted to criminal courts by police, the vast majority of these people come from the Twelfth District.

Every visitor who comes to pursue the Paris dream would think they've gone mad upon seeing the Twelfth District. But for Londoners, such situations aren't uncommon, much like the prosperity of West London versus the decay of the East End of London, the Twelfth District is Paris's East End—the two sides of the same coin, forever inseparable.

Yet for tourists coming to Paris, rue de Foy only causes physical discomfort.

But for Sir Arthur Hastings, coming to rue de Foy feels like coming home.

This perpetually damp street, with dyers' blackwater always flowing into the Seine River, has an old house in its middle, stone at the corners, brick in the center. According to residents, this house was likely renovated during the time of Francis I of the Valois Dynasty.

However, even if renovated, that was already three hundred years ago.

Its solidity can be seen in its appearance, bearing the pressure of three-story and four-story levels above, supported by thick base walls at the bottom, the second floor bulging on both sides, like a person's belly. Although supported by stone frames, at first glance, the walls between each window seem ready to explode.

But astute observers will immediately notice that it is akin to the Leaning Tower of Pisa type of house, with peeled old bricks and stones steadfastly maintaining their center of gravity. Due to moisture, the sturdy stone foundation at the base keeps a half-yellowish tone and faint moisture year-round.

Pedestrians walking along the foundation wall will feel a chill; the crescent-shaped curbstones cannot protect the corners from vehicle collisions. Like all houses built before private car passages, the semi-circular doorways are unusually low, as if resembling a prison.

Inside the main door to the right are three window holes, covered with such dense wire mesh, the glass so filthy, there's so much dust, outsiders can hardly discern what purpose the three damp and dark rooms therein serve.

The left side has two similar window holes, one of which, when open, allows you to see into the interior room, where the doorkeeper's wife, the children from another room, are squeezed together clamoring, working, cooking, or eating.

The floor inside is wooden, the room partitioned with boards, everything is dilapidated. From the outside, one must descend two steps first; such elevation changes clearly prove archaeologists' claims correct, as over time the street level rises, thus older things are buried deeper.

And between the staircases, there is a long passageway, with shelves made of white-painted beams supporting the arched bailey's ceiling.

Just as it happened to rain in the evening, a few passersby stood under the eaves taking shelter.

And everyone who arrives here cannot resist taking a glance at the inside of the house.

On the left side of the passageway, there is a small garden, both deep and wide enough for an average person to take four large steps across.

Although designed for growing fruits and vegetables, unfortunately, the decayed grape trellises lack grapevines, and besides two trees, no other plants grow there. Under the shade of the trees, the dark soil is strewn with waste paper, broken bowls, tattered cloth, and fallen lime and tiles from the roof.