g
to get well, Sister Ursula."

In the long night, Sister Ursula, blushing all over under the eyes of
the night-light, heard him laughing softly in his sleep.

[Illustration: EMILE ZOLA.]

_"Lions in Their Dens."_

VI.--EMILE ZOLA.

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.

[Illustration: EMILE ZOLA.]

On the first landing, lances and swords and armour of different kinds
shine out from behind tropical plants. On this landing is Zola's studio,
which is full of indications of his love for the antique--a love that is
not carried to extremes, however, for the high-backed, uncomfortable
chairs of our forefathers, in which so many of his fellow-collectors
find it necessary to seat themselves (or their visitors), are here
replaced by spacious modern armchairs.

I am not kept long waiting.

"Well, I am glad that this is a wet day, or else you would very likely
have regretted losing the opportunity of going to the Bois."

Such are the _maitre's_ first words after a hearty shake of the hands.

"So you want to know _all_ about me. Now let me see what I can tell you
without repeating myself."

And Zola sinks down into a small but comfortable armchair, with a small
Turkish inlaid coffee and cigarette stand covered with books on one
side, and on the other an antique wrought iron fender placed in front of
an immense fireplace, and commences placidly the following monologue,
which I give as nearly as possible in