"But is its exterior attractive in your eyes?"
"Pardieu! it is indeed. But—"
"But what?"
"But does no one occupy it, pray?"
"Marry, yes, Monsieur the Provost of Paris, Messire Robert d'Estourville, who has taken possession of it without right. Moreover, to satisfy your scruples on that head, we might with great propriety leave him the Petit-Nesle, where some one of his family now dwells, I think, and be content ourselves with the Grand-Nesle, and its courtyards, lawns, and bowling-greens and tennis-court."
"There is a tennis-court?"
"Finer than that of Santa-Croce at Florence."
"Per Bacco! and it is my favorite game; thou didst know that, Ascanio."
"Yes; and then, master, over and above all that, a superb location; air everywhere; and such air! perfect country air, and not such as we get here in this infernal corner, where we are moulding, forgotten by the sun. The Pré-aux-Clercs on one side, the Seine on the other, and the king, your great king, only two steps away, in his Louvre."
"But whose is this devil of a hotel?"