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