be denied that his opinions
on painting are very ably expressed, and that his 'case,' from a
pathological point of view, is diagnosticated by M. Zola with all the
skill of a physician. Moreover, there can be but one opinion concerning
the helpmate of his life, the poor devoted Christine; and no one
possessed of feeling will be able to read the history of little Jacques
unmoved.

Stories of artistic life are not as a rule particularly popular with
English readers, but this is not surprising when one remembers that
those who take a genuine interest in art, in this country, are still a
small minority. Quite apart from artistic matters, however, there is, I
think, an abundance of human interest in the pages of 'His Masterpiece,'
and thus I venture to hope that the present version, which I have
prepared as carefully as my powers permit, will meet with the favour of
those who have supported me, for a good many years now, in my endeavours
to make the majority of M. Zola's works accessible in this country.

E. A. V.

MERTON, SURREY.

HIS MASTERPIECE

I

CLAUDE was passing in front of the Hotel de Ville, and the clock was
striking two o'clock in the morning when the storm burst forth. He had
been roaming forgetfully about the Central Markets, during that burning
July night, like a loitering artist enamoured of nocturnal Paris.
Suddenly the raindrops came down, so large and thick, that he took to
his heels and rushed, wildly bewildered, along the Quai de la Greve. But
on reaching the Pont Louis Philippe he pulled up, ragefully breathless;
he considered this fear of the rain to be idiotic; and so amid the
pitch-like darkness, under the lashing shower which drowned the
gas-jets, he crossed the bridge slowly, with his hands dangling by his
side.

He had only a few more steps to go. As he was turning on to the Quai
Bourbon, on the Isle of St. Louis, a sharp flash of lightning illumined
the straight, monotonous line of old houses bordering the narrow road
in front of the Seine. It blazed upon the panes of the high, shutterless
windows, showing up the melancholy frontages of the old-fashioned
dwellings in all their details; here a stone balcony, there the railing
of a terrace, and there a garland sculptured on a frieze. The painter
had his studio close by, under the eaves of the old Hotel du Martoy,
nearly at the corner