“I’ve just been reading Zola’s ‘Downfall,’” he said.
Her mind searched backwards, and recalled a poster.
“Oh!” she replied. “‘La Debacle’?”
“Yes. What do ye think of it?” His eyes lighted at the prospect of a talk. He was even pleased to hear her give him the title in French.
“I haven’t read it,” she said, and she was momentarily sorry that she had not read it, for she could see that he was dashed. The doctor had supposed that residence in a foreign country involved a knowledge of the literature of that country. Yet he had never supposed that residence in England involved a knowledge of English literature. Sophia had read practically nothing since 1870; for her the latest author was Cherbuliez. Moreover, her impression of Zola was that he was not at all nice, and that he was the enemy of his race, though at that date the world had scarcely heard of Dreyfus. Dr. Stirling had too hastily assumed that the opinions of the bourgeois upon art differ in different countries.
“And ye actually were in the siege of Paris?” he questioned, trying again.
“Yes.”
“AND the commune?”
“Yes, the commune too.”
“Well!” he exclaimed. “It’s incredible! When I was reading the 'Downfall’ the night before last, I said to myself that you must have been through a lot of all that. I didn’t know I was going to have the pleasure of a chat with ye so soon.”