flowers lie prone upon the footways. . . .  I noticed just in front of me one large bunch which had slipped off a neighbouring mound and was almost bathing in the gutter.  I picked it up.  Underneath, it was soiled with mud; the greasy, fetid sewer water had left black stains upon the flowers.  And then, gazing at these exquisite daughters of our gardens and our woods, astray amidst all the filth of the city, I began to ponder.  On what woman’s bosom would those wretched flowerets open and bloom?  Some hawker would dip them in a pail of water, and of all the bitter odours of the Paris mud they would retain but a slight pungency, which would remain mingled with their own sweet perfume.  The water would remove their stains, they would pale somewhat, and become a joy both for the smell and for the sight.  Nevertheless, in the depths of each corolla there would still remain some particle of mud suggestive of impurity.  And I asked myself how much love and passion was represented by all those heaps of flowers shivering in the bleak wind.  To how many loving ones, and how many indifferent ones, and how many egotistical ones, would all those thousands and thousands of violets go!  In a few hours’ time they would be scattered to the four corners of Paris, and for a paltry copper the passers-by would purchase a glimpse and a whiff of springtide in the muddy streets.

Imperfect as the rendering may be, I think that the above passage will show that M. Zola was already possessed of a large amount of his acknowledged realistic power at the early date I have mentioned.  I should also have liked to quote a rather amusing story of a priggish Philistine who ate violets with oil and vinegar, strongly peppered, but considerations of space forbid; so I will pass to another passage, which is of more interest and importance.  Both French and English critics have often contended that although M. Zola is a married man, he knows very little of women, as there has virtually never been any feminine romance in his life.  There are those who are aware of the contrary, but whose tongues are stayed by considerations of delicacy and respect.  Still, as the passage I am now about to reproduce is signed and acknowledged as fact by M. Zola himself, I see no harm in slightly raising the veil from a long-past episode in the master’s life:—­

The light was rising, and as I stood there before that footway transformed into a bed of flowers my strange night-fancies gave place to recollections at once sweet and sad.  I thought of my last excursion to Fontenay-aux-Roses, with the loved one, the good fairy of my twentieth year.  Springtime was budding into birth, the tender foliage gleamed in the pale April sunshine.  The little pathway skirting the hill was bordered by large fields of violets.  As one passed along, a strong perfume seemed to penetrate one and make one languid. She was leaning on my arm, faint with love from the sweet odour of the flowers.  A whiteness hovered over the country-side,