four o'clock, along an outlandish street through which flows an ink-black stream that they call the "Eau de Robec," my attention, which had been devoted to the fantastic and antiquated aspect of the houses, was suddenly attracted by the sight of a row of second-hand dealers' shops that adjoined each other, door by door.
Ah! they had made good choice of their location, those sordid traffickers in the frippery of the past, in that quaint, narrow street, over that repulsive watercourse, beneath those peaked roofs of tile or slate on which the old-fashioned weathercocks were still creaking as they turned with the wind!
Heaped confusedly together in the depths of the dark shops could be seen carved chests, pottery of Rouen, of Nevers, of Moustiers, painted statues and others of oak, images of Christ, of the Virgin and of the saints, ecclesiastical ornaments, chasubles, copes, even sacred vases and an old tabernacle of gilded wood that had ceased to be a residence of the Divinity. Oh! those strange caverns in those lofty houses, in those wide, deep houses that were filled, from garret to cellar, with objects of every description that seemed to have outlived their usefulness, that had survived their natural owners, their age, their time, their customs, to be purchased as curiosities by new generations!
My old passion for bric-à-brac came to life again in this antiquarian region. I went from shop to shop, crossing in a couple of strides the bridges of four rotting planks that spanned the unsavory current of the Eau de Robec.
Miséricorde! How it upset me! At the edge of a vault that was stuffed full with all sorts of things, and
