At the end of the Rue Guenegaud, coming from the quays, you find the
Arcade of the Pont Neuf, a sort of narrow, dark corridor running from
the Rue Mazarine to the Rue de Seine. This arcade, at the most, is
thirty paces long by two in breadth. It is paved with worn, loose,
yellowish tiles which are never free from acrid damp. The square panes
of glass forming the roof, are black with filth.

On fine days in the summer, when the streets are burning with heavy sun,
whitish light falls from the dirty glazing overhead to drag miserably
through the arcade. On nasty days in winter, on foggy mornings, the
glass throws nothing but darkness on the sticky tiles--unclean and
abominable gloom.

To the left are obscure, low, dumpy shops whence issue puffs of air as
cold as if coming from a cellar. Here are dealers in toys, cardboard
boxes, second-hand books. The articles displayed in their windows are
covered with dust, and owing to the prevailing darkness, can only be
perceived indistinctly. The shop fronts, formed of small panes of glass,
streak the goods with a peculiar greenish reflex. Beyond, behind
the display in the windows, the dim interiors resemble a number of
lugubrious cavities animated by fantastic forms.

To the right, along the whole length of the arcade, extends a wall
against which the shopkeepers opposite have stuck some small cupboards.
Objects without a name, goods forgotten for twenty years, are spread
out there on thin shelves painted a horrible brown colour. A dealer in
imitation jewelry, has set up shop in one of these cupboards, and there
sells fifteen sous rings, delicately set out on a cushion of blue velvet
at the bottom of a mahogany box.