clear that _The Nabob_ is open to the charge that applies to all the
greater novels save _Sapho_--the charge that it exhibits a somewhat
inharmonious mixture of sentimentalism and naturalism. Against this
charge, which perhaps applies most forcibly to that otherwise almost
perfect work of art, _Numa Roumestan_, Daudet defended himself,
but rather weakly. Nor does Mr. Henry James, who in the case of the
last-named novel comes to his help against Zola, much mend matters. But
the fault, if fault it be, is venial, especially in a friend, though not
strictly a coworker, of Zola's.

Naturally an elaborate novel like _The Nabob_ lends itself indefinitely
to minute comment, but we must be sparing of it. Still it is worth while
to call attention to the skill with which, from the opening page, the
interest of the reader is controlled; indeed, to the remarkable art
displayed in the whole first chapter devoted to the morning rounds of
Dr. Jenkins. The note of romantic extravagance is on the whole avoided
until the Nabob brings out his check-book, when the money flies with
a speed for which, one fancies, Daudet could have found little
justification this side of Timon of Athens. In the description of the
_Caisse Territoriale_ given by Passajon this note is relieved by a
delicate irony, but seems still somewhat incongruous. One turns more
willingly to the description of Jansoulet's sitting down to play
_ecarte_ with Mora, to the story of how he gorged himself with the
duke's putative mushrooms, and to similar episodes and touches. In the
matter of effective and ironically turned situations few novels
can compare with this; indeed, it almost seems as if Daudet made an
inordinate use of them. Think of the poor Nabob reading the announcement
of the cross bestowed on Jenkins, and of the absurd populace mistaking
him for the ungrateful Bey! As for great dramatic moments, there is at
least one that no reader can forget--the moment when Jansoulet, in the