'I had nothing but what I was wearing,' said he. 'I had been to Versailles and had sat perspiring in the crowded court; then I had spent the night travelling. I looked dirty, and I felt abominably uncomfortable. So I go out, yesterday morning, and see a shop with shirts, neckties, collars, and socks in the window. I go in; I take hold of my collar, I pull down my cuffs, I tap my shirt front. The shopman smiles; he understands me. He measures my neck; he gives me a shirt and some collars. But then we come to the socks, and I pull up my trousers and point to those I am wearing. He understands immediately. He is very intelligent. He climbs his steps and pulls parcels and boxes from his shelves. 'Here are socks of all colours, dark and light, spotted, striped, in mixtures, in cotton, in wool, some ribbed and some with silk clockings. But they are huge! I look at one pair; it is too big; he shows me another and another; they are still of a larger size. Then, impatient, and perhaps rather abruptly, I hold out my fist for the man to measure it, and thus gauge the length of my foot as is done in Paris. But he does not understand me. He draws back close to the shelves as if he imagines that I want to box him. And when I again lift my foot to call his attention to its size, he shows even greater concern. Fortunately an idea comes to me. I take one of the mammoth socks that are lying on the counter and fold parts of it neatly back, so as to make it appear very much smaller than it is. Then the shopman suddenly brightens, taps his forehead, climbs his steps again, and pulls yet more boxes and parcels from his shelves. And here at last are the small socks! So I choose a pair, and pay the bill. And the man bows his thanks, well pleased, it seems, to find that in thrusting out my fist and raising my foot I had been actuated by no desire to injure him.' I was still chuckling over M. Zola's anecdote when M. Desmoulin returned from his journey to Onslow Square. He had there interviewed a smart boy in buttons, who had informed him that his learned master was out of town electioneering, and might not be home again for a week or two. Desmoulin had, therefore, retained possession of Maitre Labori's note of introduction. I now remembered what I ought to have recalled before--namely that Mr. Fletcher Moulton was at that moment a candidate for the parliamentary representation of the Launceston division of Cornwall. Under such circumstances it was unlikely that his advice would be available for some little time to come. And so all idea of applying to him was abandoned. It may be that this narrative, should it meet the learned gentleman's eye, will for the first time acquaint him with what was intended by M. Zola, acting under Maitre Labori's advice.