A Love Episode | Page 2

and was considered as a concession to
the views of the majority of the French Academy. La Bete Humaine
exhausted the details of railway life. L'Argent treats of financial
scandals and panics. La Debacle, 1892, is a realistic picture of the
desperate struggles of the Franco-Prussian war. Le Docteur Pascal,
1893, a story of the emotions, wound up the series. Through it all runs
the thread of heredity and environment in their influence on human
character.
But Zola's work was not finished. A series of three romances on cities
showed a continuance of power. They are Lourdes, Rome, and Paris.
After the books on the three cities Zola planned a sort of tetralogy,
intended to sum up his social philosophy, which he called the "Four
Gospels." Feconditie is a tract against race suicide. The others of this
series are entitled Travail, Verite and Justice, the latter projected but
not begun.
The attitude which Zola took in reference to the wretched Dreyfus
scandal will add greatly to his fame as a man of courage and a lover of
truth. From this filthy mess of perjury and forgery Zola's intrepidity and
devotion to justice arise clear and white as a lily from a cesspool.
Several of Zola's books have been dramatized.
Zola died suddenly at his home in Paris, in September, 1902. He
received a public funeral, Anatole France delivering an oration at the
grave. There is every indication that Zola's great reputation as an artist
and philosopher will increase with the passing of the years.
C. C. STARKWEATHER.

A LOVE EPISODE
CHAPTER I.

The night-lamp with a bluish shade was burning on the chimney-piece,
behind a book, whose shadows plunged more than half the chamber in
darkness. There was a quiet gleam of light cutting across the round
table and the couch, streaming over the heavy folds of the velvet
curtains, and imparting an azure hue to the mirror of the rosewood
wardrobe placed between the two windows. The quiet simplicity of the
room, the blue tints on the hangings, furniture, and carpet, served at this
hour of night to invest everything with the delightful vagueness of
cloudland. Facing the windows, and within sweep of the shadow,
loomed the velvet-curtained bed, a black mass, relieved only by the
white of the sheets. With hands crossed on her bosom, and breathing
lightly, lay Helene, asleep--mother and widow alike personified by the
quiet unrestraint of her attitude.
In the midst of the silence one o'clock chimed from the timepiece. The
noises of the neighborhood had died away; the dull, distant roar of the
city was the only sign of life that disturbed those Trocadero heights.
Helene's breathing, so light and gentle, did not ruffle the chaste repose
of her bosom. She was in a beauteous sleep, peaceful yet sound, her
profile perfect, her nut-brown hair twisted into a knot, and her head
leaning forward somewhat, as though she had fallen asleep while
eagerly listening. At the farther end of the room the open door of an
adjoining closet seemed but a black square in the wall.
Still there was not a sound. The half-hour struck. The pendulum gave
but a feeble tick-tack amid the general drowsiness that brooded over the
whole chamber. Everything was sleeping, night-lamp and furniture
alike; on the table, near an extinguished lamp, some woman's
handiwork was disposed also in slumber. Helene in her sleep retained
her air of gravity and kindliness.
Two o'clock struck, and the stillness was broken. A deep sigh issued
from the darkness of the closet. There was a rustling of linen sheets,
and then silence reigned again. Anon labored breathing broke through
the gloom. Helene had not moved. Suddenly, however, she started up,
for the moanings and cries of a child in pain had roused her. Dazed
with sleep, she pressed her hands against her temples, but hearing a

stifled sob, she leaped from her couch on to the carpet.
"Jeanne! my Jeanne! what ails you? tell me, love," she asked; and as
the child remained silent, she murmured, while running towards the
night-light, "Gracious Heaven! why did I go to bed when she was so
ill?"
Quickly she entered the closet, where deep silence had again fallen.
The feeble gleam of the lamp threw but a circular patch of light on the
ceiling. Bending over the iron cot, she could at first make out nothing,
but amidst the bed-clothes, tossed about in disorder, the dim light soon
revealed Jeanne, with limbs quite stiff, her head flung back, the
muscles of her neck swollen and rigid. Her sweet face was distorted,
her eyes were open and fixed on the curtain-rod above.
"My child!" cried Helene. "My God! my God! she is dying."
Setting down the lamp, Helene touched her daughter with trembling
hands. The throbbing of