Nobody speaks, nobody stays there, all hurry about their business with bent heads, stepping out rapidly, without taking a single glance at the shops.

The tradesmen observe with an air of alarm, the passers-by who by a miracle stop before their windows.
The arcade is lit at night by three gas burners, enclosed in heavy square lanterns.

These jets of gas, hanging from the glazed roof whereon they cast spots of fawn-coloured light, shed around them circles of pale glimmer that seem at moments to disappear.

The arcade now assumes the aspect of a regular cut-throat alley.

Great shadows stretch along the tiles, damp puffs of air enter from the street.