This being said, it seems that my motives not to believe O Crime do Padre Amaro to be a badly done translation of the Faute de l'Abbé Mouret are well indicated and clear enough. And I will not insist upon the difference of dates, although it may constitute what is called, I believe, in pure logic, a metaphysical impossibility, because I am a good citizen, and Art. 6 of the Constitution enforces implicitly the duty of not disbelieving miracles. However I must say that the clever critics who accused O Crime do Padre Amaro of being merely an imitation of the Faute de l'Abbé Mouret, had not, unfortunately, read the wonderful novel of Mr Zola, that was perhaps the origin of all his glory. The casual likeness of both titles led them to this conclusion in error.

Whoever has some knowledge of both books needs horned obtuseness or cynical bad-faith to establish a relationship between the beautiful idyllic allegory, intertwined with the pathetic drama of a mystical soul, and O crime do Padre Amaro, a simple intrigue of clerics and bigots, weaved and whispered in the shade of an old cathedral in provincial Portugal.

— "But," perhaps some well-meaning person might say with indignation, "how can such accusations be produced?" Oh my God! Very simply indeed. Of the two books, the critic certainly knew O Crime do Padre Amaro first, and, when some day, by chance, he discovered, announced in a French newspaper, or saw in the window of a bookshop, la Faute de l'Abbé Mouret, he immediately established a rule of three, concluding that La Faute de l'Abbé Mouret had to be in the same ratio to O Crime do Padre Amaro as France is to Portugal. Thus did he find without effort this unknown quantity: PLAGIARISM. Or else, which is more probable, and kinder to Mr Zola, that, as he knew already La Faute de l'Abbé Mouret, not sooner did he see announced O Crime do Padre Amaro, that he established the same rule of three, with inverted terms, and discovered the same unknown: PLAGIARISM! Sic itur ad abyssum!

Nevertheless, it appears that this Faute de l'Abbé Mouret has been for me a vast and rich mine of art, where I must go every morning, to dig out my provision of characters, landscapes, images and adjectives. For instance, I have been bitterly accused of copying the Paraiso in Cousin Bazilio from Paradou in La Faute de l'Abbé Mouret. Well, Paraíso, if perchance you read and remember that book of mine, is a cheap flat on a third floor, not too far from Bemposta, rented by the month, where a lady and a gentleman love each other twice a week, from noon to three. And Paradou, as I said before, is that vast and wonderful forest where Serge and Albina wander, almost naked, seeking by amorous instinct the tree of initiation to science!

"Where now, tell me, is the imitation?"