ro Florent, the dreamy and hapless
revolutionary caught in the toils of others. In those days, too, there
was many such a plot as M. Zola describes, instigated by agents like
Logre and Lebigre, and allowed to mature till the eve of an election or
some other important event which rendered its exposure desirable for the
purpose of influencing public opinion. In fact, in all that relates to
the so-called "conspiracy of the markets," M. Zola, whilst changing time
and place to suit the requirements of his story, has simply followed
historical lines. As for the Quenus, who play such prominent parts
in the narrative, the husband is a weakling with no soul above his
stewpans, whilst his wife, the beautiful Lisa, in reality wears the
breeches and rules the roast. The manner in which she cures Quenu of his
political proclivities, though savouring of persuasiveness rather than
violence, is worthy of the immortal Mrs. Caudle: Douglas Jerrold might
have signed a certain lecture which she administers to her astounded
helpmate. Of Pauline, the Quenus' daughter, we see but little in the
story, but she becomes the heroine of another of M. Zola's novels, "La
Joie de Vivre," and instead of inheriting the egotism of her parents,
develops a passionate love and devotion for others. In a like way Claude
Lantier, Florent's artist friend and son of Gervaise of the "Assommoir,"
figures more particularly in "L'Oeuvre," which tells how his painful
struggle for fame resulted in madness and suicide. With reference to the
beautiful Norman and the other fishwives and gossips scattered through
the present volume, and those genuine types of Parisian _gaminerie_,
Muche, Marjolin, and Cadine, I may mention that I have frequently
chastened their language in deference to English susceptibilities,
so that the story, whilst retaining every essential feature, contains
nothing to which exception can reasonably be taken.

E. A. V.

THE FAT AND THE THIN

CHAPTER I

Amidst the deep silence and solitude prevailing in the avenue several
market gardeners' carts were climbing the slope which led towards Paris,
and the fronts of the houses, asleep behind the dim lines of elms on
either side of the road, echoed back the rhythmical jolting of the
wheels. At the Neuilly bridge a cart full of cabbages and another full
of peas had joined the eight waggons of carrots and turnips coming
down from Nanterre; and the horses, left to themselves, had continued
plo