They next visited the park, which was complex, varied, tortuous with many fine old trees. But the journalist insisted on going away, and with many thanks he left the master.
They met a gardener as they were departing. Patissot asked him: “Has Monsieur Meissonier owned this place long?”
The old man replied: “Oh! Monsieur, I must explain. He bought the land in 1846, but the house—he has torn it down and rebuilt it five or six times. I am sure he has spent two millions on it, Monsieur!”
And Patissot, as he went away, was filled with an immense consideration for the artist, not so much on account of his great success, his fame, and his genius, but because he spent so much money for a fancy, while ordinary bourgeois deprived themselves of the gratifying of all fancies in order to hoard money.
After passing through Poissy, they set out on foot along the road to Medan. The highway at first follows the Seine, which is dotted with charming islands at this place. They climbed a hill to pass through the pretty village of Villaines, descended a bit, and finally reached the section of the country where dwelt the author of the Rougon-Macquart novels.
An old and pretty church, flanked by two little towers, stood on the left. They took a few steps further, and a passing peasant showed them the door of the great writer of romance.
Before entering, they examined the house. It was a great structure, square and new and very tall, and appeared to have given birth, like the mountain and the mouse in the fable, to a tiny white house, nestling at its base. The small house was the original residence, and had been built by the former proprietor. The tower had been erected by M. Zola.
They rang. A huge dog, a cross between a St. Bernard and a Newfoundland, began to growl so fiercely that Patissot felt a vague desire to retrace his steps. But a servant, running forward, quieted the animal, calling it Bertrand, opened the door, and took the journalist’s card to carry it to his master.
“If he will only receive us!” murmured Patissot: “I should be very sorry to come so far without seeing him.”
His companion smiled:
“Never fear,” said he, “I have my own idea about getting in.”
But the domestic, returning, simply asked them to follow him.
They entered the new building, and Patissot, greatly moved, puffed as he climbed a stairway of ancient form, leading to the second floor.
He tried at the same time to picture to himself this man, whose glorious name resounded at that moment in all the corners of the world, amid the exasperated hatred of some, the real or feigned indignation of the “upper circles” of society, the envious dislike of certain compeers, the respect of a multitude of readers, and the frantic admiration of a great many: and he expected to see a sort of bearded giant, of terrible aspect, appear, with a resounding voice, and at first not very prepossessing.
The door opened into an extremely large and high room, fully lighted by a window looking out on the plain. Ancient tapestries covered the walls; on the left of the entrance, a monumental fireplace flanked by two stone men, could have burned a hundred-year-old oak-tree in a day; and an immense table, upon which were books, papers, and journals, occupied the middle of this apartment, which was so vast and grand that it at once engrossed the eye, and the attention was only afterward directed to its occupant, who was stretched out, as they entered, upon an Oriental divan on which twenty persons could have slept.
He took a few steps toward them, bowed, pointed to two seats, and sat down again upon his divan, with one leg bent under him. A book lay at his side, and with his right hand he played with an ivory paper-cutter, the tip of which he looked at from time to time, with one eye only, shutting the other with the habit of the nearsighted.
While the journalist was explaining the object of his visit, and the writer was listening without yet replying, looking fixedly at him, at certain moments, Patissot, more and more ill at ease, gazed at this celebrity.
Hardly forty years of age, he was of medium stature, rather stout, and of pleasing appearance. His head, like those found in many Italian paintings of the sixteenth century, without being handsome in the sculptor’s sense of the word, conveyed an impression that he possessed great power and intelligence. The short hair stood up on the well-developed head, above a thick black mustache; and the whole chin was covered with a beard trimmed close to the skin. The dark glance, often ironical, was penetrating; giving the impression that behind it an active brain was always working, piercing through persons, interpreting words, analyzing gestures, laying bare the heart. That strong, round head was very like his name, quick and short, with two syllables, bounding in the resonance of the two vowels.
When the journalist had made his proposition, the writer answered that he could not make any definite engagement, that he would see about it later; that as yet his plans were not sufficiently decided. Then he was silent. It was a dismissal, and the two men, a little confused, rose. But a desire seized Patissot; he desired that this personage, so well known, should say a word to him, any word whatsoever, which he could repeat to his friends; and summoning up courage, he stammered: “Oh! Monsieur, if you knew how much I appreciate your works!” The other bowed, but did not reply. Patissot became bold. He continued:
“It is a
