Chapter 16: Saturday at the Zola Household

It was an ordinary Saturday morning in the winter of 1879. The entire Paris region was permeated by the damp chill that followed a thaw after snowfall, and the outskirts of Meitang felt it especially keenly. Although the vegetation had withered, the dense network of rivers and excellent ventilation made the air there as pure as a maiden’s first kiss.

Meitang had long been a favored summer retreat for city dwellers, but few ventured there in winter. Only a peculiar countryside villa in the northwest corner of Meitang was unusually lively today.

This was because the villa’s new owner, Mr. Émile Zola, was preparing a lavish banquet to welcome his friends and celebrate his official move into the residence. Although he had purchased the villa the previous year, it had been in poor condition—so much so that the floor on the second story nearly collapsed beneath Zola during his inspection.

Fortunately, the profits from his work, "The Little Inn," had been substantial, allowing him to undertake extensive renovations. At last, he could move in. Excited, Zola was determined to experience the life of a "great writer" ahead of schedule, even though this was meant to be a summer retreat. After all, he had long envied his friend Flaubert’s three-story villa in central Paris.

At dawn, the butler knelt on the stone steps at the villa’s entrance, meticulously polishing every stone with graphite to ensure they gleamed like new. The lady of the house stood proudly, directing the gardener, coachman, and maids as they busied themselves with their tasks.

The most important among them was the cook, for by noon, Zola’s close friends—a lively, learned group who shared a passion for good food—would arrive: Guy de Maupassant, Paul Alexis, Léon Hennique, Henri Céard, and Yusman.

Each could consume twice the usual amount of food—Zola himself could eat three times as much. Should any guest feel even a hint of hunger during the gathering, it would be a grave disgrace to Madame Zola!

By midday, the villa’s dining room was brimming with delicious fare and joyous laughter—

Platters of Norman crayfish aspic, fresh butter with assorted baskets of bread, Perigord truffle cream soup, fish sautéed in champagne sauce, and Roessini-style roasted filet mignon adorned with costly black truffles and seasonal vegetables. There was also sherry, blackcurrant liqueur, absinthe, and, of course, fine Bordeaux wines.

Zola and his devoted young followers feasted heartily for two full hours before settling contentedly by the warm fireplace in the sitting room, each lighting a cigar or filling their personal pipes, exhaling clouds of smoke.

The fire crackled brightly, the vibrant orange flames greedily licking the air, shutting out the bleakness of the riverbank outside and leaving only the cozy scent of burning pine and rich cigar smoke inside.

As the host, initiator of the gathering, and eldest among them, Émile Zola stroked his thick beard, set aside his cigar, and stepped before the hearth.

Maupassant and the others knew well that their impassioned elder was about to launch into another thunderous discourse—

“…That is precisely the problem, my friends!” Zola’s voice rang out with its usual powerful clarity, his figure outlined by the firelight like a statue. His emphatic gestures seemed almost to stir the air. “What do our cafés and taverns—the so-called ‘people’s places’—serve?

Bread adulterated with wood shavings and gypsum! Cheap wine so poor it scratches the throat! Meanwhile, the factory owners and bankers? In private boxes at the ‘Louvre’ restaurant, they dine with silverware on fresh oysters shipped overnight from Brittany, sipping the finest vintage from Burgundy’s premier vineyards!”

The listeners scattered around the fireplace wore varied expressions. Maupassant lounged comfortably in a broad velvet armchair, his long legs casually crossed, a faint, elusive smile at the corner of his mouth. His gaze did not fix on the impassioned Zola but rather wandered with interest over the villa’s newly refurbished interior.

Yusman sat on a stiff straight-backed chair, leaning slightly forward, fingers interlaced on his knees. His sharply defined, world-weary face bore a habitual frown, seeming to silently agree yet also critique Zola’s imprecise choice of words.

Paul Alexis, the most composed of the group, occupied a thick, comfortable sofa opposite the fireplace. Slowly and deliberately, he extracted a pinch of fine tobacco from a carved wooden box and carefully packed it into his large meerschaum pipe, his well-maintained, knobby hands focused and unhurried.

Others adopted their own postures, none fully concentrating on Zola—today’s discussion promised to be lengthy, and this was but an appetizer.

The pine wood in the hearth crackled softly, briefly filling the pause after Zola’s words.

“So, Émile—” Yusman finally broke the silence, his voice as cool and austere as himself, “do you intend in your next novel to have a starving worker burst into the ‘Louvre’ restaurant and stab some bloated banker through the throat with a fork?”

Laughter erupted among the group—an excellent jest.

Zola’s broad chest rose and fell but he was not angered. “That’s too extreme! My aim is to expose that suffocating sore and let the sunlight in! Violence cannot solve the root problem!”

He waved his arms, attempting to steer the conversation back to his grand social critique.

“Sore, Émile—that’s a fitting word,” Paul Alexis spoke up, his voice clear and resonant. “But be careful. Overheated passion can turn your characters into mere puppets of your denunciation.”

His steel-blue eyes pierced through the curling smoke as he stared at Zola. “Balzac wrote of greed and sin, yes, but his Vautrin, Father Goriot, Rastignac… they are alive, struggling with their own contradictions and vitality—not merely existing to prove that ‘society is a festering sore.’”

“Rastignac…” Maupassant seemed suddenly awakened by the name. The flicker of detached amusement in his eyes was replaced by a vivid glow.

He sat upright abruptly, banishing his usual languid demeanor, as if wound up tight. “Ah! Speaking of Rastignac! Friends, you would never believe it, but just a few days ago, in a classroom at the Sorbonne’s Faculty of Letters, I saw a living, breathing young man who could slap the label ‘Rastignac’ right back in the arrogant face of a noble!”

Yusman raised an eyebrow, a rare hint of curiosity breaking through his austere expression. Zola frowned, momentarily irritated at being interrupted, but seeing the near-frenzied excitement in Maupassant’s eyes, he held back his own topic.

Maupassant was completely absorbed in his discovery, his words rapidly tumbling out like a machine gun. “His name is Léonard Sorel, a provincial student, dirt poor, wearing an elbow-worn coat, commuting by public carriage, living in what’s said to be the foul-smelling Tenth Arrondissement!”

Zola’s curiosity was piqued. In his mind, the Sorbonne’s Faculty of Letters was a haven for wealthy idlers and a graveyard for stubborn pedants—when had impoverished students begun to make a mark?

Encouraged by Zola’s tacit approval of his digression, Maupassant grew even more animated.