By V. R. Mooney. Illustrations by E. M. Jessop.
(With photographs at various ages.)
“M. Zola?”
“No, monsieur, this is not No. 21 bis—this is No. 21.”
By way of justification for the asperity of the tones in which this reply is given forth the concierge of No. 21 proceeds to inform me that every one makes the same mistake.
“It is a perpetual procession here,” she goes on. “It is nothing but M. Zola? M. Zola? M. Zola? without cease. I wish people would learn the right address.”
Now I at least ought to have known better, for I had visited M. Zola before, so, feeling rather small, I beat a hurried retreat, and betook myself to No. 21 bis.
Unlike most Parisians, Zola has a whole house to himself, and, as you perceive at a glance on entering, a very richly decorated house it is; tapestries, bronzes, bas-reliefs, sculptures in stone and marble, are studiously arranged about the hall and the handsome staircase, the general effect, in the subdued light of windows of stained glass, being most artistic.
