In the centre of the room, under the electric lights—­which, however, were only fitted towards the end of M. Zola’s sojourn at the hotel, so that throughout the winter a paraffin lamp supplied the necessary illumination—­stood the table at which one lunched and dined.  It was round and would just accommodate four persons.  Finally, beside M. Zola’s favourite arm-chair, near the fireplace, was a little gipsy table, on which he usually kept the day’s newspapers, and perchance the volume he was reading at the time.

A doorway on the same side as the fireplace gave ingress to the bedchamber, which was smaller than the sitting-room, and adequately, but by no means luxuriously furnished.

On the little writing-table near the middle window were first a small inkstand belonging to the hotel, then a few paper-weights covering memoranda jotted down on little square pieces of paper, about three inches long either way, together with an old yellowish newspaper which did duty as a blotting pad; and a pen with a ‘j’ nib and a very heavy ivory handle, so heavy, indeed, that though the master often offered it to me I could never write with it.  With this pen, however, he himself did all his work.  That work he generally cleared away before lunch, and locked up in his bedroom wardrobe, so that by the time a visitor arrived there was never any litter in the sitting-room.

The road, viewed from the writing-table window, was at times fairly lively.  Nursemaids and children, bicyclists and others passed constantly to and fro.  Stylish carriages also rolled by during the afternoon, and at intervals a little green omnibus went its way at a slow jog-trot.  The detached villa residences on the other side of the road were, however, singularly lifeless.  One day M. Zola remarked to me:  ’I have never seen a soul in those houses during all the months I have been here.  They are occupied certainly, for the window blinds are pulled up every morning and lowered every evening, but I can never detect who does this; and I have never seen anybody leave the houses or enter them.’

At last one afternoon he told me that one of these villas had woke up, for on the previous day he had espied a lady in the garden watering some flowers.

Rather lower down the road there was a livelier house, one which had a balconied window, which was almost invariably open, and here servants and children were often to be seen.  ‘That,’ said M. Zola, ’is the one little corner of life and gaiety, amidst all the other silence and lack of life.  Whenever I feel dull or worried I look over there.’

As a rule the Queen’s Hotel itself is, as I have already mentioned, a very quiet place; but now and again a wedding breakfast was given there.  Broughams and landaus would then roll over the gravel sweep, and M. Zola and I would at times lean out of the windows and exchange opinions with respect to the bridal pair and the guests.  What surprised and amused him, on one occasion when a wedding party came to the hotel, was to notice that all the coachmen of the carriages wore yellow flowers and favours; for in France yellow is not only associated with jealousy, but also with conjugal faithlessness.