this stream murmuring in the gloom, had a tranquillising effect upon
him. Of an evening, too, he delighted in the fine sunsets which threw
the delicate lacework of the market buildings blackly against the red
glow of the heavens. The dancing dust of the last sun rays streamed
through every opening, through every chink of the Venetian shutters,
and the whole was like some luminous transparency on which the slender
shafts of the columns, the elegant curves of the girders, and the
geometrical tracery of the roofs were minutely outlined. Florent
feasted his eyes on this mighty diagram washed in with Indian ink on
phosphorescent vellum, and his mind reverted to his old fancy of a
colossal machine with wheels and levers and beams espied in the crimson
glow of the fires blazing beneath its boilers. At each consecutive hour
of the day the changing play of the light--from the bluish haze of early
morning and the black shadows of noon to the flaring of the sinking sun
and the paling of its fires in the ashy grey of the twilight--revealed
the markets under a new aspect; but on the flaming evenings, when the
foul smells arose and forced their way across the broad yellow beams
like hot puffs of steam, Florent again experienced discomfort, and
his dream changed, and he imagined himself in some gigantic knacker's
boiling-house where the fat of a whole people was being melted down.

The coarseness of the market people, whose words and gestures seemed to
be infected with the evil smell of the place, also made him suffer. He
was very tolerant, and showed no mock modesty; still, these impudent
women often embarrassed him. Madame Francois, whom he had again met,
was the only one with whom he felt at ease. She showed such pleasure
on learning he had found a berth and was quite comfortable and out of
worry, as she put it, that he was quite touched. The laughter of Lisa,
the handsome Norman, and the others disquieted him; but of Madame
Francois he would willingly have made a confidante. She never laughed