as in the autumn, and I determined to make, before winter came, an
excursion through Normandy, a country with which I was unacquainted.

I began my journey, in the best of spirits, at Rouen, and for eight
days I wandered about, passive, ravished, and enthusiastic, in that
ancient city, that astonishing museum of extraordinary Gothic monuments.

But one afternoon, about four o'clock, as I was sauntering slowly
through a seemingly unattractive street, by which there ran a stream as
black as the ink called "Eau de Robec," my attention, fixed for the
moment on the quaint, antique appearance of some of the houses, was
suddenly attracted by the view of a series of second-hand furniture
shops, which followed one another, door after door.

Ah! they had carefully chosen their locality, these sordid traffickers
in antiquities, in that quaint little street, overlooking the sinister
stream of water, under those tile and slate-pointed roofs on which
still grinned the vanes of bygone days.

At the end of these grim storehouses you saw piled up sculptured
chests, Rouen, Sevres, and Moustier's pottery, painted statues, others
of oak, Christs, Virgins, Saints, church ornaments, chasubles, capes,
even sacred vases, and an old gilded wooden tabernacle, where a god had
hidden himself away. What singular caverns there are in those lofty
houses, crowded with objects of every description, where the existence
of things seems to be ended, things which have survived their original
possessors, their century, their times, their fashions, in order to be
bought as curiosities by new generations.

My affection for antiques was awakened in that city of antiquaries. I
went from shop to shop, crossing in two strides the rotten four plank
bridges thrown over the nauseous current of the "Eau de Robec."

Heaven protect me! What a shock! At the end of a vault, which was
crowded with articles of every description and which seemed to be the
entrance to the catacombs of a cemetery of ancient furniture, I
suddenly descried one of my most beautiful wardrobes. I approached it,
trembling in every limb, trembling to such an extent that I dared not
touch it, I put forth my hand, I hesitated. Nevertheless it was indeed
my wardrobe; a unique wardrobe of the time of Louis XIII., recognizable
by anyone who had seen it only once. Casting my eyes suddenly a little
farther, toward the more somber depths of the gallery, I perceived
three of my tapestry covered chairs;