Two years were past and gone. One morning in December the little
cemetery lay slumbering in the intense cold. Since the evening before
snow had been falling, a fine snow, which a north wind blew before it.
From the paling sky the flakes now fell at rarer intervals, light and
buoyant, like feathers. The snow was already hardening, and a thick
trimming of seeming swan’s-down edged the parapet of the terrace.
Beyond this white line lay Paris, against the gloomy grey on the
horizon.
Madame Rambaud was still praying on her knees in the snow before the
grave of Jeanne. Her husband had but a moment before risen silently to
his feet. Hélène and her old lover had been married in November at
Marseilles. Monsieur Rambaud had disposed of his business near the
Central Markets, and had come to Paris for three days, in order to
conclude the transaction. The carriage now awaiting them in the Rue des
Reservoirs was to take them back to their hotel, and thence with their
travelling-trunks to the railway station. Hélène had made the journey
with the one thought of kneeling here. She remained motionless, with
drooping head, as if dreaming, and unconscious of the cold ground that
chilled her knees.
Meanwhile the wind was falling. Monsieur Rambaud had stepped to the
terrace, leaving her to the mute anguish which memory evoked. A haze
was stealing over the outlying districts of Paris, whose immensity
faded away in this pale, vague mist. Round the Trocadero the city was
of a leaden hue and lifeless, while the last snowflakes slowly
fluttered down in pale specks against the gloomy background. Beyond the
chimneys of the Army Bakehouse, the brick towers of which had a coppery
tint, these white dots descended more thickly; a gauze seemed to be
floating in the air, falling to earth thread by thread. Not a breath
stirred as the dream-like shower sleepily and rhythmically descended
from the atmosphere. As they neared the roofs the flakes seemed to
falter in their flight; in myriads they ceaselessly pillowed themselves
on one another, in such intense silence that even blossoms shedding
their petals make more noise; and from this moving mass, whose descent
through space was inaudible, there sprang a sense of such intense
peacefulness that earth and life were forgotten. A milky whiteness
spread more and more over the whole heavens though they were still
darkened here and there by wreaths of smoke. Little by little, bright
clusters of houses became plainly visible; a bird’s-eye view was
obtained of the whole city, intersected by streets and squares, which
with their shadowy depths described the framework of the several
districts.
Hélène had slowly risen. On the snow remained the imprint of her knees.
Wrapped in a large, dark mantle trimmed with fur, she seemed amidst the
surrounding white very tall and broad-shouldered. The border of her
bonnet, a twisted band of black velvet, looked like a diadem throwing a
shadow on her forehead. She had regained her beautiful, placid face
with grey eyes and pearly teeth. Her chin was full and rounded, as in
the olden days, giving her an air of sturdy sense and determination. As
she turned her head, her profile once more assumed statuesque severity
and purity. Beneath the untroubled paleness of her cheeks her blood
coursed calmly; everything showed that honor was again ruling her life.
Two tears had rolled from under her eyelids; her present tranquillity
came from her past sorrow. And she stood before the grave on which was
reared a simple pillar inscribed with Jeanne’s name and two dates,
within which the dead child’s brief existence was compassed.
Around Hélène stretched the cemetery, enveloped in its snowy pall,
through which rose rusty monuments and iron crosses, like arms thrown
up in agony. There was only one path visible in this lonely corner, and
that had been made by the footmarks of Hélène and Monsieur Rambaud. It
was a spotless solitude where the dead lay sleeping. The walks were
outlined by the shadowy, phantom-like trees. Ever and anon some snow
fell noiselessly from a branch that had been too heavily burdened. But
nothing else stirred. At the far end, some little while ago, a black
tramping had passed by; some one was being buried beneath this snowy
winding-sheet. And now another funeral train appeared on the left.
Hearses and mourners went their way in silence, like shadows thrown
upon a spotless linen cloth.
Hélène was awaking from her dream when she observed a beggar-woman
crawling along near her. It was Mother Fétu, the snow deadening the
sound of her huge man’s boots, which were burst and bound round with
bits of string. Never had Hélène seen her weighed down by such intense
misery, or covered with filthier rags, though she was fatter than ever,
and wore a stupid look. In the foulest weather, despite hard frosts or
drenching rain, the old woman now followed funerals in order to
speculate on the pity of the charitable. She well knew that amongst the
gravestones the fear of death makes people generous; and so she prowled
from tomb to tomb, approaching the kneeling mourners at the moment they
burst into tears, for she understood that they were then powerless to
refuse her. She had entered with the last funeral train, and a moment
previously had espied Hélène. But she had not recognized her
benefactress, and with gasps and sobs began to relate how she had two
children at home who were dying of hunger. Hélène listened to her,
struck dumb by this apparition. The children were without fire to warm
them; the elder was going off in a decline. But all at once Mother
Fétu’s words came to an end. Her brain was evidently working beneath
the myriad wrinkles of her face, and her little eyes began to blink.
Good gracious! it was her benefactress! Heaven, then, had hearkened to
her prayers! And without seeking to explain the story about the
children, she plunged into a whining tale, with a ceaseless rush of
words. Several of her teeth were missing, and she could be understood
with difficulty. The gracious God had sent every affliction on her
head, she declared. The gentleman lodger had gone away, and she had
only just been enabled to rise after lying for three months in bed;
yes, the old pain still remained, it now gripped her everywhere; a
neighbor had told her that a spider must have got in through her mouth
while she was asleep. If she had only had a little fire, she could have
warmed her stomach; that was the only thing that could relieve her now.
But nothing could be had for nothing—not even a match. Perhaps she was
right in thinking that madame had been travelling? That was her own
concern, of course. At all events, she looked very well, and fresh, and
beautiful. God would requite her for all her kindness. Then, as Hélène
began to draw out her purse, Mother Fétu drew breath, leaning against
the railing that encircled Jeanne’s grave.
The funeral processions had vanished from sight. Somewhere in a grave
close at hand a digger, whom they could not see, was wielding his
pickaxe with regular strokes.
Meanwhile the old woman had regained her breath, and her eyes were
riveted on the purse. Then, anxious to extort as large a sum as
possible, she displayed considerable cunning, and spoke of the other
lady. Nobody could say that she was not a charitable lady; still, she
did not know what to do with her money—it never did one much good.
Warily did she glance at Hélène as she spoke. And next she ventured to
mention the doctor’s name. Oh! he was good. Last summer he had again
gone on a journey with his wife. Their boy was thriving; he was a fine
child. But just then Hélène’s fingers, as she opened the purse, began
to tremble, and Mother Fétu immediately changed her tone. In her
stupidity and bewilderment she had only now realized that the good lady
was standing beside her daughter’s grave. She stammered, gasped, and
tried to bring tears to her eyes. Jeanne, said she, had been so dainty
a darling, with such loves of little hands; she could still see her
giving her silver in charity. What long hair she had! and how her large
eyes filled with tears when she gazed on the poor! Ah! there was no
replacing such an angel; there were no more to be found like her, were
they even to search the whole of Passy. And when the fine days came,
said Mother Fétu, she would gather some daisies in the moat of the
fortifications and place them on her tomb. Then, however, she lapsed
into silence frightened by the gesture with which Hélène cut her short.
Was it possible, she thought, that she could no longer find the right
thing to say? Her good lady did not weep, and only gave her a
twenty-sou piece.
Monsieur Rambaud, meanwhile, had walked towards them from the parapet
of the terrace. Hélène hastened to rejoin him. At the sight of the
gentleman Mother Fétu’s eyes began to sparkle. He was unknown to her;
he must be a new-comer. Dragging her feet along, she followed Hélène,
invoking every blessing of Heaven on her head; and when she had crept
close to Monsieur Rambaud, she again spoke of the doctor. Ah! his would
be a magnificent funeral when he died, were the poor people whom he had
attended for nothing to follow his corpse! He was rather fickle in his
loves—nobody could deny that. There were ladies in Passy who knew him
well. But all that didn’t prevent him from worshipping his wife—such a
pretty lady, who, had she wished, might have easily gone wrong, but had
given up such ideas long ago. Their home was quite a turtle-doves’ nest
now. Had madame paid them a visit yet? They were certain to be at home;
she had but a few moments previously observed that the shutters were
open in the Rue Vineuse. They had formerly had such regard for madame
that surely they would be delighted to receive her with open arms!
The old hag leered at Monsieur Rambaud as she thus mumbled away. He
listened to her with the composure of a brave man. The memories that
were being called up before him brought no shadow to his unruffled
face. Only it occurred to him that the pertinacity of the old beggar
was annoying Hélène, and so he hastened to fumble in his pocket, in his
turn giving her some alms, and at the same time waving her away. The
moment her eyes rested on another silver coin Mother Fétu burst into
loud thanks. She would buy some wood at once; she would be able to warm
her afflicted body—that was the only thing now to give her stomach any
relief. Yes, the doctor’s home was quite a nest of turtle-doves, and
the proof was that the lady had only last winter given birth to a
second child—a beautiful little daughter, rosy-cheeked and fat, who
must now be nearly fourteen months old. On the day of the baptism the
doctor had put a hundred sous into her hand at the door of the church.
Ah! good hearts came together. Madame had brought her good luck. Pray
God that madame might never have a sorrow, but every good fortune! yes,
might that come to pass in the name of the Father, the Son, and the
Holy Ghost!
Hélène stood upright gazing on Paris, while Mother Fétu vanished among
the tombs, muttering three _Paters_ and three _Aves_. The snow had
ceased falling; the last of the flakes had fluttered slowly and wearily
on to the roofs; and through the dissolving mist the golden sun could
be seen tinging the pearly-grey expanse of heaven with a pink glow.
Over Montmartre a belt of blue fringed the horizon; but it was so faint
and delicate that it seemed but a shadow such as white satin might
throw. Paris was gradually detaching itself from amidst the smoke,
spreading out more broadly with its snowy expanses the frigid cloak
which held it in death-like quiescence. There were now no longer any
fleeting specks of white making the city shudder, and quivering in pale
waves over the dull-brown house-fronts. Amidst the masses of snow that
girt them round the dwellings stood out black and gloomy, as though
mouldy with centuries of damp. Entire streets appeared to be in ruins,
as if undermined by some gunpowder explosion, with roofs ready to give
way and windows already driven in. But gradually, as the belt of blue
broadened in the direction of Montmartre, there came a stream of light,
pure and cool as the waters of a spring; and Paris once more shone out
as under a glass, which lent even to the outlying districts the
distinctness of a Japanese picture.
Wrapped in her fur mantle, with her hands clinging idly to the cuffs of
the sleeves, Hélène was musing. With the persistency of an echo one
thought unceasingly pursued her—a child, a fat, rosy daughter, had been
born to them. In her imagination she could picture her at the
love-compelling age when Jeanne had commenced to prattle. Baby girls
are such darlings when fourteen months old! She counted the
months—fourteen: that made two years when she took the remaining period
into consideration—exactly the time within a fortnight. Then her brain
conjured up a sunny picture of Italy, a realm of dreamland, with golden
fruits where lovers wandered through the perfumed nights, with arms
round one another’s waists. Henri and Juliette were pacing before her
eyes beneath the light of the moon. They loved as husband and wife do
when passion is once more awakened within them. To think of it—a tiny
girl, rosy and fat, its bare body flushed by the warm sunshine, while
it strives to stammer words which its mother arrests with kisses! And
Hélène thought of all this without any anger; her heart was mute, yet
seemingly derived yet greater quietude from the sadness of her spirit.
The land of the sun had vanished from her vision; her eyes wandered
slowly over Paris, on whose huge frame winter had laid his freezing
hand. Above the Panthéon another patch of blue was now spreading in the
heavens.
Meanwhile memory was recalling the past to life. At Marseilles she had
spent her days in a state of coma. One morning as she went along the
Rue des Petites-Maries, she had burst out sobbing in front of the home
of her childhood. That was the last occasion on which she had wept.
Monsieur Rambaud was her frequent visitor; she felt his presence near
her to be a protection. Towards autumn she had one evening seen him
enter, with red eyes and in the agony of a great sorrow; his brother,
Abbé Jouve, was dead. In her turn she comforted him. What followed she
could not recall with any exactitude of detail. The Abbé ever seemed to
stand behind them, and influenced by thought of him she succumbed
resignedly. When M. Rambaud once more hinted at his wish, she had
nothing to say in refusal. It seemed to her that what he asked was but
sensible. Of her own accord, as her period of mourning was drawing to
an end, she calmly arranged all the details with him. His hands
trembled in a transport of tenderness. It should be as she pleased; he
had waited for months; a sign sufficed him. They were married in
mourning garb. On the wedding night he, like her first husband, kissed
her bare feet—feet fair as though fashioned out of marble. And thus
life began once more.
While the belt of blue was broadening on the horizon, this awakening of
memory came with an astounding effect on Hélène. Had she lived through
a year of madness, then? To-day, as she pictured the woman who had
lived for nearly three years in that room in the Rue Vineuse, she
imagined that she was passing judgment on some stranger, whose conduct
revolted and surprised her. How fearfully foolish had been her act! how
abominably wicked! Yet she had not sought it. She had been living
peacefully, hidden in her nook, absorbed in the love of her daughter.
Untroubled by any curious thoughts, by any desire, she had seen the
road of life lying before her. But a breath had swept by, and she had
fallen. Even at this moment she was unable to explain it; she had
evidently ceased to be herself; another mind and heart had controlled
her actions. Was it possible? She had done those things? Then an icy
chill ran through her; she saw Jeanne borne away beneath roses. But in
the torpor begotten of her grief she grew very calm again, once more
without a longing or curiosity, once more proceeding along the path of
duty that lay so straight before her. Life had again begun for her,
fraught with austere peacefulness and pride of honesty.
Monsieur Rambaud now moved near her to lead her from this place of
sadness. But Hélène silently signed to him her wish to linger a little
longer. Approaching the parapet she gazed below into the Avenue de la
Muette, where a long line of old cabs in the last stage of decay
stretched beside the footpath. The hoods and wheels looked blanched,
the rusty horses seemed to have been rotting there since the dark ages.
Some cabmen sat motionless, freezing within their frozen cloaks. Over
the snow other vehicles were crawling along, one after the other, with
the utmost difficulty. The animals were losing their foothold, and
stretching out their necks, while their drivers with many oaths
descended from their seats and held them by the bridle; and through the
windows you could see the faces of the patient “fares,” reclining
against the cushions, and resigning themselves to the stern necessity
of taking three-quarters of an hour to cover a distance which in other
weather would have been accomplished in ten minutes. The rumbling of
the wheels was deadened by the snow; only the voices vibrated upward,
sounding shrill and distinct amidst the silence of the streets; there
were loud calls, the laughing exclamations of people slipping on the
icy paths, the angry whip-cracking of carters, and the snorting of
terrified horses. In the distance, to the right, the lofty trees on the
quay seemed to be spun of glass, like huge Venetian chandeliers, whose
flower-decked arms the designer had whimsically twisted. The icy north
wind had transformed the trunks into columns, over which waved downy
boughs and feathery tufts, an exquisite tracery of black twigs edged
with white trimmings. It was freezing, and not a breath stirred in the
pure air.
Then Hélène told her heart that she had known nothing of Henri. For a
year she had seen him almost every day; he had lingered for hours and
hours near her, to speak to her and gaze into her eyes. Yet she knew
nothing of him. Whence had he come? how had he crept into her intimacy?
what manner of man was he that she had yielded to him—she who would
rather have perished than yield to another? She knew nothing of him; it
had all sprung from some sudden tottering of her reason. He had been a
stranger to her on the last as on the first day. In vain did she patch
together little scattered things and circumstances—his words, his acts,
everything that her memory recalled concerning him. He loved his wife
and his child; he smiled with delicate grace; he outwardly appeared a
well-bred man. Then she saw him again with inflamed visage, and
trembling with passion. But weeks passed, and he vanished from her
sight. At this moment she could not have said where she had spoken to
him for the last time. He had passed away, and his shadow had gone with
him. Their story had no other ending. She knew him not.
Over the city the sky had now become blue, and every cloud had
vanished. Wearied with her memories, and rejoicing in the purity before
her, Hélène raised her head. The blue of the heavens was exquisitely
clear, but still very pale in the light of the sun, which hung low on
the horizon, and glittered like a silver lamp. In that icy temperature
its rays shed no heat on the glittering snow. Below stretched the
expanses of roofs—the tiles of the Army Bakehouse, and the slates of
the houses on the quay—like sheets of white cloth fringed with black.
On the other bank of the river, the square stretch of the Champ-de-Mars
seemed a steppe, the black dots of the straggling vehicles making one
think of sledges skimming along with tinkling bells; while the elms on
the Quai d’Orsay, dwarfed by the distance, looked like crystal flowers
bristling with sharp points. Through all the snow-white sea the Seine
rolled its muddy waters edged by the ermine of its banks; since the
evening before ice had been floating down, and you could clearly see
the masses crushing against the piers of the Pont des Invalides, and
vanishing swiftly beneath the arches. The bridges, growing more and
more delicate with the distance, seemed like the steps of a ladder of
white lace reaching as far as the sparkling walls of the Cité, above
which the towers of Notre-Dame reared their snow-white crests. On the
left the level plain was broken up by other peaks. The Church of
Saint-Augustin, the Opera House, the Tower of Saint-Jacques, looked
like mountains clad with eternal snow. Nearer at hand the pavilions of
the Tuileries and the Louvre, joined together by newly erected
buildings, resembled a ridge of hills with spotless summits. On the
right, too, were the white tops of the Invalides, of Saint-Sulpice, and
the Panthéon, the last in the dim distance, outlining against the sky a
palace of fairyland with dressings of bluish marble. Not a sound broke
the stillness. Grey-looking hollows revealed the presence of the
streets; the public squares were like yawning crevasses. Whole lines of
houses had vanished. The fronts of the neighboring dwellings alone
showed distinctly with the thousand streaks of light reflected from
their windows. Beyond, the expanse of snow intermingled and merged into
a seeming lake, whose blue shadows blended with the blue of the sky.
Huge and clear in the bright, frosty atmosphere, Paris glittered in the
light of the silver sun.
Then Hélène for the last time let her glance sweep over the unpitying
city which also remained unknown to her. She saw it once more, tranquil
and with immortal beauty amidst the snow, the same as when she had left
it, the same as it had been every day for three long years. Paris to
her was full of her past life. In its presence she had loved, in its
presence Jeanne had died. But this companion of her every-day existence
retained on its mighty face a wondrous serenity, unruffled by any
emotion, as though it were but a mute witness of the laughter and the
tears which the Seine seemed to roll in its flood. She had, according
to her mood, endowed it with monstrous cruelty or almighty goodness.
To-day she felt that she would be ever ignorant of it, in its
indifference and immensity. It spread before her; it was life.
However, Monsieur Rambaud now laid a light hand on her arm to lead her
away. His kindly face was troubled, and he whispered:
“Do not give yourself pain.”
He divined her every thought, and this was all he could say. Madame
Rambaud looked at him, and her sorrow became appeased. Her cheeks were
flushed by the cold; her eyes sparkled. Her memories were already far
away. Life was beginning again.
“I’m not quite certain whether I shut the big trunk properly,” she
exclaimed.
Monsieur Rambaud promised that he would make sure. Their train started
at noon, and they had plenty of time. Some gravel was being scattered
on the streets; their cab would not take an hour. But, all at once, he
raised his voice:
“I believe you’ve forgotten the fishing-rods!” said he.
“Oh, yes; quite!” she answered, surprised and vexed at her
forgetfulness. “We ought to have bought them yesterday!”
The rods in question were very handy ones, the like of which could not
be purchased at Marseilles. They there owned near the sea a small
country house, where they purposed spending the summer. Monsieur
Rambaud looked at his watch. On their way to the railway station they
would still be able to buy the rods, and could tie them up with the
umbrellas. Then he led her from the place, tramping along, and taking
short cuts between the graves. The cemetery was empty; only the imprint
of their feet now remained on the snow. Jeanne, dead, lay alone, facing
Paris, for ever and for ever.
AFTERWARD
There can be no doubt in the mind of the judicial critic that in the
pages of “A Love Episode” the reader finds more of the poetical, more
of the delicately artistic, more of the subtle emanation of creative
and analytical genius, than in any other of Zola’s works, with perhaps
one exception. The masterly series of which this book is a part
furnishes a well-stocked gallery of pictures by which posterity will
receive vivid and adequate impressions of life in France during a
certain period. There was a strain of Greek blood in Zola’s veins. It
would almost seem that down through the ages with this blood there had
come to him a touch of that old Greek fatalism, or belief in destiny or
necessity. The Greek tragedies are pervaded and permeated, steeped and
dyed with this idea of relentless fate. It is called heredity, in these
modern days. Heredity plus environment,—in these we find the keynote of
the great productions of the leader of the “naturalistic” school of
fiction.
It has been said that art, in itself, should have no moral. It has been
further charged that the tendencies of some of Zola’s works are
hurtful. But, in the books of this master, the aberrations of vice are
nowhere made attractive, or insidiously alluring. The shadow of
expiation, remorse, punishment, retribution is ever present, like a
death’s-head at a feast. The day of reckoning comes, and bitterly do
the culprits realize that the tortuous game of vice is not worth the
candle. Casuistical theologians may attempt to explain away the notions
of punishment in the life to come, of retribution beyond the grave. But
the shallowest thinker will not deny the realities of remorse. To how
many confessions, to how many suicides has it led? Of how many reformed
lives has it been the mainspring? The great lecturer, John B. Gough,
used to tell a story of a railway employee whose mind was overthrown by
his disastrous error in misplacing a switch, and who spent his days in
the mad-house repeating the phrase: “If I only had, if I only had.” His
was not an intentional or wilful dereliction. But in the hearts of how
many repentant sinners does there not echo through life a similar
mournful refrain. This lesson has been taught by Zola in more than one
of his romances.
In “A Love Episode” how poignant is this expiation! In all literature
there is nothing like the portrayal of the punishment of Hélène
Grandjean. Hélène and little Jeanne are reversions of type. The old
“neurosis,” seen in earlier branches of the family, reappears in these
characters. Readers of the series will know where it began. Poor little
Jeanne, most pathetic of creations, is a study in abnormal jealousy, a
jealousy which seems to be clairvoyant, full of supernatural
intuitions, turning everything to suspicion, a jealousy which blights
and kills. Could the memory of those weeks of anguish fade from
Hélène’s soul? This dying of a broken heart is not merely the figment
of a poet’s fancy. It has happened in real life. The coming of death,
save in the case of the very aged, seems, nearly always, brutally
cruel, at least to those friends who survive. Parents know what it is
to sit with bated breath and despairing heart beside the bed of a
sinking child. Seconds seem hours, and hours weeks. The impotency to
succour, the powerlessness to save, the dumb despair, the overwhelming
grief, all these are sorrowful realities. How vividly are they pictured
by Zola. And, added to this keenness of grief in the case of Hélène
Grandjean, was the sense that her fault had contributed to the illness
of her daughter. Each sigh of pain was a reproach. The pallid and
ever-paling cheek was a whip of scorpions, lashing the mother’s naked
soul. Will ethical teachers say that there is no salutary moral lesson
in this vivid picture? To many it seems better than a cart-load of dull
tracts or somnolent homilies. Poor, pathetic little Jeanne, lying there
in the cemetery of Passy—where later was erected the real tomb of Marie
Bashkirtseff, though dead she yet spoke a lesson of contrition to her
mother. And though the second marriage of Hélène has been styled an
anti-climax, yet it is true enough to life. It does not remove the
logical and artistic inference that the memory of Jeanne’s sufferings
lingered with ever recurring poignancy in the mother’s heart.
In a few bold lines Zola sketches a living character. Take the picture
of old Mere Fétu. One really feels her disagreeable presence, and is
annoyed with her whining, leering, fawning, sycophancy. One almost
resents her introduction into the pages of the book. There is something
palpably odious about her personality. A pleasing contrast is formed by
the pendant portraits of the awkward little soldier and his
kitchen-sweetheart. This homely and wholesome couple one may meet any
afternoon in Paris, on leave-of-absence days. Their portraits, and the
delicious description of the children’s party, are evidently studies
from life. With such vivid verisimilitude is the latter presented that
one imagines, the day after reading the book, that he has been present
at the pleasant function, and has admired the fluffy darlings, in their
dainty costumes, with their chubby cavaliers.
It is barely fair to an author to give him the credit of knowing
something about the proper relative proportions of his characters. And
so, although Dr. Deberle is somewhat shadowy, he certainly serves the
author’s purpose, and—well, Dr. Deberle is not the hero of “An Episode
of Love.” Rambaud and the good Abbé Jouve are certainly strong enough.
There seems to be a touch of Dickens about them.
Cities sometimes seem to be great organisms. Each has an individuality,
a specific identity, so marked, and peculiarities so especially
characteristic of itself, that one might almost allow it a soul. Down
through the centuries has fair Lutetia come, growing in the artistic
graces, until now she stands the playground of princes and the capital
of the world, even as mighty Rome among the ancients. And shall we
object, because a few pages of “A Love Episode” are devoted to
descriptions of Paris? Rather let us be thankful for them. These
descriptions of the wonderful old city form a glorious pentatych. They
are invaluable to two classes of readers, those who have visited Paris
and those who have not. To the former they recall the days in which the
spirit of the French metropolis seemed to possess their being and to
take them under its wondrous spell. To the latter they supply hints of
the majesty and attractiveness of Paris, and give some inkling of its
power to please. And Zola loved his Paris as a sailor loves the sea.
C. C. STARKWEATHER.