A pretty old church with two towers appeared on the left.  They walked along a short distance, and a passing farmer directed them to the writer’s dwelling.

Before entering, they examined the house.  A large building, square and new, very high, seemed, as in the fable of the mountain and the mouse, to have given birth to a tiny little white house, which nestled near it.  This little house was the original dwelling, and had been built by the former owner.  The tower had been erected by Zola.

They rang the bell.  An enormous dog, a cross between a Saint Bernard and a Newfoundland, began to howl so terribly that Patissot felt a vague desire to retrace his steps.  But a servant ran forward, calmed “Bertrand,” opened the door, and took the journalist’s card in order to carry it to his master.

“I hope that he will receive us!” murmured Patissot.  “It would be too bad if we had come all this distance not to see him.”

His companion smiled and answered:  “Never fear, I have a plan for getting in.”

But the servant, who had returned, simply asked them to follow him.

They entered the new building, and Patissot, who was quite enthusiastic, was panting as he climbed a stairway of ancient style which led to the second story.

At the same time he was trying to picture to himself this man whose glorious name echoes at present in all corners of the earth, amid the exasperated hatred of some, the real or feigned indignation of society, the envious scorn of several of his colleagues, the respect of a mass of readers, and the frenzied admiration of a great number.  He expected to see a kind of bearded giant, of awe-inspiring aspect, with a thundering voice and an appearance little prepossessing at first.

The door opened on a room of uncommonly large dimensions, broad and high, lighted by an enormous window looking out over the valley.  Old tapestries covered the walls; on the left, a monumental fireplace, flanked by two stone men, could have burned a century-old oak in one day.  An immense table littered with books, papers and magazines stood in the middle of this apartment so vast and grand that it first engrossed the eye, and the attention was only afterward drawn to the man, stretched out when they entered on an Oriental divan where twenty persons could have slept.  He took a few steps toward them, bowed, motioned to two seats, and turned back to his divan, where he sat with one leg drawn under him.  A book lay open beside him, and in his right hand he held an ivory paper-cutter, the end of which he observed from time to time with one eye, closing the other with the persistency of a near-sighted person.

While the journalist explained the purpose of the visit, and the writer listened to him without yet answering, at times staring at him fixedly, Patissot, more and more embarrassed, was observing this celebrity.