a ringing sound akin to that of pale cast-iron when it snaps.  Until February the pavilion presented a most mournful appearance:  it was deserted, and wrapped in a bristling shroud of ice.  But with March came a thaw, with mild weather and fogs and rain.  Then the fish became soft again, and unpleasant odours mingled with the smell of mud wafted from the neighbouring streets.  These odours were as yet vague, tempered by the moisture which clung to the ground.  But in the blazing June afternoons a reeking stench arose, and the atmosphere became heavy with a pestilential haze.  The upper windows were then opened, and huge blinds of grey canvas were drawn beneath the burning sky.  Nevertheless, a fiery rain seemed to be pouring down, heating the market as though it were a big stove, and there was not a breath of air to waft away the noxious emanations from the fish.  A visible steam went up from the stalls.

The masses of food amongst which Florent lived now began to cause him the greatest discomfort.  The disgust with which the pork shop had filled him came back in a still more intolerable fashion.  He almost sickened as he passed these masses of fish, which, despite all the water lavished upon them, turned bad under a sudden whiff of hot air.  Even when he shut himself up in his office his discomfort continued, for the abominable odour forced its way through the chinks in the woodwork of the window and door.  When the sky was grey and leaden, the little room remained quite dark; and then the day was like a long twilight in the depths of some fetid march.  He was often attacked by fits of nervous excitement, and felt a craving desire to walk; and he would then descend into the cellars by the broad staircase opening in the middle of the pavilion.  In the pent-up air down below, in the dim light of the occasional gas jets, he once more found the refreshing coolness diffused by pure cold water.  He would stand in front of the big tank where the reserve stock of live fish was kept, and listen to the ceaseless murmur of the four streamlets of water falling from the four corners of the central urn, and then spreading into a broad stream and gliding beneath the locked gratings of the basins with a gentle and continuous flow.  This subterranean spring, 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