Meissonier owned this place
for a long time?" The man answered: "Oh, monsieur! that needs explaining.
I guess he bought the grounds in 1846. But, as for the house! he has
already torn down and rebuilt that five or six times. It must have cost
him at least two millions!" As Patissot left he was seized with an
immense respect for this man, not on account of his success, glory or
talent, but for putting so much money into a whim, because the bourgeois
deprive themselves of all pleasure in order to hoard money.

After crossing Poissy, they struck out on foot along the road to Medan.
The road first followed the Seine, which is dotted with charming islands
at this place. Then they went up a hill and crossed the pretty village of
Villaines, went down a little; and finally reached the neighborhood
inhabited by the author of the Rougon-Macquart series.

A pretty old church with two towers appeared on the left. They walked
along a short distance, and a passing farmer directed them to the
writer's dwelling.

Before entering, they examined the house. A large building, square and
new, very high, seemed, as in the fable of the mountain and the mouse, to
have given birth to a tiny little white house, which nestled near it.
This little house was the original dwelling, and had been built by the
former owner. The tower had been erected by Zola.

They rang the bell. An enormous dog, a cross between a Saint Bernard and
a Newfoundland, began to howl so terribly that Patissot felt a vague
desire to retrace his steps. But a servant ran forward, calmed
"Bertrand," opened the door, and took the journalist's card in order to
carry it to his master.

"I hope that he will receive us!" murmured Patissot. "It would be too bad
if we had come all this distance not to see him."

His companion smiled and answered: "Never fear, I have a plan for getting
in."

But the servant, who had returned, simply asked them to follow him.

They entered the new building, and Patissot, who was quite enthusiastic,
was panting as he climbed a stairway of ancient style which led to the
second story.

At the same time he was trying to picture to himself this man whose
glorious name echoes at present in all corners of the earth, amid the
exasperated hatred of some, the real or feigned indignation of society,
the envious scorn of several of his colleagues, the respect of a mass of
readers, and the frenzied admiration of a great number. He expected to
see a kind o