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. Helene 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. Helene 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.
Helene 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 Helene 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 Helene 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.
Helene was awaking from her dream when she observed a beggar-woman
crawling along near her. It was Mother Fetu, the snow deadening the
sound of her huge man's boots, which were burst and bound round with
bits of string. Never had Helene 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 Helene. 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. Helene 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
Fetu'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 Helene began to draw out her purse, Mother Fetu
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 Helene 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 Helene's fingers, as she opened the purse, began
to tremble, and Mother Fetu 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 Fetu, 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 Helene 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. Helene hastened to rejoin him. At the sight of the
gentleman Mother Fetu's eyes began to sparkle. He was unknown to her;
he must be a new-comer. Dragging her feet along, she followed Helene,
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 Helene, 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 Fetu 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!
Helene stood upright gazing on Paris, while Mother Fetu 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, Helene 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 Helene 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 Pantheon 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,
Abbe Jouve, was dead. In her turn she comforted him. What followed she
could not recall with any exactitude of detail. The Abbe 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 Helene. 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 Helene 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 Helene 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, Helene 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 Cite, 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 Pantheon, 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 Helene 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 Helene
Grandjean. Helene 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 Helene'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 Helene 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 Helene 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 Fetu. 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 Abbe 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.
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