, his great contemporary, bosom
friend, and rival for literary fame, the late Alphonse Daudet, should
have been producing, under the title of "The Provencal Don Quixote,"
that unrivalled presentment of the foibles of the French Southerner,
with everyone nowadays knows as "Tartarin of Tarascon." It is possible
that M. Zola, while writing his book, may have read the instalments of
"Le Don Quichotte Provencal" published in the Paris "Figaro," and it may
be that this perusal imparted that fillip to his pen to which we owe
the many amusing particulars that he gives us of the town of Plassans.
Plassans, I may mention, is really the Provencal Aix, which M. Zola's
father provided with water by means of a canal still bearing his name.
M. Zola himself, though born in Paris, spent the greater part of his
childhood there. Tarascon, as is well known, never forgave Alphonse
Daudet for his "Tartarin"; and in a like way M. Zola, who doubtless
counts more enemies than any other literary man of the period, has none
bitterer than the worthy citizens of Aix. They cannot forget or forgive
the rascally Rougon-Macquarts.

The name Rougon-Macquart has to me always suggested that splendid and
amusing type of the cynical rogue, Robert Macaire. But, of course, both
Rougon and Macquart are genuine French names and not inventions. Indeed,
several years ago I came by chance upon them both, in an old French deed
which I was examining at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. I
there found mention of a Rougon family and a Macquart family dwelling
virtually side by side in the same village. This, however, was in
Champagne, not in Provence. Both families farmed vineyards for a once
famous abbey in the vicinity of Epernay, early in the seventeenth
century. To me, personally, this trivial discovery meant a great deal.
It somehow aroused my interest in M. Zola and his works. Of the latter I
had then only glanced through two or three volumes. With M. Zola himself
I was absolutely unacquainted. However, I took the liberty to inform him
of my little discovery; and afterwards I read all the books that he had
published. Now, as it is fairly well known, I have given the greater
part of my time, for several years past, to the task of familiarising
English readers with his writings. An old deed, a chance glance,
followed by the great friendship of my life and years of patient labour.
If I mention this matter, it is solely with the object of endorsing the
truth of th