ctly they had crossed the Pont Louis-Philippe. From one end to the
other the slanting sun powdered the houses on the right bank with golden
dust, while, on the left, the islets, the buildings, stood out in a
black line against the blazing glory of the sunset. Between the sombre
and the brilliant margin, the spangled river sparkled, cut in twain
every now and then by the long bars of its bridges; the five arches of
the Pont Notre-Dame showing under the single span of the Pont d'Arcole;
then the Pont-au-Change and the Pont-Neuf, beyond each of whose shadows
appeared a luminous patch, a sheet of bluish satiny water, growing
paler here and there with a mirror-like reflection. And while the dusky
outlines on the left terminated in the silhouettes of the pointed towers
of the Palais de Justice, sharply and darkly defined against the sky,
a gentle curve undulated on the right, stretching away so far that the
Pavillon de Flore, who stood forth like a citadel at the curve's extreme
end, seemed a fairy castle, bluey, dreamlike and vague, amidst the
rosy mist on the horizon. But Claude and Christine, with the sunlight
streaming on them, athwart the leafless plane trees, turned away from
the dazzlement, preferring to gaze at certain spots, one above all--a
block of old houses just above the Mail. Below, there was a series of
one-storied tenements, little huckster and fishing-tackle shops, with
flat terrace roofs, ornamented with laurel and Virginia creeper. And in
the rear rose loftier, but decrepit, dwellings, with linen hung out to
dry at their windows, a collection of fantastic structures, a confused
mass of woodwork and masonry, overtoppling walls, and hanging gardens,
in which coloured glass balls shone out like stars. They walked on,
leaving behind them the big barracks and the Hotel de Ville, and feeling
much more interest in the Cite which appeared across the river, pent
between lofty smooth embankments rising from the water. Above the
darkened houses rose the towers of Notre-Dame, as resplendent as if they
had been newly gilt. Then the second-hand bookstalls began to invade
the quays. Down below a lighter full of charcoal struggled against the
strong current beneath an arch of the Pont Notre-Dame. And then, on
the days when the flower market was held, they stopped, despite the
inclement weather, to inhale the scent of the first violets and the
early gillyflowers. On their left a long stretch of bank now became
visible; beyon