e 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, little insects buzzed in the
sunshine, deep silence fell from the heavens, and so low was the sound
of our kisses that not a bird in all the hedges showed sign of fear.
At a turn of the path we perceived some old bent women, who with dry,
withered hands were hurriedly gathering violets a