WITH ZOLA IN ENGLAND

 A STORY OF EXILE

 TOLD BY

 ERNEST ALFRED VIZETELLY

 TO VIOLETTE AND TO VICTOR TO DORA AND TO BOTH MARIES DEAR WIFE AND ROMPING DAUGHTER I LOVINGLY INSCRIBE THIS LITTLE BOOK

He begged for Light! . . Lo, Darkness fell, And round him cast its stifling pall!In vain he clamoured! Ev'ry Hell Poured forth its fumes to drown his call. 

He cried for Truth! . . Lo, Falsehood came, In robes of Impudence array'd, Polluting Patriotism's name, Degrading Honour to a trade. 

He asked for Justice! . . Lo, between Him and the judgment-seat there roseThe Sword of Menace, ever keen To smite the braggart War-Wolf's foes!

Light, Truth, and Justice all denied, He struggled on 'mid threat and blow--A brave Voice battling by his side-- Till Error's minions struck him low. 

Yet is his faith not dead, nor mine: O'er deepest gloom, o'er worst distress, Ever the mighty Sun doth shine Aglow with Truth and Righteousness. 

The blackest clouds are rent at last; And the divine resistless flameThrough all, some morn, its blaze shall cast, The Wrong disclose, the Right proclaim!

 E. A. V. 

February 23, 1898. 

[Printed in 'The Star' on the morrow of M. Zola's condemnation in Paris]

 PREFACE

All that I claim for this little book, reprinted from the columns of 'TheEvening News, ' is the quality of frankness. I do not desire to check ordisarm criticism, but I have a right to point out that I have performedmy work rapidly and have largely subordinated certain literaryconsiderations to a desire to write my story naturally and simply, inmuch the same way as I should have told it in conversation with a friend. Very rarely, I think, have I departed from this rule. 

The book supplies an accurate account of Emile Zola's exile in thiscountry; but some matters I have treated briefly because he himselfproposes to give the world--probably in diary form--some impressions ofhis sojourn in England with a record of his feelings day by day whilstthe great campaign in favour of the unfortunate Alfred Dreyfus was inprogress. 

First, however, M. Zola intends to collect in a volume all his publisheddeclarations, articles and letters on the Affair. Secondly, he willrecount in another volume his trials at Paris and Versailles; and only ina third volume will he be able to deal with his English experiences. Thelast work can scarcely be ready before the end of 1900, and possibly itmay not appear until the following year. And this is one of the reasonswhich have induced me to offer to all who are interested in the greatFrench writer this present narrative of mine. Should the master'spromised record duly appear, my own will sink into oblivion; but if, forone or another reason, M. Zola is prevented from carrying out his plans, here, then, will at least be found some account of one of the mostcurious passages in his life. And then, perchance, my narrative mayattain to the rank of _memoire pour servir_. 

I have said that I claim for my book the quality of frankness. In thisconnection I may point out that I have made in it a full confession ofcertain delinquencies which were forced on me by circumstances. I trust, however, that my brother-journalists will forgive me if I occasionallyled them astray with regard to M. Zola's presence in England; for I didso purely and simply in the interests of the illustrious friend who hadplaced himself in my hands. 

That M. Zola should have applied to me directly he arrived in London willsurprise none of those who are aware of the confidence he has for severalyears reposed in me. A newspaper referring to our connection recentlycalled the great novelist 'my employer. ' But there has never been anyquestion of employer or employed between Mr. Zola and me. I shouldcertainly never think of accepting remuneration for any little service Imight have been able to render him; nor would he dream of hurting myfeelings by offering it. No. The simple truth is that for some years nowI have translated M. Zola's novels into English, and that I have taken myshare of the proceeds of the translations. For the rest our intercoursehas been purely and simply that of friends. 

It is because, I believe, I know and understand Emile Zola so well, thatI never once lost confidence in him throughout the events which led tohis exile in England. That exile, curiously enough, I foreshadowed in aletter addressed to the 'Star' some months before it actually began. When, however, one has been intimate with the French for thirty years orso it is not, to my thinking, so very difficult to tell what is likely tohappen in a given French crisis. The unexpected has to be reckoned with, of course; and much depends on ability to estimate the form which theunexpected may take. Here experience, familiarity with details ofcontemporary French history, and personal knowledge of the men concernedin the issue, become indispensable. 

On January 16, 1898, three days after M. Zola's famous 'J'accuse' letterappeared in 'L'Aurore, ' and two days before the French Governmentinstructed the Public Prosecutor to proceed against its author, I wroteto the 'Westminster Gazette' a long letter dealing with M. Zola'sposition. In this letter, which appeared in the issue of the 19th, Ibegan by establishing a comparison between Zola and Voltaire, whoseaction with regard to the memory of Jean Calas I briefly epitomised. Curiously enough at that moment M. Zola, as I afterwards learnt, wastelling the Paris correspondent of the 'Daily Chronicle' that theopposition offered to his advocacy of the cause of Alfred Dreyfus wasidentical with that encountered by Voltaire in his championship of Calas. This was a curious little coincidence, for I wrote my letter withouthaving any communication with M. Zola respecting it. It contained somepasses which I here venture to quote. In a book dealing with the greatnovelist these passages may not be out of place, as they serve toillustrate his general attitude towards the Dreyfus case. 

'Truth, ' I wrote, 'has been the one passion of Emile Zola's life. * "Mayall be revealed so that all may be cured" has been his sole motto indealing with social problems. "Light, more light!"--the last words gaspedby Goethe on his death-bed--has ever been his cry. Holding the views heholds, he could not do otherwise than come forward at this crisis inFrench history as the champion of truth and justice. Silence on his partwould have been a denial of all his principles, all his past life. . . . Against him are marshalled all the Powers of Darkness, all the energy ofthose who prefer concealment to light, all the enmity of the militaryhierarchy which has never forgotten "La Debacle, " all the hatred of theRoman hierarchy which will never forgive "Lourdes" and "Rome. " And thefetish of Patriotism is brandished hither and thither, rallying evenfree-thinkers to the cause of concealment, while each and every appealfor light and truth is met by the clamorous cry: "Down with the dirtyJews!"

 * He himself wrote these very words seventeen months later in his article 'Justice, ' published in Paris on his return from exile. 

'For even as Jean Calas was guilty of being a Protestant so is AlfredDreyfus guilty of being a Jew, and at the present hour unhappily thereare millions of French people who can no more believe in a Jew'sinnocence than their forerunners could believe a Protestant to beguiltless. Zola, for his part, is no Jew, nor can he even be called afriend of the Jews--in several of his books he has attacked them somewhatviolently for certain tendencies shown by some of their number--but mostassuredly does he regard them as fellow-men and not as loathsome animals. In the same way Voltaire wrote pungent pages against the narrow practicesof Calvinism and yet espoused the causes of Calas and Sirven, even asZola has espoused that of Dreyfus. The only remaining question is whetherZola will prove as successful as his famous forerunner. [Nearly the wholeof the European press was at that stage expressing doubt on this point. ]In this connection I may say that I regard Zola as a man of very calm, methodical, judicial mind. He is no ranter, no lover of words for words'sake, no fiery enthusiast. Each of his books is a most laborious, painstaking piece of work. If he ever brings forward a theory he bases iton a mountain of evidence, and he invariably subordinates his feeling tohis reason. I therefore venture to say that if he has come forward soprominently in this Dreyfus case it is not because he _feels_ that wronghas been done, but because he is absolutely _convinced_ of it. Doubtlessmany of the expressions in his recent letter to President Faure have comefrom his heart, but they were in the first place dictated by his reason. It is not for me here and at the present hour to speak of proofs, howevergreat may be public curiosity; but most certainly Zola has not taken upthis case without what he considers to be abundant proof. I do not say hewill be able to prove each and every item of his great indictment, butwhen you wish to bring everything to light it is often necessary to castyour net so wide that none shall escape it, none linger in concealmentwith their actions unexplained. And I take it that whatever be theverdict of Zola's countrymen, whether or not Alfred Dreyfus be again andthis time absolutely proved guilty . . . Zola himself will have done goodwork in striving to bring the whole truth to light so that it shall be asevident to one and all as the very sun itself. And this, when all issaid, is really Zola's one great object in this terrible business. 

'I may add that he is risking far more than his great predecessor riskedin favour of Calas. Voltaire pleaded from his retirement on the Swissfrontier; Zola pleads the cause he has adopted on the very spot, on thevery scene of all the agitation. Anonymous assassins threaten him withdeath in letters and postcards. Fanatical Jew-baiters march through thestreets anxious for an opportunity to wreck his house and murder not onlyhimself but his wife also in the sacred name of Patriotism. * Should theirmenaces be escaped there remains the Assize Court with a jury that willneed to be brave indeed if it is to resist all the pressure of adeliberately organised "terror. " At the end possibly lie imprisonment, fine, disgrace, ruin. How jubilantly some are already rubbing their handsin the bishops' palaces, the parsonages, the sacristies of France! Ah! nostone will be kept unturned to secure a conviction! But Emile Zola doesnot waver. It may be the truth, the whole truth will only be known to theworld in some distant century; but he, anxious to hasten its advent andprevent the irreparable, courageously stakes all that he has, person, position, fame, affections, and friendships. . . . And this he does forno personal object whatsoever, but in the sole cause of truth andjustice, ever repeating the cry common to both Goethe and himself:"Light, more light!"

 * There is not the slightest doubt that M. Zola incurred the greatest personal danger between January and April 1898. M. Ranc, the old and tried Republican, who knows what danger is, has lately pointed this out in forcible terms in the Paris journal _Le Matin_. 

'Ah! to all the true hearts that have followed and loved him throughyears of mingled blame and praise, hard-earned victory and unmeritedreviling, he is at this hour dearer even than he was before; for he hasnow put the seal upon his principles, and to the force of precept hasadded that of the most courageous personal example. '

This then is what I wrote immediately after the publication of Zola'sletter 'J'accuse, ' basing myself simply on my knowledge of the master'scharacter, of the passions let loose in France, and of a few mattersconnected with the Dreyfus case, then kept secret but now publicproperty. And had I to write anything of the kind at the present time, Ishould, I think, have but few words to alter beyond substituting the pastfor the present or future tense. In one respect I was mistaken. I did notimagine the truth to be quite so near at hand. Since January 1898, however, nine-tenths of it have been revealed and the rest must now soonfollow. And I hold, as all hold who know the inner workings of l'AffaireDreyfus, that M. Zola's exile, like his letter to President Faure and hisrepeated trials for libel, has in a large degree contributed to thisvictory of truth. For by going into voluntary banishment, he kept notonly his own but also Dreyfus's case 'open, ' and thus helped to foil thelast desperate attempts that were being made to prevent the truth frombeing discovered. 

I should add that in the following pages I deal very slightly withl'Affaire Dreyfus, on which so many books have already been written. Indeed, as a rule, I have only touched on those incidents which had anymarked influence on M. Zola during his sojourn in this country. 

 E. A. V. 

MERTON, SURREY. June 1899. 

 WITH ZOLA IN ENGLAND

 I

 ZOLA LEAVES FRANCE

From the latter part of the month of July 1898, down to the end of theensuing August, a frequent heading to newspaper telegrams and paragraphswas the query, 'Where is Zola?' The wildest suppositions concerning theeminent novelist's whereabouts were indulged in and the mostcontradictory reports were circulated. It was on July 18 that M. Zola wastried by default at Versailles and sentenced to twelve months'imprisonment on the charge of having libelled, in his letter 'J'accuse, 'the military tribunal which had acquitted Commandant Esterhazy. On theevening of the 19th his disappearance was signalled by various telegramsfrom Paris. Most of these asserted that he had gone on a tour to Norway, a course which the 'Daily News' correspondent declared to be verysensible on M. Zola's part, given the tropical heat which then prevailedin the French metropolis. 

On the 20th, however, the telegrams gave out that Zola had left Paris onthe previous evening by the 8. 35 express for Lucerne, being accompaniedby his wife and her maid. Later, the same day, appeared a graphic accountof how he had dined at a Paris restaurant and thence despatched a waiterto the Eastern Railway Station to procure tickets for himself and afriend. The very numbers of these tickets were given!

Yet a further telegram asserted that he had been recognised by afellow-passenger, had left the train before reaching the Swiss frontier, and had gaily continued his journey on a bicycle. But another newspapercorrespondent treated this account as pure invention, and pledged hisword that M. Zola had gone to Holland by way of Brussels. 

On July 21 his destination was again alleged to be Norway; but--sodesperate were the efforts made to reconcile all the conflictingrumours--his route was said to lie through Switzerland, Luxemburg, andthe Netherlands. His wife (so the papers reported) was with him, and theywere bicycling up hill and down dale through the aforenamed countries. Two days later it was declared that he had actually been recognised at acafe in Brussels whence he had fled in consequence of the threats of thecustomers, who were enraged 'by the presence of such a traitor. ' Then herepaired to Antwerp, where he was also recognised, and where he promptlyembarked on board a steamer bound for Christiania. 

However, on July 25, the 'Petit Journal' authoritatively asserted thatall the reports hitherto published were erroneous. M. Zola, said theParis print, was simply hiding in the suburbs of Paris, hoping to reachLe Havre by night and thence sail for Southampton. But fortunately thePrefecture of Police was acquainted with his plans, and at the firstmovement he might make he would be arrested. 

That same morning our own 'Daily Chronicle' announced M. Zola's presenceat a London hotel, and on the following day the 'Morning Leader' was in aposition to state that the hotel in question was the Grosvenor. Both'Chronicle' and 'Leader' were right; but as I had received pressinginstructions to contradict all rumours of M. Zola's arrival in London, Idid so in this instance through the medium of the Press Association. Ihere frankly acknowledge that I thus deceived both the Press and thepublic. I acted in this way, however, for weighty reasons, which willhereafter appear. 

At this point I would simply say that M. Zola's interests were, in myestimation, of far more consequence than the claims of public curiosity, however well meant and even flattering its nature. 

One effect of the Press Association's contradiction was to revive theNorway and Switzerland stories. Several papers, while adhering to thestatement that M. Zola had been in London, added that he had since leftEngland with his wife, and that Hamburg was their immediate destination. And thus the game went merrily on. M. Zola's arrival at Hamburg was dulyreported. Then he sailed on the 'Capella' for Bergen, where his adventwas chronicled by Reuter. Next he was setting out for Trondhiem, whencein a few days he would join his friend Bjornstjerne Bjornson, thenovelist, at the latter's estate of Aulestad in the Gudbrandsdalen. Bjornson, as it happened, was then at Munich, in Germany, but thiscircumstance did not weigh for a moment with the newspapers. The Norwaystory was so generally accepted that a report was spread to the effectthat M. Zola had solicited an audience of the Emperor William, who was inNorway about that time, and that the Kaiser had peremptorily refused tosee him, so great was the Imperial desire to do nothing of a nature togive umbrage to France. 

As I have already mentioned, the only true reports (so far as London wasconcerned) were those of two English newspapers, but even they wereinaccurate in several matters of detail. For instance, the lady currentlyspoken of as Mme. Zola was my own wife, who, it so happens, is aFrenchwoman. At a later stage the 'Daily Mail' hit the nail on the headby signalling M. Zola's presence at the Oatlands Park Hotel; but so manyreports having already proved erroneous, the 'Mail' was by no meanscertain of the accuracy of its information, and the dubitative form inwhich its statement was couched prevented the matter from going further. 

At last a period of comparative quiet set in, and though gentlemen of thePress were still anxious to extract information from me, nothing furtherappeared in print as to M. Zola's whereabouts until the 'Times' Pariscorrespondent, M. De Blowitz, contributed to his paper, early in thepresent year, a most detailed and amusing account of M. Zola's flightfrom France and his subsequent movements in exile. In this narrative onefound Mme. Zola equipping her husband with a nightgown for his perilousjourney abroad, and secreting bank notes in the lining of his garments. Then, carrying a slip of paper in his hand, the novelist had been passedon through London from policeman to policeman, until he took train to avillage in Warwickshire, where the little daughter of an innkeeper hadrecognised him from seeing his portrait in one of the illustratednewspapers. 

There was something also about his acquaintance with the vicar of thelocality and a variety of other particulars, all of which helped to makeup as pretty a romance as the 'Times' readers had been favoured with formany a day. But excellent as was M. De Blowitz's narrative from theromantic standpoint his information was sadly inaccurate. Of his _bonafides_ there can be no doubt, but some of M. Zola's friends are ratherpartial to a little harmless joking, and it is evident that a trap waslaid for the shrewd correspondent of the 'Times, ' and that he, in anunguarded moment, fell into it. 

On the incidents which immediately preceded M. Zola's departure fromFrance I shall here be brief; these incidents are only known to me bystatements I have had from M. And Mme. Zola themselves. But the rest iswell within my personal knowledge, as one of the first things which M. Zola did on arriving in England was to communicate with me and in certainrespects place himself in my hands. 

This, then, is a plain unvarnished narrative--firstly, of the steps thatI took in the matter, in conjunction with a friend, who is by professiona solicitor; and, secondly, of the principal incidents which marked M. Zola's views on some matters of interest, as imparted by him to me atvarious times. But, ultimately, M. Zola will himself pen his own privateimpressions, and on these I shall not trespass. It is because, accordingto his own statements to me, his book on his English impressions (shouldhe write it) could not possibly appear for another twelve months, that Ihave put these notes together. 

The real circumstances, then, of M. Zola's departure from France arethese: On July 18, the day fixed for his second trial at Versailles, heleft Paris in a livery-stable brougham hired for the occasion at a costof fifty francs. His companion was his _fidus Achates_, M. FernandDesmoulin, the painter, who had already acted as his bodyguard at thetime of the great trial in Paris. Versailles was reached in due course, and the judicial proceedings began under circumstances which have beenchronicled too often to need mention here. When M. Zola had retired fromthe court, allowing judgment to go against him by default, he was joinedby Maitre Labori, his counsel, and the pair of them returned to Paris inthe vehicle which had brought M. Zola from the city in the morning. M. Desmoulin found a seat in another carriage. 

The brougham conveying Messrs. Zola and Labori was driven to theresidence of M. Georges Charpentier, the eminent publisher, in the Avenuedu Bois de Boulogne, and there they were presently joined by M. GeorgesClemenceau, Mme. Zola, and a few others. It was then that the necessityof leaving France was pressed upon M. Zola, who, though he found theproposal little to his liking, eventually signified his acquiescence. 

The points urged in favour of his departure abroad were as follows: Hemust do his utmost to avoid personal service of the judgment givenagainst him by default, as the Government was anxious to cast him intoprison and thus stifle his voice. If such service were effected the lawwould only allow him a few days in which to apply for a new trial, and ashe could not make default a second time, and could not hope at that stagefor fresh and decisive evidence in his favour, or for a change of tacticson the part of the judges, this would mean the absolute and irrevocableloss of his case. 

On the other hand, by avoiding personal service of the judgment he wouldretain the right to claim a new trial at any moment he might findconvenient; and thus not only could he prevent his own case from beingclosed against him and becoming a _chose jugee_, but he would contributepowerfully towards keeping the whole Dreyfus affair open, pendingrevelations which even then were foreseen. And, naturally, England whichso freely gives asylum to all political offenders, was chosen as hisproper place of exile. 

The amusing story of the nightgown tucked under his arm and the banknotes sewn up in his coat is, of course, pure invention. A few toiletarticles were pressed upon him, and his wife emptied her own purse intohis own. That was all. Then he set out for the Northern Railway Station, where he caught the express leaving for Calais at 9 P. M. Fortunatelyenough he secured a first-class compartment which had no other occupant. 

M. Clemenceau had previously suggested to him that on his arrival atLondon he might well put up at the Grosvenor Hotel, and it is quitepossible that the same gentleman handed him--as stated in the 'Times'narrative--a slip of paper bearing the name of that noted hostelry. But, at all events, this paper was never used by M. Zola. He has an excellentmemory, and when he reached Victoria Station at forty minutes past fiveo'clock on the morning of July 19, the name of the hotel where he hadarranged to fix his quarters for a few days came readily enough to hislips. 

There was, however, one thing that he did not know, and that was theclose proximity of this hotel to the railway station. So, having secureda hansom, he briefly told the Jehu to drive him to the Grosvenor. Atthis, cabby looked down from his perch in sheer astonishment. Then, doubtless, in a considerate and honest spirit--for there are still someconsiderate and honest cabbies in London--he tried to explain matters. Atall events he spoke at length. But M. Zola failed to understand him. 

'Grosvenor Hotel, ' repeated the novelist; and then, seeing that the cabbyseemed bent on further expostulation, he resolutely took his seat in thevehicle. This driver, doubtless after the fashion of certain of his Pariscolleagues, must be trying to play some trick in order to avoid a longjourney. It was as well, therefore, to teach him to refrain from triflingwith his 'fares. '

However, cabby said no more, or if he did his words failed to reach M. Zola. The reins were jerked, the scraggy night-horse broke into aspasmodic trot turned out of the station, and pulled up in front of thecaravansary which an eminent butcher has done so much to immortalise. 

Zola was astonished at reaching his destination with such despatch, andsuddenly became conscious of the cabby's real motive in expostulatingwith him. However, he ascended the steps, entered the hotel, produced oneof the few hundred-franc notes which his purse contained, and asked firstfor change and afterwards for a bedroom. English money was handed to himfor his note, and the night porter carried cabby the regulation shillingfor the journey of a few yards which had been made. 

Then, as M. Zola had no luggage with him, he was requested to deposit asovereign with the hotel clerk and to inscribe his name in the register. This he did, and the tell-tale signature of 'M. Pascal, Paris, ' stillremains as a token of the accuracy of this narrative. 

Such, then, was the way in which M. Zola travelled across London, obligingly passed on from policeman to policeman, and carrying a slip ofpaper--a 'way-bill, ' as it were--in his hand! As the above account wasgiven to me by himself, it will probably be deemed more worthy of creditthan the amusing romance which was so successfully palmed off on M. DeBlowitz of the 'Times. '

Of his journey from Paris that night, he reclining alone in hiscompartment as the Calais express rushed across the plains of Picardyunder a star-lit sky; of his embarking on board the little Channel boatamidst the glimmer of lanterns, his transference to a fresh train atDover, followed by another and even faster rush on to London; of hisgloomy thoughts at this sudden severance from one and all, at speeding inthis lonely fashion into exile, and returning surreptitiously, as itwere, to the city where but a few years previously he had been receivedas one of the kings of literature, he will ever retain a keen impression. 

It was at Victoria that his journey ended, even as it had ended in 1893;but how changed the scene! He finds the station gaunt and well-nighdeserted; the few passengers are gliding away like phantoms into themorning air; the porters loiter around, and the Customs officersdischarge their duties in a perfunctory, sleepy way. No crowd of Pressmenand sightseers is present; there are no delegates and address, andflowers, and cheers as of yore. Only cabby, who expostulates, and whodoubtless thinks this Frenchman a bit of a crank to insist upon beingdriven just around the corner!

And at the hotel no army of servants appears to marshal the master to thebest suite of rooms on the principal floor. In lieu thereof comes adoubtful greeting and a demand for a deposit of money, for fear lest heshould be some vulgar bilker. Then, once he is in the lift, he goes upand up without stopping, until the very topmost floor is reached. Andafterwards he is marched along interminable passages, with walls painteda crude, hideous shade of blue, so offensive to all artistic instinct asverily to make one's gorge rise. Then at last he finds himself in a roomwhich, high as it is situated, is of lowly, common aspect. Yet he is onlytoo glad to reach it, and throw himself on the bed to rest awhile, and tothink. 

New experiences are awaiting him. He is far away from the mob that peltedhis windows with stones and yelled 'Conspuez! Conspuez!' whenever he lefthis house. Here there is no hostility. Here quietude prevails, save forthe shrill whistles of arriving or departing trains. Yet he is also farfrom the great majority of his affections and friendships. But at thisremembrance a fresh thought comes to him; he takes one of his visitingcards from his pocket-book, pencils a few lines on it, and encloses it inan envelope ready to be posted. Then he again lies down; tired as he is, after his exciting day at Versailles and his wearisome night journey, hesoon falls soundly asleep. 

 II

 IN LONDON

On Tuesday, July 19, I went to London on business, and did not return tomy home in the south-western suburbs until nearly seven o'clock in theevening. My wife immediately placed in my hands an envelope addressed tome in the handwriting of M. Zola. At first, having noticed neither thestamp nor the postmark, I imagined that the communication had come fromParis. 

On opening the envelope, however, I found that it contained a card onwhich was written in French and in pencil:--

 'My dear confrere, --Tell nobody in the world, and particularly no newspaper, that I am in London. And oblige me by coming to see me to-morrow, Wednesday, at eleven o'clock, at Grosvenor Hotel. You will ask for M. Pascal. And above all, absolute Silence, for the most serious interests are at stake. 

 'Cordially, 'EMILE ZOLA. '

I was for a moment amazed and also somewhat affected by this message, thefirst addressed by M. Zola to anybody after his departure from France. Since the publication of his novel 'Paris, ' which had followed his firsttrial, I had not seen him, and we had exchanged but few letters. I hadwritten to express my sympathy over the outcome of the proceedings atVersailles, but owing to his sudden flitting my note had failed to reachhim. And now here he was in London--in exile, as, curiously enough, Imyself had foretold as probable some time before in a letter to one ofthe newspapers. 

My first impulse was to hurry to the Grosvenor immediately, but Ireflected that I might not find him there, and that even if I did I mightinconvenience him, as he had appointed the following day for my call. SoI contented myself with telegraphing as follows: 'Pascal, GrosvenorHotel. --Rely on me, tomorrow, eleven o'clock. ' And, as a precautionarymeasure, I signed the telegram merely with my Christian name. 

As I afterwards learnt, M. Zola had spent that day companionless, walkingabout the Mall and St. James's Park, and purchasing a shirt, a collar, and a pair of socks at a shop in or near Buckingham Palace Road, where, knowing no English, he explained his requirements by pantomime. He hadfurther studied several street scenes, and had given some time towondering what purpose might be served by a certain ugly elongatedbuilding, overlooking a drive and a park. There was a sentry at the gate, but the place had such a gaunt, clumsy, and mournful aspect, that M. Zolacould not possibly picture it as the London palace of her most GraciousMajesty the Queen. 

However, evening found him once more in his room at the Grosvenor; andfeeling tired and feverish he lay down and dozed. When he awoke betweennine and ten o'clock he perceived a buff envelope on the carpet near byhim. It had been thrust under the door during his sleep, and its presencegreatly astonished him, for he expected neither letter nor telegram. Fora moment, as he has told me, he imagined this to be some trap; wonderedif he had been watched and followed to London, and almost made up hismind to leave the hotel that night. But when, after a little hesitation, he had opened the envelope and read my telegram, he realised howgroundless had been his alarm. 

On the morrow, when I reached the Grosvenor and inquired at the officethere for M. Pascal, I was asked my name, on giving which I received anote from M. Zola saying that he unexpectedly found himself obliged to goout, but would return at 2. 30 P. M. As I stood reading this note, I espieda couple of individuals scrutinising me in what I deemed a mostsuspicious manner. Both were Frenchmen evidently; they wore billycockhats and carried stout sticks; and one of them, swarthy and almostbrigandish of aspect, had the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in hisbuttonhole. It was easy to take these individuals for French detectives, and I hastily jumped to the conclusion that they were on 'M. Pascal's'track. 

To make matters even more suspicious, when, after placing Zola's note inmy pocket, I began to cross the vestibule, the others deliberatelyfollowed me, and in all likelihood I should have fled never to return ifa well-known figure in a white billycock and grey suit had not suddenlyadvanced towards us from the direction of the staircase. In anothermoment I had exchanged greetings with M. Zola, and my suspiciousscrutinisers had been introduced to me as friends. One of them was noneother than M. Fernand Desmoulin. They had arrived from Paris thatmorning, and were about to sally forth with M. Zola in search of Mr. Fletcher Moulton, Q. C. , to whom they had brought a letter of introductionfrom Maitre Labori. 

Hence the note which M. Zola had already deposited for me at the hoteloffice. Had I been a moment later I should have found them gone. 

My arrival led to a change in the programme. It was resolved to beginmatters with lunch at the hotel itself, to postpone the quest for Mr. Fletcher Moulton until the afternoon. I made, at the time, a note of ourmenu. The 'bitter bread of exile' consisted on this occasion of anomelet, fried soles, fillet of beef, and potatoes. To wash down thisanchoretic fare M. Desmoulin and myself ordered Sauterne and Apollinaris;but the contents of the water bottle sufficed for M. Zola and the othergentleman. 

With waiters moving to and fro, nearly always within hearing, there waslittle conversation at table, but we afterwards chatted in all freedom inM. Zola's room just under the roof. Ah! that room. I have alreadyreferred to the dingy aspect which it presented. Around Grosvenor Hotel, encompassing its roof, runs a huge ornamental cornice, behind which arethe windows of rooms assigned, I suppose, to luggageless visitors. Fromthe rooms themselves there is nothing to be seen unless you throw backyour head, when a tiny patch of sky above the top line of the cornicebecomes visible. You are, as it were, in a gloomy well. The back of thecornice, with its plaster stained and cracked, confronts your eyes; andwith a little imagination you can easily fancy yourself in a dungeonlooking into some castle moat. 

'_Le fosse de Vincennes_, ' so M. Zola suggested, and that summed upeverything. Yet it seemed to him very appropriate to his circumstances, and he absolutely refused to exchange rooms with M. Desmoulin, who wassomewhat more comfortably lodged. 

The appointments of M. Zola's chamber were, I remember, of a summarydescription. There were few chairs, and so one of us sat on the bed. Wesucceeded in procuring some black coffee, though the chambermaid regardedthis as a most unusual 'bedroom order' at that hour of the day; and whenM. Desmoulin had lighted a cigar, his friend a pipe, and myself acigarette, a regular Council of War was held. [N. B. --M. Zola gave uptobacco in his young days, when it was a question of his spendingtwopence per diem on himself, or of allowing his mother the wherewithalto buy an extra pound of bread. ]

The council dealt mainly with two points--first, what was M. Zola to doin England? Should he go into the country, or to the seaside, or settledown in the London suburbs? Since he wished to avoid recognition, itwould be foolish for him to remain in London, particularly at an hotellike the Grosvenor. Then, for my benefit, the legal position was setforth, as well as the object of taking Maitre Labori's letter to Mr. Fletcher Moulton. 

The chief point was, Could the French Government in any way signify thejudgment of the Versailles Court to M. Zola personally while he remainedin Great Britain? If the French officials could legally do nothing ofthat kind, there would be less necessity for M. Zola to court retirement. 

After the hurly-burly of _l'affaire Dreyfus_, he certainly needed somerest and privacy, but the question was whether retirement would be anecessity or a mere matter of convenience. Now the choice of a place ofsojourn depended on the answer to the second question, and it wasresolved, _nem. Con. _, that M. Desmoulin, who spoke a little English andknew something of London, should forthwith drive to Mr. FletcherMoulton's house in Onslow Square, S. W. , in accordance with the addressgiven on M. Labori's letter. M. Desmoulin's friend, on his side, was toreturn to Paris that afternoon by the Club train. So, the council over, both these gentlemen went off, leaving M. Zola and myself together. 

We had a long and desultory chat, now on the Dreyfus affair generally, now on M. Zola's personal position, the probable duration of his exile, and so forth. He himself did not think that he would remain abroad beyondOctober at the latest, and as there might be a delay if not a difficultyin getting any clothes sent to him from Paris, he proposed to make a fewpurchases. 

It was then that he told me how he had already bought a shirt, collar, and socks on the previous day. 

'I had nothing but what I was wearing, ' said he. 'I had been toVersailles and had sat perspiring in the crowded court; then I had spentthe night travelling. I looked dirty, and I felt abominablyuncomfortable. So I go out, yesterday morning, and see a shop withshirts, neckties, collars, and socks in the window. I go in; I take holdof my collar, I pull down my cuffs, I tap my shirt front. The shopmansmiles; he understands me. He measures my neck; he gives me a shirt andsome collars. But then we come to the socks, and I pull up my trousersand point to those I am wearing. He understands immediately. He is veryintelligent. He climbs his steps and pulls parcels and boxes from hisshelves. 

'Here are socks of all colours, dark and light, spotted, striped, inmixtures, 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 anotherand another; they are still of a larger size. Then, impatient, andperhaps 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 notunderstand me. He draws back close to the shelves as if he imagines thatI want to box him. And when I again lift my foot to call his attention toits 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 foldparts of it neatly back, so as to make it appear very much smaller thanit is. Then the shopman suddenly brightens, taps his forehead, climbs hissteps again, and pulls yet more boxes and parcels from his shelves. Andhere 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 inthrusting out my fist and raising my foot I had been actuated by nodesire to injure him. '

I was still chuckling over M. Zola's anecdote when M. Desmoulin returnedfrom his journey to Onslow Square. He had there interviewed a smart boyin buttons, who had informed him that his learned master was out of townelectioneering, and might not be home again for a week or two. Desmoulinhad, therefore, retained possession of Maitre Labori's note ofintroduction. 

I now remembered what I ought to have recalled before--namely that Mr. Fletcher Moulton was at that moment a candidate for the parliamentaryrepresentation of the Launceston division of Cornwall. Under suchcircumstances it was unlikely that his advice would be available for somelittle time to come. And so all idea of applying to him was abandoned. Itmay 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. 

M. Zola, I should add, remained most anxious to secure an English legalopinion on his position, and I therefore suggested to him that I shouldthat evening consult a discreet and reliable friend of mine, a solicitor. We, of course, well knew that there could be no extradition, but it was apoint whether a copy of the Versailles judgment might not be legally beplaced in M. Zola's hands, under such conventions as might exist betweenFrance and Great Britain. 

This, I thought, could be ascertained within the next forty-eight hours, and meantime M. Zola might remain where he was, for I could not welloffer him an asylum in my little home. My connection with him as hisEnglish translator being so widely known, newspaper reporters werecertain to call upon me, and what ever precautions I might take, hispresence in my house would speedily be discovered. On the other hand, M. Desmoulin wished to go to Brighton or Hastings, but, in my estimation, both those places, crowded with holiday-makers, were not desirable spots. 

Leaving the Grosvenor, the three of us discussed these matters whilestrolling up Buckingham Palace Road. It was a warm sunshiny afternoon, and the street was full of people. All at once a couple of ladies passedus, and one of them, after turning her head in our direction, made aremark to her companion. 

'Did you hear that?' Desmoulin eagerly inquired. 'She spoke in French!'

'Ah!' I replied. 'What did she say?'

'"Why, " she exclaimed, "there's M. Zola!" Our secret is as good as gonenow! It will be all over London by to-morrow!'

We felt somewhat alarmed. Who could those ladies be? For my part I hadscarcely noticed them. Desmoulin opined, however, that they mightperchance be French actresses, members possibly of Madame SarahBernhardt's company, which was then in London. And again he urged thenecessity of immediate departure. They must go to Hastings, Brighton, Ramsgate--some place at all events where the author of 'J'accuse' wouldincur less chance of recognition. 

To me it seemed that some quiet, retired country village would be mostsuitable. In any town M. Zola would incur great risk of being identified. Moreover his appearance was conspicuous, his white billycock, hisglasses, his light grey suit, his rosette of the Legion of Honour, hismany characteristic gestures all attracted attention. If anything was tobe done he must begin by Anglicising his appearance. But whatever I mighturge I found him stubborn on that point; and, as for departure fromLondon, he preferred to postpone this until I should have seen my friendthe solicitor. 

'Everything is as good as lost!' cried M. Desmoulin. 'How foolish, too, of Clemenceau to have sent you to a swell hotel in a fashionableneighbourhood! I am certain there are other French people staying at theGrosvenor--I heard somebody talking French there this morning. '

This again might lead to unpleasantness, and I could see that the masterwas gradually growing anxious. By this time, however, we had reached St. James's Park, and there, as we seated ourselves on some chairs beside theornamental water, I led the conversation into another channel byproducing an evening newspaper, and reading therefrom successivenarratives of how M. Zola had sailed for Norway, how he had taken trainat the Eastern Terminus in Paris, and how he had been bicycling throughthe Oberland on his way to some mysterious Helvetian retreat. Then welaughed--ah! those journalists!--and fears were at an end. 

The ducks paddled past us, the drooping foliage of the island treesstirred in the warm breeze. On a bench near at hand a couple of vagrantssat dozing, with their toes protruding through their wretched footgear. Then a soldier, smart and pert, strolled up, a flower between his lipsand a good-looking girl beside him. Away in front of us were the topwindows and the roofs of St. Anne's Mansions. Farther, on the left, theclock tower of Westminster glinted in the sun-rays. 

'Fine ducks!' said M. Zola. 

'A pretty corner, ' added Desmoulin, waving his hand towards some branchesthat drooped to the water's edge. And suddenly I remembered and told themof another French exile, the epicurean St. Evremond, whose needs wererelieved by Charles II. Appointing him governor of yonder Duck Island ata salary of three hundred pounds a year. 

'Well, I have little money in my pocket, ' quoth Zola, 'but I don't thinkI shall come to that. I hope that my pen alone will always yield me thelittle I require. '

But Big Ben struck the hour. It was six o'clock. So we separated, Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin to retire to the dungeon at the Grosvenor, and I to goin search of my friend the solicitor at his private house at Wimbledon. 

 III

 DANGER SIGNALS

That evening, I called upon my friend--Mr. F. W. Wareham, of Wimbledon, and Ethelburge House, Bishopsgate Street--and laid before him the legalpoints. I afterwards arranged to see him on the following morning intown, when I hoped to fix a meeting between him and M. Zola. My firstcall on Thursday, July 21, was made to the Grosvenor Hotel, where I foundboth the master and M. Desmoulin in a state of anxiety. M. Zola, for hispart, felt altogether out of his element. After the excitement of histrial and his journey to England, and the novelty of finding himselfstranded in a strange city, a kind of reaction had set in and he wasextremely depressed. 

M. Desmoulin on his side, having procured several morning newspapers, hadexplored their columns to ascertain whether the ladies by whom the masterhad been recognised in the street on the previous day, had by any chancenoised the circumstance abroad. However, the Press was still on theNorway and Holland scents, and as yet not a paper so much as suggested M. Zola's presence in England. 

'There has hardly been time, ' said Desmoulin to me, 'but there willprobably be something fresh this afternoon. Those actresses are certainto tell people, and we shall have to make ourselves scarce. '

I tried to cheer and tranquillise both him and M. Zola, and then arrangedthat Wareham should come to the hotel at 2 P. M. Meantime, said I, whatever M. Desmoulin might do, it would be as well for M. Zola to remainindoors. Several commissions were entrusted to me, and I went off, promising to return about noon. 

I betook myself first to Messrs. Chatto and Windus's in St. Martin'sLane, where I arrived a few minutes before ten o'clock. Neither Mr. Chatto nor his partner, Mr. Percy Spalding, had as yet arrived, and Itherefore had to wait a few minutes. When Mr. Spalding made hisappearance he greeted me with a smile, and while leading the way to hisprivate room exclaimed, 'So our friend Zola is in London!'

To describe my amazement is beyond my powers. I could only gasp, 'How doyou know that?'

'Why, my wife saw him yesterday in Buckingham Palace Road. '

I was confounded. For my part I had scarcely glanced at the ladies whomDesmoulin had conjectured to be French actresses--simply because theywere young, prepossessing, and spoke French!--and certainly I should notreadily have recognised Mrs. Spalding, whom I had only met once someyears previously. It now seemed to me rather fortunate that she should bethe person who had recognised M. Zola, since she would naturally bediscreet as soon as the situation should be made clear to her. 

After I had explained the position, I ascertained that the only personbesides herself who knew anything so far were her husband and the ladyfriend who had accompanied her on the previous day. 

'I will telegraph to my wife at once, ' said Mr. Spalding, 'and you may besure that the matter will go no further. We certainly had a hearty laughat breakfast this morning when we read in the "Telegraph" of Zolabicycling over the Swiss frontier; but, of course, as from what you tellme, the matter is serious, neither my wife nor myself will speak of it. '

'And her friend?' I exclaimed, 'she knows nothing of the necessity forsecrecy, and may perhaps gossip about it. '

'She is going to Hastings to-day. '

'Hastings!' said I, 'why M. Desmoulin, Zola's companion, does nothing buttalk of going to Hastings! I am glad I know this. Hastings is barred forgood, so far as Zola is concerned. '

'Well, I will arrange for my wife to see her friend this morning beforeshe starts, ' Mr. Spalding rejoined, 'and in this way we may be sure thather friend will say nothing. '

This excellent suggestion was acted upon immediately. Mr. Spaldingtelegraphed full instructions to his wife, and later in the day I learntthat everything had been satisfactorily arranged. But for this timelyaction, following upon my lucky call at Messrs. Chatto and Windus'sestablishment, it is virtually certain that the meeting in the BuckinghamPalace Road would have been talked about and the game of 'Where is Zola?'brought to an abrupt conclusion. As it happened, both ladies, being dulywarned, preserved absolute secrecy. 

After going to Bishopsgate Street to see Wareham, and executing severalminor commissions, I returned to the Grosvenor, where Zola and Desmoulinwere much amused when I told them of the outcome of the previous day'sfright. 

'It was a remarkable coincidence certainly, ' said M. Zola. 'At a lowcalculation I daresay a thousand women passed me in the streetsyesterday; just one of them recognised me, and she, you say, was Mrs. Spalding. Shortsighted as I am, not having seen her, too, since I was inEngland, a few years ago, I had no notion she was the person who turnedas she passed along, and said, "There's Monsieur Zola. "

'But the curious part of it is that you should have had to go toChatto's, and should have learnt the lady's name so promptly from herhusband! Mathematically there were untold chances that this lady whorecognised me might be some stranger's wife, and that we might never morehear anything of her! Yet you discover her identity at once. This is thekind of thing which occasionally occurs in novels, but which critics saynever happens in real life. Well, now we know the contrary. '

And he added gaily, 'You see it is another instance of my good luck, which still attends me in spite of all the striving of those who bear megrudges. '

So far as the ladies were concerned things were, indeed, verysatisfactory. But the same could hardly be said of the position at theGrosvenor. Neither M. Zola nor M. Desmoulin could leave the hotel orreturn to it without being scrutinised. They had also noticed many aglance in their direction at meal-time in the dining-room; and they hadcome to the conclusion that departure was imperative. I did not gainsaythem, for I shared their views, and, in fact, I had already discussed thematter with Wareham. I explained, however, that one must have a few hoursto devise suitable plans. 

Seaside places were dangerous at that time of the year, and the bestcourse would probably be to take a furnished house in the country. Meantime, said I, Wareham had kindly offered to accommodate M. Zola athis residence at Wimbledon, while M. Desmoulin might sleep close by atthe house of Mr. Everson (Wareham's managing clerk), who also disposed ofa spare bedroom. Further discussion of these matters was postponed, however, until Wareham's arrive at the Grosvenor in the afternoon. 

As Zola and Desmoulin both distrusted the inquisitive glances of thevisitors and the attendants at the hotel, we lunched, I remember, at arestaurant in or near Victoria Street--a deep, narrow place, crowded withlittle tables. And here again M. Zola, in his light garments, with therosette of the Legion of Honour showing brightly in his buttonhole, became the observed of all observers. 

He was, indeed, so conspicuous, so characteristic a figure that, lookingbackward and remembering how repeatedly the illustrated papers hadportrayed him and how many photographs of him were to be seen in shopwindows, I often wonder how it happened that he was not recognised ahundred times during those few days spent in London. It may be that manydid recognise him, but held their tongues. As yet, certainly, there wasnot a word in the newspapers to set his adversaries upon his track. 

It was in a corner of the smoking-room at the Grosvenor, a hot gloomyapartment overlooking Victoria Station, that I introduced Wareham to thenovelist. The former had already formed some opinion, but a few pointsremained for consideration. The chief of these, as Wareham explained, washow far the French Republic might claim jurisdiction over Frenchmen. 

In matters of process some countries asserted a measure of authority overtheir subjects wherever they might be; and the question was, what mightbe the law of France in that respect? Of course M. Zola could not beextradited. The offence for which he had been sentenced did not comewithin the purview of the Extradition Act. Again (in reply to a queryfrom M. Zola), there was no diplomatic channel through which a Frenchcriminal libel judgment could be signified in England. But suppose thatFrench detectives should discover M. Zola's whereabouts, and suppose aFrench process-server should quietly come to England with a couple ofwitnesses, and by some craft or good luck should succeed in placing acopy of the Versailles judgment in M. Zola's hands?

Unless a breach of the Queen's peace were committed, it might bedifficult for the English authorities to interfere. There appeared to beno case or precedent in England applying to such a matter. In Germany aforeign process-server would be liable to penal servitude. But, ofcourse, that was not to the point. Again, although the service by aforeigner might not hold good in English law, that had nothing to do withit. The process-server and his witnesses would immediately return toFrance; they would there prove to the satisfaction of their employersthat they had served the judgment on M. Zola personally, and they wouldbe able to snap their fingers at English lawyers should the lattercomplain that the thrusting of a document into a man's hand under suchcircumstances was a technical assault. They would have gained theirpoint. Judgment would have been served, and in accordance with French lawM. Zola would be called upon to enter an appearance against it atVersailles. 

'Things must largely depend, ' concluded Wareham, 'on whether French lawallows process to be served on a subject out of the jurisdiction. Andthat is a point rather for French legal advisers than for me. Still Ishall look into the matter further; and if at the same time Maitre Laborican be communicated with and can supply his opinion on the question, somuch the better. I now raise the point because it seems the crux of thewhole matter, and if it goes against us it is certain that M. Zola oughtto remain in close retirement. For the present it is as well that heshould run as little risk as possible. '

M. Zola acquiesced in the suggestion of writing to his French counsel onthe point which had been raised; and the conversation then went on in thesame low tone that had been preserved from the outset. 

On entering the smoking-room we had found it deserted, but whilst Warehamwas speaking a couple of gentlemen had come in. One, I remember, was anelderly, florid man, with mutton-chop whiskers and a buff waistcoat, whotook his stand beside the fireplace at the further end of the room andpuffed away at a big cigar. He looked inoffensive enough, and paid noattention to us. But the other, a middle-aged individual, tall and slim, with military moustaches, eyed us very keenly, changed his position twoor three times, and finally installed himself in a chair, whence, whiletrifling with a cigarette, he commanded a good view of M. Zola's face. Desmoulin, I think, was the first to notice this, and to call thenovelist's attention to it. Zola then shifted his position, and themilitary looking gentleman soon did the same. At last, doubtless havingsatisfied his curiosity, he left the room, not, however, without a sharp, comprehensive survey of our party as he passed us on his way out. 

I do not now exactly remember how it happened that Wareham was notreceived in the 'dungeon, ' instead of the smoking-room. The choice of thelatter apartment was unfortunate. I have no doubt that, if some of thenewspapers were, a day or two afterwards, able to state that M. Zola wasstaying at the Grosvenor Hotel, it was through certain remarks made bythe inquisitive military looking gentleman to whom I have referred. 

On the other hand his curiosity exercised decisive influence over M. Zola's subsequent movements. He had hitherto been rather chary ofaccepting Wareham's hospitality, for fear lest he should inconveniencehim. But the offer now being renewed was promptly accepted, and it wasagreed that I should take both Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin to Wimbledonthat evening. 

As it was to be expected that several letters from Paris would arrive atthe hotel, addressed to M. Pascal, I arranged to call or send for them. The same course was adopted with regard to a few articles which M. Zolahad given to be washed and which had not yet been returned to him. Someof these things were significantly marked with the letter 'Z, ' and forthis reason it was desirable that they should be recovered. Here I maymention that during the next few days my wife repeatedly called at theGrosvenor for M. Zola's correspondence, a circumstance which doubtlessgave rise to the rumour that Mme. Zola had joined her husband in London. 

The exodus from the hotel was not particularly imposing. M. Desmoulin hadoriginally intended to stay but one day in London, and thus merely had adressing-case with him. As for M. Zola, his few belongings (inclusive ofa small bottle of ink, which he would not part with) were stuffed intohis pockets, or went towards the making of a peculiarly shaped newspaperparcel, tied round with odd bits of string. Dressing-case and parcel wereduly brought down into the grand vestibule, where the hotel servantssmiled on them benignly. There was, indeed, some little humour in thesituation. 

The novelist, with his gold pince-nez and gold watch-chair, his redrosette, and a large and remarkably fine diamond sparking on one of hislittle fingers, looked so eminently respectable that it was difficult toassociate him with the wretched misshapen newspaper parcel--his onlyluggage!--which he eyed so jealously. However, as the attendants were allliberally fee'd, they remained strictly polite even if they felt amused. I ordered a hansom to be called, and we just contrived to squeezeourselves and the precious newspaper parcel inside it. The dressing-casewas hoisted aloft. Then the hotel porter asked me, 'Where to, sir?'

'Charing Cross Station, ' I replied, and the next moment we were bowlingalong Buckingham Palace Road. 

Perhaps a minute elapsed before I tapped the cab-roof with my walkingstick. On cabby looking down at me, I said, 'Did I tell you Charing Crossjust now, driver? Ah! well, I made a mistake. I meant Waterloo. '

'Right, sir, ' rejoined cabby; and on we went. 

It was a paltry device, perhaps, this trick of giving one direction inthe hearing of the hotel servants, and then another when the hotel wasout of sight. But, as the reader must know, this kind of thing is alwaysdone in novels--particularly in detective stories. 

And recollections had come to me of some of Gaboriau's tales which longago I had helped to place before the English public. It might be that therenowned Monsieur Lecoq or his successor, or perchance some English_confrere_ like Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would presently be after us, and soit was just as well to play the game according to the orthodox rules ofromance. After all, was it not in something akin to a romance that I wasliving?

 IV

 A CHANGE OF QUARTERS

It should be mentioned that the departure of Messrs. Zola and Desmoulinfrom the Grosvenor Hotel took place almost immediately after Wareham hadreturned to his office. We were not to meet our friend the solicitoragain until the evening at Wimbledon, but the hotel being apparently adangerous spot, it was thought best to quit it forthwith. 

When we reached Waterloo the dressing-case and the newspaper parcel weredeposited at one of the cloak-rooms; and after making the round of thestation, we descended into the Waterloo Road. At first we saunteredtowards the New Cut, and of course M. Zola could not help noticing thecontrast between the dingy surroundings amidst which he now found himselfand the stylish shops and roads he had seen in the Buckingham PalaceRoad. The vista was not cheering, so I proposed that we should retraceour steps and go as far as Waterloo Bridge. 

There seemed to be little risk in doing so, for, as usual hereabouts inthe middle of the afternoon, there were few people to be seen. The greatsuccessive rush of homeward-bound employers, clerks, and workpeople hadnot yet set in. And, moreover, there was plenty of time; for Wareham, having important business in town that day, could not possibly be atWimbledon till half-past six at the earliest. 

We reached the bridge--'that monument, ' as a famous Frenchman once putin, 'worthy of Sesostris and the Caesars'--and went about half-wayacross. It was splendid weather, and the Thames was aglow with thecountless reflections of the sunbeams that fell from the hot, whiteningsky. London was before us, 'with her palaces down to the water'; and M. Zola stopped short, gazing intently at the scene. 

'Up-stream the view was spoilt, ' said he, 'by the hideous HungerfordBridge, unworthy alike of the city and the river'--an erection such as noParis municipality would have tolerated for four and twenty hours. It wasthe more obtrusive and aggravating, since beyond it one discerned butlittle of the towers of Westminster. 'Admitting, ' added the novelist, 'that a bridge is needed at that point for railway traffic, surely thereis no reason why it should be so surprisingly ugly. However, from all Isee, it seems more and more evident that you English people are very muchin the habit of sacrificing beauty to utility, forgetting that with alittle artistic sense it is easy to combine the two. '

Then, however, he turned slightly, and looked down-stream where theVictoria Embankment spreads past the Temple to Blackfriars. Thecolonnades of Somerset House showed boldly and with a certain majesty inthe foreground, whilst in the distance, high over every roof, arose theleaden dome of St. Paul's. This vista was rather to M. Zola's liking. Close beside us, on the bridge, was one of the semi-circular embrasuresgarnished with stone seats. A pitiful-looking vagrant was lolling there;but this made no difference to M. Zola. He installed himself on the seatwith Desmoulin on one hand and myself on the other, and there we remainedfor some little time looking about us and chatting. 

'This was the only thing wanted, ' said Desmoulin, who generally had somehumorous remark in readiness for every situation. 'Yesterday at theGrosvenor we were in the _fosse de Vincennes_, and now, as they say inthe melodrama of "The Knights of the Fog" ("Les Chevaliers duBrouillard"*), we are "homeless wanderers stranded on the bridges ofLondon. "'

 * The French dramatic adaptation of Ainsworth's 'Jack Sheppard. '

The allusion to the fog roused M. Zola from his contemplation. 

'But where is the Savoy Hotel, where I stayed in '93?' he inquired. 'Itmust be very near here. '

I pointed it out to him, and he was astonished. 'Why, no--that cannot be!It is so large a place, and now it looks so small. What is that hugebuilding beside it?'

'The Hotel Cecil, ' I replied. 

Then again he shook his head in disapproval. From an artistic standpointhe strongly objected to the huge caravansary on which builder Hobbs andpious Jabez Balfour spent so much of other people's money. Soaringmassively and pretentiously into the sky it dwarfed everything around;and thus, in his opinion, utterly spoilt that part of the Embankment. 

'To think, too, ' said he, 'that you had such a site, here, along theriver, and allowed it to be used for hotels and clubs, and so forth. There was room for a Louvre here, and you want one badly; for yourNational Gallery, which I well remember visiting in '93, is a mostwretched affair architecturally. '

'But I want to see rather more of the south side of the river, ' he added, after a pause. 'I should like to ascertain if my lion is still there. Irecollect that there was some fog about on the morning after my arrivalat the Savoy in '93; and when I went to the window of my room I noticedthe mist parting--one mass of vapour ascending skyward, while the otherstill hovered over the river. And, in the rent between, I espied a lion, poised in mid air. It amused me vastly; and I called my wife, saying toher, "Come and see. Here's the British lion waiting to bid us good-day. "'

We went to the end of the bridge and thence espied the lion whichsurmounts the brewery of that name. M. Zola recognised it immediately. Desmoulin would then have led us Strandward; but the Strand, said I, wasabout the most dangerous thoroughfare in all London for those who wishedto escape recognition; so we went back over the bridge and again down theWaterloo road. 

'I should like very much to send a line to Paris to-day to stop lettersfrom going to the Grosvenor, ' said M. Zola. 'Is there any placehereabouts where I could write a note?'

This question perplexed me, for the numerous facilities forletter-writing which are supplied by the cafes of Paris are conspicuouslyabsent in London; and this I explained to M. Zola. A postage stamp mayoften be procured at a public-house, but only now and again can one thereobtain ink and paper. However, I thought we might as well try the saloonbar of the York Hotel, which abuts on the famous 'Poverty Corner, ' somuch frequented by ladies and gentlemen of the 'halls, ' when, sorelyagainst their inclinations, they are 'resting. '

It was Thursday afternoon; still there were several disconsolate-lookingindividuals lounging about the corner; and in the saloon bar we foundsome fourteen or fifteen loudly dressed men and women typical of thespot. I forget what I ordered for Desmoulin and myself, but M. Zola, Iknow imbibed, mainly for the good of the house, 'a small lemon plain. 'Then we ascertained that the young lady at the bar had neither stamps, nor paper, nor envelopes, and so we were again in a quandary. FortunatelyI recollected a little stationer's shop in the York Road, and leaving theothers in the saloon bar, I went in search of the requisite materials. 

When I returned I found the master an object of general attention. Hisextremely prosperous appearance, his white billycock, his jewellery, andso forth, coupled with the circumstance that he conversed in French withDesmoulin, had led some of those present to imagine that he was aContinental music-hall director on the look out for English 'artists. '

Again and again I noticed, as it were, a 'hungry' glance in hisdirection; and when, after procuring an inkstand from over the bar, I hadensconced him in a corner, where he was able after a fashion to pen hiscorrespondence, a vivacious and, it seemed to me, somewhat bibulousgentleman in a check suit sidled up to where I stood and introducedhimself in that easy way which repeated 'drops' of 'Mountain Dew' are aptto engender. 

'Ah!' said he, after a few pointless remarks, 'your friend is over hereon business, eh? Right thing, splendid thing. It's only by looking roundthat one can get real tip-top novelties. Oh! I know Paree and thebouleywards well enough. I was on at the Follee Bergey only a few yearsago myself. A good place that--pays well, eh? I shouldn't at all mindtaking a trip across the water again. There's nothing like a change, youknow. Sets a man up, eh?'

Then mysteriously--lifting his forefinger and lowering his voice, 'Nowyour friend wants "talent, " eh? Real, genuine "talent"! I could put himin the way----'

But I interposed: 'You've applied to the wrong shop, ' I said by way of ajoke; 'my friend has all the talent he requires. He's quite full up. '

A sorrowful look came over the angular features of the gentleman in thecheck suit. 'It's like my luck, ' said he; 'there was a fellow over fromAmsterdam the other day, but he'd only take girls. I think theContinental line's pretty nigh played out. '

He heaved a sigh and glanced in the direction of his empty glass. Then, seeing that the novelist and Desmoulin were rising to join me, hewhispered hurriedly, _'I say, guv'nor, you haven't got a tanner you couldspare, have you?'_

I had foreseen the request; nevertheless I pressed a few coppers into hishand and then hurried out after my wards. 

Though it was still early we decided to start at once for Wimbledon. Themaster, I thought, might like to see a little of the place pendingWareham's arrival. 

The journey through Lambeth, Vauxhall, and Queen's Road is not calculatedto give the intelligent foreigner a particularly favourable impression ofLondon. Still M. Zola did not at first find the surroundings very muchworse than those one observes on leaving Paris by the Northern or Easternlines. But as the train went on and on and much the same scene appearedon either hand he began to wonder when it would all end. 

On approaching Clapham Junction a sea of roofs is to be seen on the rightstretching away through Battersea to the Thames; while on the left a hugewave of houses ascends the acclivity known, I believe, as Lavender Hill. And at the sight of all the mean, dusty streets, lined with little housesof uniform pattern, each close pressed to the other--at the frequentlyrecurring glimpses of squalor and shabby gentility--M. Zola exploded. 

'It is awful!' he said. 

We were alone in our compartment, and he looked first from one window andthen from the other. Next came a torrent of questions: Why were thehouses so small? Why were they all so ugly and so much alike? Whatclasses of people lived in them? Why were the roads so dusty? Why wasthere such a litter of fragments of paper lying about everywhere? Wherethose streets never watered? Was there no scavengers' service? And then aremark: 'You see that house, it looks fairly clean and neat in front. Butthere! Look at the back-yard--all rubbish and poverty! One notices thatagain and again!'

We passed Clapham Junction, pursuing our journey through the cuttingwhich intersects Wandsworth Common. 'Well, ' I said, 'you may take itthat, except as regards the postal and police services, you are now outof London proper. '

Presently, indeed, we emerged from the cutting, and fields were seen oneither hand. One could breathe at last. But as we approached EarlsfieldStation all M. Zola's attention was given to a long row of low-lyinghouses whose yards and gardens extend to the railway line. Now and againa trim patch of ground was seen; here, too, there was a littleglass-house, there an attempt at an arbour. But litter and rubbish wereonly too often apparent. 

'This, I suppose, ' said the novelist, 'is what you call a London sluminvading the country? You tell me that only a part of the bourgeoisiecares for flats, and that among the lower middle class and the workingclass each family prefers to rent its own little house. Is this for thesake of privacy? If so, I see no privacy here. Leaving out the questionof being overlooked from passing trains, observe the open four-footfences which separate one garden or yard from the other. There is noprivacy at all! To me the manner in which your poorer classes are housedin the suburbs, packed closely together in flimsy buildings, where everysound can be heard, suggests a form of socialism--communism, or perhapsrather the phalansterian system. '

But Earlsfield was already passed, and we were reaching Wimbledon. HereM. Zola's impressions changed. True, he did not have occasion toperambulate what he would doubtless have called the 'phalansterian'streets of new South Wimbledon. I spared him the sight of the chess-boardof bricks and mortar into which the speculative builder has turned acreafter acre north of Merton High Street. But the Hill Road, the Broadway, the Worple Road, and the various turnings that climb towards the Ridgewaypleased him. And he commented very favourably on the shops in theBroadway and the Hill Road, which in the waning sunshine still looked gayand bright. At every moment he stopped to examine something. Suchdisplays of fruit, and fish, poultry, meat, and provisions of all kinds;the drapers' windows all aglow with summer fabrics, and those of thejewellers coruscating with gold and gems. Then the public-houses--dignified by the name of hotels, though I explained that they hadno hotel accommodation--bespoke all the wealth of a powerful trade. 

There was an imposing bank, too, and a stylish carriage builder's, withfurniture shops, stationers, pastrycooks, hairdressers, ironmongers, andso forth, whose displays testified to the prosperity of the town. Againand again did M. Zola express the opinion that these Wimbledon shops wereby far superior to such as one would find in a French town ofcorresponding size and at a similar distance from the capital. 

We sauntered up and down the Hill Road, looking in at the Free Library onour way. Then, on passing the Alexandra Road, I explained to Desmoulinthat he would sleep there, at No. 20, where Wareham has a local officeand where his managing clerk, Everson by name, resides. 

The arrangement with Wareham had been concluded so precipitately that, tospare him unnecessary trouble at home, we had arranged to dine thatevening at a local restaurant--in fact, the only restaurant possessed byWimbledon. Wareham was to join us there. The proprietor, Mr. Genoni, isof foreign origin, but Wareham knowing him personally had assured me thateven should he suspect our friend's identity his discretion might readilybe relied upon. And so the sequel proved. During our repast, however, Ifelt a little doubtful about one of the waiters who know French, and Itherefore cautioned M. Zola and M. Desmoulin to be as reticent aspossible. 

After dinner we adjourned to Wareham's house in Prince's Road, where Mrs. Wareham gave the travellers the most cordial of welcomes. Theconversation was chiefly confined to the question of finding somesuitable place where M. Zola might settle down for his term of exile. He, himself, was so taken with what he had seen of Wimbledon that hesuggested renting a furnished house there. This seemed a trifledangerous, both to Wareham and myself; but the novelist was not to begainsaid; and as Wareham, in anticipation of his services being required, had made special arrangements to give M. Zola most of his time on themorrow, we arranged to see some house agents, engage a landau, and driveround to visit such places as might seem suitable. 

It was nearly half-past eleven when I left Wareham's to escort Desmoulinto the Alexandra Road. I there left him in charge of his host, Mr. Everson, and then turning (by way of a short cut) into the Lover's Walk, which the South Western Railway Company so considerately provides foramorous Wimbledonians, I hurried homeward, wondering what the morrowwould bring forth. 

 V

 WIMBLEDON--OATLANDS

It will be obvious to all readers of this narrative that from the momentM. Zola left Paris, and throughout his sojourn in London and itsimmediate neighbourhood, there was little if any skill shown in thematter of keeping his movements secret. In point of fact, blunder uponblunder was committed. A first mistake was made in going to an hotel likethe Grosvenor; a second in openly promenading some of the most frequentedof the London streets; and a third in declining to make the slightestalteration with regard to personal appearance. Again, although press ofcircumstances rendered departure for Wimbledon a necessity, as it wasimperative to get M. Zola out of London at once, this change of quarterswas in the end scarcely conducive to secrecy. A good many Wimbledonianswere aware of my connection with M. Zola, and even if he were notpersonally recognised by them, the circumstance of a French gentleman ofstriking appearance being seen in my company was fated to arousesuspicion. My home is but a mile or so from the centre of Wimbledon, andM. Zola's proposal to make that locality his place of sojourn seemed tome such a dangerous course that when I returned to Wareham's house on themorning of Friday, July 22, I was determined to oppose it, in themaster's own interests, as vigorously as might be possible. 

However, I found Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin ready to start for aninspection of such furnished houses as might seem suitable for theiraccommodation; and nothing urged either by Wareham or by myself couldturn them from their purpose. So the four of us took our seats in thelandau which had been ordered, and were soon driving in the direction ofWimbledon Park, where stood the first of the eligible residences enteredin the books of a local house agent. The terms for these houses varied, if I recollect rightly, from four to seven guineas a week. Some we didnot trouble to enter; others, however, were carefully inspected. 

Nothing in the way of a terrace house would suit; for M. Zola was not yeta phalansterian. And in like way he objected to the semi-detached villas. He wished to secure a somewhat retired place, girt with foliage and thusscreened from the observation of neighbours and passers-by. The lowgarden railings and fences usually met with were by no means to histaste. The flimsy party walls of the semi-detached villas, through whichevery sound so swiftly passes, were equally objectionable to him. And Imust say that I viewed with some little satisfaction his dislike forseveral of the houses which we visited; for this made it easier todissuade him from his plan of fixing his abode in Wimbledon, where, unless he should rigidly confine himself within doors, it was certainthat his presence would be known before a week was over. 

There were, however, some houses which the master found to his liking;and here he lingered awhile, inspecting the rooms, taking stock of thefurniture, examining the engravings and water-colours on the walls, andviewing the trim gardens with visible satisfaction. One place, a largehouse in one of the precipitous roads leading from the Ridgeway to theWorple Road, was, perhaps, rather too open for his requirements, but itsappointments were perfect, and at his bidding I plied the lady of thehouse with innumerable questions about plate, linen, and garden produce, the servants she offered to leave behind her, and so forth. She was atall and stately dame, with silver hair and a soft musical voice--aperfect type of the old marquise, such as one sees portrayed at times onthe boards of the Comedie Francaise, and after I had acted as interpreterfor a quarter of an hour or so, she suddenly turned upon the master and, to the surprise of all of us, addressed him in perfect French. It wasthis which broke the spell. Though M. Zola was taken aback, he respondedpolitely enough, and the conversation went on in French for some minutes, but I could already tell that he had renounced his intention of rentingthe house. When we drove away, after promising the lady a decisive answerwithin a day or two, he said to me:

'That would never do. The lady's French was too good. She looked at merather suspiciously too. She would soon discover my identity. She hasprobably heard of me already. '

'Who hasn't?' I responded with a laugh. And once again I brought forwardthe objections that occurred to me with respect to the plan of remainingat Wimbledon. It was a centre of Roman Catholic activity. There was aJesuit college there, numbering both French professors and French pupils. Moreover, several French families resided in Wimbledon, and with some ofthem I was myself acquainted. Then also the population included a goodmany literary men, journalists, and others who took an interest in theDreyfus case. And, finally, the town was far too near to London to be inanywise a safe hiding-place. 

Nevertheless, M. Zola only abandoned his intentions with regret. In thatbright sunshiny weather there was an attractive _je ne sais quoi_ aboutWimbledon which charmed him. Not that it was in his estimation an idealplace. The descents from the hill and the Ridgeway (though he admired thebeautiful views they afforded, stretching as far as Norwood) appalled himfrom certain practical standpoints, and he was never weary of expatiatingon the pluck of the girls who cycled so boldly and gracefully from thehill crest to the lower parts of the town. Here it may be mentioned thatM. Zola has become reconciled to the skirt as a cycling garment. Onceupon a time he was an uncompromising partisan of 'rationals' and'bloomers, ' a warm adherent of the views which Lady Harberton and herfriends uphold. But sojourn in England has changed all that--at least sofar as the English type of girl is concerned. Those who have read hisnovel, 'Paris, ' may remember that he therein ascribed the followingremarks to his heroine--Marie: 'Ah! there is nothing like rationals! Tothink that some women are so foolish and obstinate as to wear skirts whenthey cycle! . . . To think that women have a unique opportunity ofputting themselves at their ease and releasing their limbs from prison, and yet won't do so! If they fancy they look the prettier in shortskirts, like schoolgirls, they are vastly mistaken. . . . Skirts are rankheresy. '

Well, so far as Englishwomen are concerned, M. Zola himself has become aheretic. 'Rationals, ' he has more than once said to me of recent times, 'are not suited to the lithe and somewhat spare figure of the averageEnglish girl. Moreover, I doubt if there is a costumier in England whoknows how to cut "rationals" properly. Such women as I have seen inrationals in England looked to me horrible. They had not the properfigure for the garment, and the garment itself was badly made. Forrationals to suit a woman, her figure should be of the happy medium, neither too slim nor over-developed. Now the great bulk of your girls areextremely slim, and appear in skirts to advantage. In cycling, moreover, they carry themselves much better than the majority of Frenchwomen do. They sit their machines gracefully, and the skirt, instead of being amere bundle of stuff, falls evenly and fittingly like a necessaryadjunct--the drapery which is needed to complete and set off theensemble. '

At the same time, the master does not cry 'haro' on the 'bloomer. ' It isadmirably suited, he maintains, to the average Frenchwoman, who is moreinclined to a reasonable plumpness than her English sister. 'The skirt toEngland, ' says he, 'the bloomer to France. ' The whole question is one ofphysique and latitude. The Esquimaux lady would look ungainly and feeluncomfortable if she exchanged her moose furs for the wisp of calicowhich is patronised by the lady of Senegal; and in the like way theEnglishwoman is manifestly ungainly and uncomfortable when she borrowsthe breeches of the Parisienne. 

This digression may seem to carry one away from Wimbledon, but I shouldmention that many of the points enunciated were touched upon by M. Zolafor the first time, while we postponed further house-hunting to driveover Wimbledon Common. The historic mill and Caesar's Camp, and thepicturesque meres were all viewed before the horses' heads were turned tothe town once more. 

By this time the master had come to the conclusion that however pleasantWimbledon might be, it was no fit place for him, and that his best coursewould be to pitch his tent 'far from gay cities and the ways of men. 'Within a few hours I had some proof of the wisdom of his decision, and aweek had not elapsed before I found that M. Zola's sojourn at Wimbledonhad become known to a variety of people. Mr. Genoni, the restaurateur, had been one of the first to identify him; but, as he explained to me, hewas no spy or betrayer, and whatever he might think of the Dreyfusbusiness--he was a reader of that anti-Revisionist print the 'PetitJournal'--M. Zola's secret was, he assured me, quite safe in his hands. But, independently of Mr. Genoni, the secret soon became _le secret dePolichinelle_. A French resident in Wimbledon recognised M. Zola as hestood one day by the railway bridge admiring some fair cyclists. Then agentleman connected with the local Petty Sessions court espied him in mycompany, and shrewdly guessed his identity. Subsequently a localhairdresser, an Englishman, but one well acquainted with Paris andParisian matters, 'spotted' him in the Hill Road. Others followed suit, and at last one afternoon a member of the 'Globe' staff called upon meand supplied me with such circumstantial particulars that I could notpossibly deny the accuracy of his information. But M. Zola had then leftWimbledon, and thus I was able to fence with my visitor and inform himthat, even if the novelist had ever been in the town, he was not there atthat time. 

It had been arranged that some of the leading London house agents shouldbe written to, with the view of securing some secluded country house, preferably in Surrey, and on the South Western line; but the questionwas, where, in the meantime, could M. Zola be conveniently installed?Having left England in the year 1865, and apart from a few brief sojournsin London, having remained abroad till 1886, my knowledge of my nativeland is very slight indeed. Years spent in foreign countries have made mea stay-at-home--one who nowadays buries himself in his little Londonsuburb, going to town as seldom as possible, and without need of countryor seaside trip, since at Merton, where I live, there are green fieldsall around one and every vivifying breeze that can be wished for. Thus Iwas the worst person in the world to take charge of M. Zola and pilot himsafely to a haven of refuge. 

Fortunately, Mr. Wareham knows his way about, as the saying goes, and hiscycling experience proved very useful. He suggested that until a housecould be secured, M. Zola should be installed at a country hotel; and hementioned two or three places which seemed to him of the right character. One of these was Oatlands Park; and Wareham, who, although a solicitor, claims to have some little poetry in his nature, waxed so enthusiasticover the charms of Oatlands and neighbouring localities, that both M. Zola and M. Desmoulin, fervent admirers of scenery as they are, becamecurious to visit this leafy district of Surrey, where, as will beremembered, King Louis Philippe spent his last years of life and exile. 

One afternoon, then, I started with Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin forWalton, from which station the Oatlands Park Hotel is most convenientlyreached. A Gladstone bag had now replaced the master's newspaper parcel, and as M. Desmoulin's dressing-case was as large as a valise, there wasat least some semblance of luggage. I fully realised that it was hardlythe correct thing to present oneself at Oatlands Park and ask for roomsthere _ex abrupto_; as with hostelries of that class it is usual for oneto write and secure accommodation beforehand. However, there was no timefor this; and we decided to run the risk of finding the hotel 'full up, 'particularly as Wareham had informed us that in such a case we mightsecure a temporary billet at one or another of the smaller hotels ofWalton or Weybridge. Thus we went our way at all hazards, and during thejourney I devised a little story for the benefit of the manager atOatlands Park. 

That gentleman, as I had surmised, was a trifle astonished at ourappearance. But I told him that my friends were a couple of Frenchartists, who had been spending a few weeks in London 'doing the lions'there, and who had heard of the charming scenery around Oatlands, andwished to view it, and possibly make a few sketches. And, at the sametime, a solicitor's recommendation being of some value, since it mightmean a good many future customers, I handed the manager one of Wareham'scards. There was, I remember, some little difficulty at first inobtaining rooms, for the hotel was nearly full; but everything endedsatisfactorily. 

I may mention, perhaps, that in describing Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin asFrench artists, I had at least told half the truth. M. Fernand Desmoulinis, of course, well known in the French art world; and, moreover, he hadalready spoken to me of purchasing a water-colour outfit for the verypurpose of sketching, as I had stated. Then, too, M. Zola firstdistinguished himself in literature as an art critic, the defender ofManet, the champion of the school of the 'open air. ' And if he made nosketches whilst he remained at Oatlands he at least took severalphotographs. Sapient critics will stop me here with the oft-repeateddictum that photography is not art. But however that may be, so manypainters nowadays have recourse to the assistance of photography that M. Zola's 'snap-shotting' largely helped to bear out the account which I hadgiven of him at the hotel. 

Oatlands Park is a large pile standing on the site of a magnificentpalace built by Henry VIII. Anne of Denmark, wife of James I. , residedthere, and Henrietta Maria there gave birth to the Duke of Gloucester, the brother of our second Charles and second James. The palace was almostentirely destroyed during the Civil Wars, and subsequently the propertypassed in turn to Jermyn, Earl of St. Albans; Herbert, the admiral, firstEarl of Torrington; and Henry, seventh Earl of Lincoln. A descendant ofthe last-named sold the estate to Frederick, Duke of York, the son ofGeorge III. And Commander-in-Chief of the British army. Soon afterwardsthe house at Oatlands was destroyed by fire, and the prince erected a newbuilding, some portions of which are incorporated in the presenthostelry. A pathetic interest attaches to those remains of York House. Within those walls were spent many of the honeymoon hours of a fair andvirtuous princess, one whose early death plunged England into the deepestgrief it had known for centuries; there she conceived the child who inthe ordinary course of nature might have become King of Great Britain. But the babe, so anxiously awaited by the whole nation (there was noPrincess Victoria at that time) proved stillborn; and of the unhappy'mother of the moment, ' Byron wrote in immortal lines:

 Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, The love of millions!

I am bound to add that the tragic story of the Princess Charlotte was notthat which most appealed to M. Zola's feelings at Oatlands Park. Nor washe particularly impressed by the far-famed grotto which the hotelhandbook states 'has no parallel in the world. ' The grotto, an artificialaffair, the creation of which is due to a Duke of Newcastle, whom it cost40, 000 pounds, besides giving employment to three men for twenty years, consists of numerous chambers and passages, whose walls are inlaid withcoloured spars, shells, coral, ammonites, and crystals. This work isingenious enough, but when one enters a bath-room and finds a stuffedalligator there, keeping company with a statue of Venus and a terra-cottaof the infant Hercules, one is apt to remember how perilously near theridiculous is to the sublime. 

Ridiculous also to some minds may seem the Duchess of York's dog andmonkey cemetery, in which half a hundred of that lady's canine and simianpets lie buried with headstones to their tombs commemorating theirvirtues. This cemetery, however, greatly commended itself to M. Zola, who, as some may know, is a rare lover of animals. Among the variousdistinctions accorded to him in happier times by his compatriots there isnone that he has ever prized more highly than the diploma of honour hereceived from the French 'Society for the Protection of Animals, ' and Ibelieve that one of the happiest moments he ever knew was when, asGovernment delegate at a meeting of that society, he fastened a goldmedal on the bosom of a blushing little shepherdess, a certain Mlle. Camelin, of Trionne, in Upper Burgundy, a girl of sixteen, who, at theperil of her life, had engaged a ravenous wolf in single combat, killedhim, and thereby saved her flock. 

And M. Zola's books teem with his love of animals. During his long exileone of the few requests addressed to him from France, to which heinclined a favourable ear, was an appeal on behalf of a new journaldevoted to the interests of the animal world. To this he could not refusehis patronage, and he gave it enthusiastically, well knowing how muchremains to be accomplished in inculcating among the masses such affectionand patience as are rightful with regard to those dumb creatures whoserve man so well. 

The Duchess of York's cemetery reminded him of his own. Below his houseat Medan a green islet rises from the Seine. This he purchased some yearsago, and there all his favourites have since been buried: an old horse, agoat, and several dogs. During his exile a fresh interment took place inthis island cemetery, that of his last canine favourite, the poor'Chevalier de Perlinpinpin, ' who, after vainly fretting for his absentmaster, died at last of sheer grief and loneliness. Those only canunderstand Emile Zola who have seen him as I saw him then, bowed downwith sorrow, distraught, indifferent to all else, both the weightiestpersonal interests and the very triumph of the cause he had championed;and this because his pet dog had pined away for him, and was beyond allpossibility of succour. It was of course a passing weakness with him;such weakness as may fall upon a man of kindly heart. In Zola's case itcame, however, almost like a last blow amidst the sorrow and lonelinessof the exile which he was enduring in silence for the sake of hismuch-loved country. 

 VI

 STILL AT OATLANDS

For a time, at all events, Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin found themselves infairly pleasant quarters; they could stroll about the gardens at Oatlandsor along the umbrageous roads of Walton, or beside the pretty reaches ofthe Thames, amidst all desirable quietude. After all his worries themaster needed complete mental rest, and he laughed at his friend'srepeated appeals for newspapers. 

At that period I procured a few French journals every time I went to townand posted them to Oatlands, where they were eagerly conned by M. Desmoulin, on whom the Dreyfus fever was as strong as ever. But M. Zoladuring the first fortnight of his exile did not once cast eyes upon anewspaper, and the only information he obtained respecting passing eventswas such as Desmoulin or myself imparted to him. And in this he evincedlittle interest. Half of it, he said, was absolutely untrue, and theother half was of no importance. There is certainly much force and truthin this curtly-worded opinion as applied to the contents of certain Parisjournals. 

However, communications were now being opened up between the master andhis Paris friends, and every few days Wareham or myself had occasion togo to Oatlands. There were sundry false alarms, too, through strangerscalling at Wareham's office, and now and again my sudden appearance atthe hotel threw Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin into anxiety. In otherrespects their life was quiet enough. The people staying at Oatlandswere, on the whole, a much less inquisitive class than those whom one hadfound at the Grosvenor. There were various honeymoon-making couples, whowere far too busy feasting their eyes on one another to pay muchattention to two French artists. Then, also, the family people gave timeto the superintendence of their sons and daughters; whilst the old folksonly seemed to care for a leisurely stroll about the grounds, followed bylong spells of book or newspaper reading, under the shelter of tree orsunshade. 

Moreover the exiles saw little of the other inmates of the hotel, excepting at the table d'hote dinner. M. Zola then brought his facultiesof observation into play, and after a lapse of a few days he informed methat he was astonished at the ease and frequency with which some Englishgirls raised their wine-glasses to their lips. It upset all his idea ofpropriety to see young ladies of eighteen tossing off their Moselle andtheir champagne as to the manner born. In France the daughter who isproperly trained contents herself with water just coloured by theaddition of a little Bordeaux or Burgundy. And the contrast between thiscustom and incidents which M. Zola noticed at Oatlands--and to which heonce or twice called my attention--made a deep impression on him. 

The people staying at the hotel were certainly all of a good class. Therewere several well-known names in the register; and knowing how much hasbeen written on the happy decrease of drinking habits 'in the uppermiddle-class of England, ' I was myself slightly surprised at what waspointed out to me. When M. Zola discovered, too, that sundrygentlemen--leaving wine to their wives and daughters--were addicted todrinking whisky with their meals, he was yet more astonished, for heclaims that in France nowadays, greatly as the consumption of alcohol hasincreased among the masses, it has declined almost to vanishing pointamong people with any claim to culture. On this matter, however, Ireminded him that wine was often expensive in England, that beerdisagreed with many people, and that some who felt the need of astimulant were thus driven to whisky and water. 

When the master and Desmoulin wandered down to the Thames towing-path, they found fresh food for observation and comment among the boatingfraternity. With some gay parties were damsels whose disregard fordecorum was strongly reminiscent of Asnieres and Joinville-le-Pont; andit was slightly embarrassing to stroll near the river in the evening, when at every few yards one found young couples exchanging kisses in theshadows of the trees. After all it was surprise rather than embarrassmentwhich the exiles experienced, for they had scarcely imagined that Englishtraining was conducive to such public endearments. 

At a later stage a bicycle was procured for the master, and he was thenable to extend his sphere of observation; but in the earlier days atOatlands his rambles were confined to the vicinity of Walton andWeybridge. At the latter village he laid in a fresh stock of linen, andwas soon complaining of the exiguous proportions of English shirts. TheFrenchman, it should be remembered, is a man of many gestures, anddesires all possible freedom of action for his arms. His shirt is cutaccordingly, and a superabundance rather than a deficiency of material inlength as well as breadth is the result. But the English shirt-makerproceeds upon different lines; he always seems afraid of wasting a fewinches of longcloth, and thus if the ordinary ready-made shirt on sale atshops of the average class is dressy-looking enough, it is also oftensupremely uncomfortable to those who like their ease. Such, at least, wasthe master's experience; and in certain respects, said he, the Englishshirt was not only uncomfortable, but indecorous as well. This astonishedhim with a nation which claimed to show so much regard for theproprieties. 

The desire to clothe himself according to his wont became so keen that M. Desmoulin decided to make an expedition to Paris. All this time Mme. Zolahad remained alone at the house in the Rue de Bruxelles, outside which, as at Medan (where the Zolas have their country residence), detectiveswere permanently stationed. Mme. Zola was shadowed wherever she went, theidea, of course, being that she would promptly follow her husband abroad. She had, however, ample duties to discharge in Paris. At the same timeshe much wished to send her husband a trunkful of clothes as well as thematerials for a new book he had planned, in order that he might have someoccupation in his sorrow and loneliness. 

Most people are by this time aware that M. Zola's gospel is work. Indiligent study and composition he finds some measure of solace for everytrouble. At times it is hard for him to take up the pen, but he forceshimself to do so, and an hour later he has largely banished sorrow andanxiety, and at times has even dulled physical pain. He himself, heavyhearted as he was when the first novelty of his strolls around Oatlandshad worn off, felt that he must have something to do, and was thereforewell pleased at the prospect of receiving the materials for his new book, 'Fecondite. '

At that date he certainly did not imagine that the whole of this workwould be written in England, that his exile would drag on month aftermonth till winter would come and spring return, followed once more bysummer. In those days we used to say: 'It will all be over in afortnight, or three weeks, or a month at the latest;' and again and againdid our hopes alternately collapse and revive. Thus the few chapters of'Fecondite, ' which he thought he might be able to pen in England, multiplied and multiplied till they at last became thirty--the entirework. 

It was M. Desmoulin who brought the necessary materials--memoranda, cuttings, and a score of scientific works--from Paris. And at the sametime he had a trunk with him full of clothes which had been smuggled insmall parcels out of M. Zola's house, carried to the residence of afriend, and there properly packed. Desmoulin also brought a hand camera, which likewise proved very acceptable to the master, and enabled him totake many little photographs--almost a complete pictorial record of hisEnglish experiences. 

During Desmoulin's absence the master remained virtually alone atOatlands, and as he still cared nothing for newspapers I sent him a fewbooks from my shelves, and, among others, Stendhal's 'La Chartreuse deParme. ' He wrote me afterwards; 'I am very grateful to you for the booksyou sent. Now that I am utterly alone they enabled me to spend a pleasantday yesterday. I am reading "La Chartreuse. " I am without news fromFrance. If you hear of anything really serious pray let me know aboutit. '

By this time proper arrangements had been made with regard to M. Zola'scorrespondence. His exact whereabouts were kept absolutely secret evenfrom his most intimate friends. Everybody, his wife and Maitre Laborialso, addressed their letters to Wareham's office in Bishopsgate Street. Here the correspondence was enclosed in a large envelope and redirectedto Oatlands. With regard to visitors Wareham and I had decided to givethe master's address to none. Wareham intended to take their cards, ascertain their London address, and then refer the matter through me toM. Zola. Later on, a regular supply of French newspapers was arranged, and those journals were re-transmitted to the master by Wareham ormyself. 

On the other hand, I usually addressed M. Zola's letters for him to thehouse of a trusty friend in Paris. This precaution was a necessary one, as M. Zola's handwriting is so extremely characteristic and so well knownin France. And thus we were convinced that any letter arriving in Parisaddressed by him would immediately be sent to the 'Cabinet Noir, ' whereall suspicious correspondence is opened by certain officials, whoimmediately report the contents to the Government. 

It has been pretended that of recent years this secret service has beenabolished; but such is by no means the case. It flourishes to-day in thesame way as it flourished under the Second Empire, when Napoleon III. Made a point of acquainting himself with the private correspondence ofhis own relatives, his ministers, and his generals. After the revolutionof September 1870, hundreds of copies of more or less compromisingletters, covert attacks on or criticisms of the Imperial Government, _billets-doux_ also between Imperial princes and their mistresses, and soforth, were found at the Palace of the Tuilleries; and some of them wereeven published by a commission nominated by the Republican Government. 

Much of the same kind of thing goes on to-day, and M. Zola, when in Parisduring the earlier stages of the Dreyfus case, had made it a point totrust no letter of the slightest importance to the Postal Service. On oneoccasion, a short time after his arrival in England, we had reason tofear that a letter addressed by me to Paris had gone astray, and allcorrespondence on M. Zola's side was thereupon suspended for severaldays. However, the missing letter turned up at last, and from that timetill the conclusion of the master's exile the arrangements devisedbetween him, Wareham, and myself worked without a hitch. 

 VII

 EXCURSIONS AND ALARUMS

Already at the time of M. Zola's arrival in London I had received asummons to serve upon the jury at the July Sessions of the CentralCriminal court. I had been excused from service on a previous occasion, but this time I had no valid excuse to offer, and it followed that I musteither serve or else pay such a fine as the Common Serjeant might direct. There is always a certain element of doubt in these matters; and while Imight perhaps luckily escape service after a day or two, on the otherhand, I might be kept at the Old Bailey for more than a week. At anyother time I should have accepted my fate without a murmur; but I wasgreatly worried as to what might befall M. Zola during my absence inLondon, and I more than once thought of defaulting and 'paying up. ' Butthe master would not hear of it. He was now located at Oatlands, and feltsure that he would have no trouble there. Moreover, said he, it wouldalways be possible for me to run down now and again of an evening, dinewith him, and attend to such little matters as might require my help. 

So, on the Monday morning when the sessions opened, I duly repaired totown; and on the journey up, I saw in the 'Daily Chronicle' theannouncement of M. Zola's recent presence at the Grosvenor Hotel. Thisgave me quite a shock. So the Press was on the right track at last!Starting from the Grosvenor Hotel, might not the reporters trace themaster to Wimbledon, and thence to his present retreat? I had no time forhesitation. My instructions, moreover, were imperative. For the benefitof M. Zola personally, and for the benefit of the whole Dreyfus cause, Ihad orders to deny everything. So I drove to the Press Associationoffices, sent up a contradiction of the 'Daily Chronicle's' statement, and then hurried up Ludgate Hill to the Court, where my name was soonafterwards called. 

I found myself on the second or third jury got together, and that day Iwas not empanelled. But on the morrow I was required to do duty; andbetween then and the latter part of the week I sat upon four or fivecases--all crimes of violence, and one described in the indictment asmurder. This position was the more unpleasant for me, as I am, by strongconviction, an adversary of capital punishment. I absolutely deny theright of society to put any man or any woman to death, whatever be his orher crime. My proper course then seemed to lie in the direction of apublic statement, which would have created, I suppose, some littlesensation or scandal; but happily the prosecuting counsel in his veryfirst words abandoned the count of murder for that of manslaughter, and Iwas thereby relieved from my predicament. 

The cases on which I sat, and those to which I listened while I remainedin attendance, need not be particularised. I will merely mention thatthey were nearly all due to drink. Mr. Justice Lawrance, who sat upon thebench, was visibly impressed by the circumstance, to which he more thanonce alluded in his summings up. In one case he was so good as to referto a question, put by me from the jury box, as a proper and pertinentone, at which I naturally felt vastly complimented. On the second orthird day, either before the proceedings began or when the Court rose forluncheon--I do not exactly remember which--a gentleman approached me, andintroduced himself as a member of the Press. Said he, 'I have been askingMr. Avory for you. You are Mr. Vizetelly, I believe?'

'That is my name, ' I answered. 

'Well, I have come to speak to you about M. Zola's presence in England. '

I should here mention that, in spite of my contradiction of the'Chronicle' story, there remained some people who had reason to believeit. Moreover, it had been more or less confirmed by the 'Morning Leader, 'and some editors, rightly surmising that if M. Zola were in London hewould very likely be in communication with his usual translator, haddespatched reporters to my house, where my wife had seen them. Onlearning that I was quietly during jury service at the Old Bailey, somehad apparently concluded that I was not concerned in M. Zola's movements, which, so it happened, was the very conclusion I had desired them toarrive at. One gentleman, however, not content with his repulse at myhouse, had followed me to the Court. 

I answered his inquiries with a variety of suggestions. Zola in England, and in London too! Well, we had heard that before, said I. But was it aprobable course for the novelist to take? He knew no English, and had butfew personal friends in England. His portraits, however, were in severalshops and in many newspapers. And only a few years previously he had beenseen by a thousand English pressmen and others. So would he not be liableto recognition almost immediately? Now, the only modern language besidesFrench of which M. Zola had any knowledge was Italian. And if I were inhis place, I said, I should go to Italy--for instance, to one of thelittle towns in the North, whence, if needful, one could cross over intoSwitzerland; though, of course, there was little likelihood that theItalian Government would ever surrender the distinguished writer to hispersecutors. 

Continuing in this strain I gave my interviewer material for a veryplausible article, which I remember was duly published, and which thushelped to divert attention from the right scent. 

At the week-end, having given considerable time to jury duties, I wascompelled to spend Saturday morning in London on business, and in theafternoon I allowed myself a few hours' relaxation. Reaching Wimbledonabout eight in the evening I called on Wareham, who received me with agreat show of satisfaction; for, said he, my services had been requiredfor some hours past and nobody had known where I might be. That day, itseemed, just before Wareham had left his Bishopsgate Street office, hehad received a visit from a most singular-looking little Frenchman, whohad presented one of Maitre Labori's visiting cards and requested aninterview with M. Zola. Questioned as to his business, the onlyexplanation he would give was that he had with him a document in a sealedenvelope which he must place in M. Zola's own hands. Wareham had wired tome on the matter, but owing to my absence from home had of coursereceived no reply. Then, on reaching Wimbledon, he had called on me andfound me out. And, finally, he had gone down to Oatlands and had thereseen M. Zola, who had handed him a note authorising Maitre Labori'smessenger to call at the hotel on the morrow. However, the messenger andhis manners had seemed very suspicious to Wareham--as, indeed, theyafterwards seemed to me--and the question arose, was he a genuine envoy, was the writing on Maitre Labori's card perchance a forgery, and what wasthe document in a sealed envelope which was to be handed to nobody but M. Zola himself? Well, said I at a guess, perhaps it is a copy of theVersailles judgment, and this is simply an impudent attempt to serve it. 

Wareham still had Zola's note in his possession, and we resolved to go totown that evening to interview the messenger and extract from him somedecisive proof of his bona fides before allowing matters to go anyfurther. 

The envoy's address was the Salisbury Hotel, Salisbury Court, FleetStreet, which I thought a curious one, being in the very centre of theLondon newspaper district; and all the way up to town my suspicions ofhaving to do with a 'plant' steadily increased. It was quite ten o'clockwhen we reached the hotel, and on inquiring for our party found that hehad gone to bed. 

'Well, ' said Wareham, sharply, 'he must be roused. We must see him atonce. '

I spoke to the same effect, and the hotel servants looked rathersurprised. I have an idea that they fancied we had come to arrest theman. 

In about ten minutes he was brought downstairs. His appearance was mostunprepossessing. He was very short, with a huge head and a remarkableshock of coal-black hair. Having hastily risen from bed, he had retainedhis pyjamas, but a long frock-coat hung nearly to his slippers, and inone hand he carried a pair of gloves, and in the other a huge eccentricsilk hat of the true chimney-pot type. These were details, and one mighthave passed them over. But the man's face was sadly against him. He hadthe slyest eyes I have ever seen; that peculiar shifty glance whichinvariably sets one against an individual. And thus I became more andmore convinced that we had to deal with some piece of trickery. 

We entered the smoking-room where the gas was burning low. A gentlemanstopping at the hotel was snoring in solitary state in one of the armchairs. Reaching a table near a window we sat down and at once engaged inbattle. 

'I have not brought you a definite answer, ' said Wareham to the envoy, 'but this gentleman is in M. Zola's confidence, and wishes further proofof your bona fides before allowing you to see M. Zola. '

Then I took up the tale, now in French, now in English, for the envoyspoke both languages. Who was he? I asked. Did he claim to have receivedLabori's card from Labori himself? What was the document in the envelopewhich he would only deliver to M. Zola in person? And he replied that hewas a diamond-broker. Did I know So-and-So and So-and-So of HattonGarden? They knew him well, they did business with him; they could vouchfor his honorability. But no, I was not acquainted with So-and-So andSo-and-So. I never bought diamonds. Besides, it was ten o'clock onSaturday night, and the parties mentioned were certainly not at theiroffices for me to refer to them. 

Afterwards the little envoy began to speak of his family connections andhis Paris friends, mentioning various well-known names. But the proofs Idesired were not forth-coming; and when he finally admitted that he hadnot received Maitre Labori's card from that gentleman himself, all mysuspicions revived. True he added that it had been given him by awell-known Revisionist leader to whom Maitre Labori, in a moment ofemergency, having nobody of his own whom he could send abroad, had handedit. 

But what was in the envelope? That was the great question. The envoycould or would not answer it. He knew nothing certain on that point. Thenwe--Wareham and I--brought forward our heavy artillery. We could notallow a document to be handed to M. Zola under such mysteriousconditions. We must see it. But no, the envoy had strict instructions tothe contrary; he could not show it to us. In that case, we rejoined, hemight take it back to Paris. He had produced no proof of any of hisassertions; for all we knew he might have told us a fairy tale, and themysterious document might simply be a copy of the much dreaded judgmentof Versailles. This suggestion produced a visible impression on thelittle man, and for half an hour we sat arguing the point. Finally hebegan to compliment us: 'Oh! you guard him well!' he said. 'I shall tellthem all about it when I get back to Paris. But you do wrong to distrustme; I am honourable. I am well known in Hatton Gardens. I have donebusiness there, ten, twelve years with So-and-So and So-and-So. I speakthe truth: you may believe me. '

We shrugged our shoulders. For my part, I could not shake off the badimpression which the envoy had made on me. The gleams of craft andtriumph which now and again I had detected in his eyes were not to myliking. Assuredly few men are responsible for any physical repulsiveness;we cannot all be 'Belvedere' Apollos; but then the envoy was not only ofthe ugly, but also the cunning-looking class. Yet a more honourable mannever breathed. He at once thrust one hand into the depths of a capaciousinner pocket, produced the mysterious envelope, and opened it in ourpresence. It contained simply a long letter from Maitre Labori, accompanied by a document concerning the prosecution which had beeninstituted with reference to the infamous articles that Ernest Judet, ofthe 'Petit Journal, ' had recently written, accusing Zola's father oftheft and embezzlement whilst he was a wardrobe officer in the FrenchForeign Legion in Algeria. It was needful that Zola should see thisdocument, and return it by messenger to Paris immediately. 

The affair in question is still _sub judice_, and I must therefore speakof it with some reticence. But all who are interested in M. Zola's originand career will do well to read the admirable volume written by M. Jacques Dhur, and entitled 'Le Pere d'Emile Zola, ' which the SocieteLibre d'Edition des Gens de Lettres (30, Rue Laffitte, Paris) published ashort time ago. This will show them how strong are the presumptions thatthe documents cited by Judet in proof of his abominable charges are rankforgeries--similar to those of Henry and Lemercier-Picard! In thisconnection it afforded me much pleasure to be able to supply certainextracts from Francesco Zola's works at the British Museum, showing howsubsequent to the date at which the novelist's father is alleged to havepurloined State money he was received with honour by King Louis-Philippe, the Prince de Joinville, the Minister of War, and other high personagesof the time--incidents which all tend to establish the falsity of theaccusations by which Judet, in his venomous spite and malignity, hoped tocast opprobrium on the parentage of my dear master and friend. 

But I must return to Maitre Labori's envoy. When I had seen the contentsof his envelope I heartily apologised to him for the suspicions which Ihad cast upon his good faith. At this he smiled more maliciously andtriumphantly than ever, and then candidly remarked: 'Well, if you havetested me, I have tested you, and I shall be able to tell all our friendsin Paris that M. Zola is in safe hands. '

According to our previous agreement we re-sealed the envelope, writingacross it that it had been opened in the presence of Wareham and myself. And afterwards our reconciliation also was 'sealed' over a friendlyglass. Nevertheless the envoy never saw M. Zola. M. Desmoulin luckilyturned up on the morrow, and, armed with a fresh note from the master, persuaded our little French friend to hand him the documents. 

We left the Salisbury Hotel, Wareham and I, well pleased to find that oursuspicions had been unfounded. Nevertheless the whole conversation of thelast hour had left its mark on us; and, for my part, I was in much thesame state of mind as in the old days of the siege of Paris, when the spymania led to so many amusing incidents. Thus, the circumstance of findingtwo persons at the corner of Salisbury Square as we left it--two personswho were speaking in French and who eyed us very suspiciously--revived myalarm. They even followed us along Fleet Street towards the LudgateCircus, and though we dodged them through the cavernous Ludgate HillRailway Station, across sundry courts and past the stores of Messrs. Spiers and Pond, we again found them waiting for us on our return towardsthe embankment, determined, so it seemed, to convoy us home. We hastenedour steps and they hastened theirs. We loitered, they loitered also. Atlast Wareham made me dive into a side street and thence into a maze ofcourts, and though the others seemed bent on following us, we at lastmanaged to give them the slip. 

I never saw these men again, but I have retained a strong suspicion thatno mere question of coincidence could explain that seeming pursuit. Itake it that the individuals had come over to England on the track of thelittle French envoy; for it was after he had bidden us good-night outsidethe Salisbury Hotel that they had turned to follow us. He had told us, too, that earlier in the evening he had spent a hour smoking andstrolling about Salisbury Court whilst anxiously awaiting Wareham'sarrival with his promised answer. Whether these men were French policespies, whether they were simply members of some swell mob who know thatthe little gentleman with the huge head and the coal-black hair sometimesjourneyed to London with a fortune in diamonds in his possession, mustremain a mystery. As for Wareham and myself, when we had again reachedFleet Street we hailed a passing hansom and drove away to Waterloo. 

 VIII

 OTHER PERSONAL ADVENTURES

I had another alarm a few days later. Returning one evening by train fromWaterloo, I was followed into the compartment I selected by a party offive men, two of whom I recognised. One was the landlord of the RaynesPark Hotel, now deceased, and the other his son. Their companions provedto be Frenchmen, which somehow struck me as a curious circumstance. Thiswas the time when a letter addressed by me to Paris for M. Zola appearedto have gone astray, and when we were therefore rather apprehensive ofsome action on the part of the French authorities. Could it be that thetwo Frenchmen who had followed me into the railway carriage in thecompany of a local licensed victualler were actually staying at RaynesPark, within half a mile of my home? And, if so, what could be theirpurpose?

I remained silent in my corner of the carriage, pretending to read anewspaper; but on glancing up every now and then I fancied that Idetected one or another of the Frenchmen eyeing me suspiciously. Theyconversed in French, either together or with the landlord's son--whospoke their language, I found--on a variety of commonplace topics untilwe had passed Earlsfield and were fast approaching Wimbledon. Then, allat once, one of them inquired of the other: 'Shall we get out atWimbledon or Raynes Park?'

'We'll see, ' replied the other; and at the same time it seemed to me thathe darted a very expressive glance in my direction. 

I now began to feel rather nervous. It was my own intention to alight atWimbledon, as I had an important message from M. Zola to communicate toWareham that evening. But it now occurred to me that the best policymight be to go straight home. If these men were French detectives, orFrench newspaper men of the anti-Dreyfusite party, who by shadowing mehoped to discover M. Zola's retreat, it would be most unwise for me to goto Wareham's. If once the latter's name and address should be ascertainedby detectives, communications between M. Zola and his friends would bejeopardised. On the other hand, of course, I might be mistaken withregard to the men; and before all else I ought to make sure whether theyreally had any hostile intentions. So I resolved to leave the train atWimbledon, as I had originally proposed doing, and then shape my courseby theirs. 

As soon as the train pulled up I rose to alight, and at that same momentthe Frenchman who had said 'We'll see, ' exclaimed to his companion:'Well, I think we will got out here. '

I waited to hear no more. I rushed off, threw my ticket to an inspector, climbed the steps from the platform, descended another flight into thestation-yard, hurried into the Hill Road, and did not pause until Ireached the first turning on the right. This happened to be the AlexandraRoad, in which Wareham's local office is situated. 

Then I turned round and, sure enough, I saw the two Frenchmen, thelicensed victualler and his son, deliberately coming towards me. Forthwith, under cover of a passing vehicle, I crossed the street to thecorner of St. George's Road, which offered a convenient, shady retreat. Then I awaited developments. To my great relief the party of four wentstraight on up the Hill Road. 

Nevertheless, this might only be a feint, and I hesitated about going toWareham's immediately. Before anything, I had better let those suspiciousFrenchmen get right away. So I retraced my steps towards the station, andentered the saloon bar of the South-Western Hotel. There I found aforeign gentleman, whether French or Italian I do not know, whom I hadpreviously met about Wimbledon on various occasions. A short, ratherstout, and elderly man, formerly, I believe, in business in London, andnow living on his income, he had more than once spoken to me of theDreyfus case, Zola, Esterhazy, and all the others. And on this particularevening he approached me with a smile, and inquired if there were anytruth in the reports he had heard to the effect that M. Zola had latelybeen seen in Wimbledon. 

Nervous as I was at that moment, I was about to give him a sharp reply, when the door of the saloon bar opened, and to my intense alarm inmarched the two Frenchmen who had already inspired me with so muchdistrust. Their friends were behind them; and I could only conclude thatmy movements had somehow been observed by them, and that now I wasvirtually caught, like a rat in a trap. 

I was the more startled, too, when my foreign acquaintance (about whom Ireally knew very little) abruptly quitted me to accost the new comers. But this gave me breathing time. The door was free, and so, leaving therefreshment I had ordered untouched, I bolted out of the house in muchthe same way as a thief might have done, and ran, as if for my life, right down the Alexandra Road until I reached Wareham's office. And thereI seized the knocker in a frenzy, and made such a racket as might haveawakened the dead. The door suddenly opened, and I fell into the arms ofEverson, Wareham's managing clerk. 

'Great Scott!' said he. 'What is the matter? You've nearly brought thehouse down!'

'Shut the door!' I replied. 'Shut the door!'

'But what has happened to you?'

I had seated myself on the stairs, and a full minute went by before Icould begin my story. Then I told Everson all that had befallen me. SomeFrenchmen were on Zola's track; they must be the very same men who hadshadowed Wareham and myself from the Salisbury Hotel some nightspreviously; and now they were in Wimbledon, having heard, no doubt, thatM. Zola had been seen there. Wareham must be warned of it. Everyprecaution must be taken; we must remove our charge from Oatlands, and soforth. 

Everson puffed away at his pipe and listened meditatively. At last heremarked, 'Well, it is a curious business if what you say is true. Whatwere these Frenchmen like?'

Forthwith I began to describe them as accurately as I could. The firstlikeness I sketched must have been a faithful one, for Everson started, and exclaimed, 'And the other. Was he not so-and-so and so-and-so?'

'Yes, he was. But how do you know that?' I rejoined, with considerablesurprise. 

'Why, because I know who the men are! Although you saw them with Mr. Savage of the Raynes Park Hotel, it doesn't follow that they are stayingat Raynes Park. As a matter of fact they live here in this very road. They have been here I daresay, eight or nine months now. And as for beingdetectives, my dear sir, they are musicians!'

'You don't mean it!'

I collapsed again. To think that out of a mere chain of chancecoincidences I should have forged a perfect melodramatic intrigue! Tothink that I should have let my fancy run away with me in such a fashion, and have worked myself into such a state of nervousness and alarm! Icould not help feeling a trifle ashamed. 'Well, ' I pleaded, 'for my part, I had never seen the men before, either in Wimbledon or elsewhere. Ofcourse, I am short-sighted, and my eyes sometimes play me tricks;however, as you are sure--'

'Sure!' repeated Everson; and again he described the men in such a way asto convince me that there was no mistake in the matter. 'Moreover, ' headded, 'I saw them go past the house this very morning when they went upto town. '

'Well, ' I rejoined, 'I suppose I am losing my head. Ten minutes ago Icould have sworn that those men were after me. '

'Your statement that you never saw them before, ' said Everson, 'does notsurprise me. As a rule they go to town every morning, and as you areseldom in Wimbledon in the evening you can't very well meet one another. '

'I suppose you regard me as a bit of a fool?' I inquired. 

'Oh, no. The circumstances were curious enough, and in your place I mighthave drawn the same conclusions. Only I don't think I should have hurriedoff to a friend's house and have nearly "knocked" it down. '

We both laughed, and then I apologised. 

'As a matter of fact, ' said I, 'all this is the natural outcome ofevents. The beginning was long ago. I have a secret which I find hauntingme when I get up in the morning; all day long it occupies my mind; atnight it clings to me and follows me through my sleep. And I grow moreand more suspicious; it seems as if everybody I meet has designs upon mysecret. Every Frenchman I don't know is a detective or a process serverwith a copy of the Versailles judgment in his pockets. And thus I shallsoon become a monomaniac if I do not discover some remedy. I think Ishall try the shower-bath system. '

Then I recalled experiences dating from long prior to M. Zola's arrivalin England. First mysterious offers of important documents bearing on theDreyfus case--documents forged a la Lemercier-Picard, hawked about byadventurers who tried to dispose of them, now in Paris, now in Brussels, and now in London. Needless to say that I, like others, had rejected themwith contempt. Then had come an incident that Everson already know of: astranger with divers aliases beseeching me for private interviews in M. Zola's interest, a request which I ultimately granted, and which led to arather curious experience. I had declined to see my correspondent alone, and had given him the address of Wareham, who had been present at theinterview. And at first the stranger, a tall and energetic looking man, with sunburnt face and heavy moustaches, had refused to disclose hisbusiness in Wareham's presence. If at last he did so, it was solelybecause I told him that before coming to any decision in the matterswhich he might have to submit to me I should certainly lay them before mysolicitor. So the result would be the same, whether he spoke out beforeWareham or not. And Wareham very properly added that a solicitor was, ina measure, a confessor bound to observe professional secrecy. 

At last the man told us his business, and it proved to be a scheme forrescuing Dreyfus from Devil's Island and carrying him to an Americanport. Neither Wareham nor myself was able to take the matter seriously, but our visitor spoke with great earnestness, as though he already sawthe suggested feat accomplished. He had a ship at his disposal, and acrew also. He gave particulars about both. If I remember rightly, theship lay at Bristol. He knew Cayenne and Devil's Island, and RoyalIsland, and so forth. He was convinced of the practicability of theventure, he had weighed all the _pros_ and _cons_, and it rested withDreyfus's friends and relatives to decide whether or no he (the prisoner)should be a free man within another six weeks. 

Wareham laughed. He was thinking of 'Captain Kettle, ' and said so. Butthe would-be rescuer protested that all this was no romancing. Oh! he wasnot a philanthropist, he should expect to be well paid for his services;but the Dreyfus family was rich, and M. Zola, too, was a man of means. Sosurely they would not begrudge the necessary funds to release the unhappyprisoner from bondage. 

But I replied that though the Dreyfus family and M. Zola also wereanxious to see Dreyfus free, they were yet more anxious to prove hisinnocence. Personally I knew nothing of the Dreyfus family, and couldgive no letter of introduction to any member of it, such as I was askedfor. And, as regards M. Zola, I was sufficiently acquainted with hischaracter to say that he would never join in any such enterprise. Heintended to pursue his campaign by legal means alone, and it was uselessto refer the matter to him. 

Then the interview ended rather abruptly. A French client of Wareham'shappened to call at that very moment, and was heard speaking in French inthe hall. This seemed to alarm the stranger, who ceased pressing hisrequest that I should give him letters of introduction to prominentDreyfusites. He rose abruptly, saying that the time would come when weshould probably regret having refused to entertain his proposals, andhurrying past the waiting French client he ran off down the AlexandraRoad in much the same way as I myself subsequently ran off from theFrench 'detectives' who were simply harmless disciples of St. Cecilia. 

To this day I do not know whether the man was a lunatic, an imposterseeking money, or an _agent provocateur_, that is, one who imagined thathe might through me inveigle M. Zola into an illegal act which would leadto prosecution and imprisonment. The last-mentioned status that I haveascribed to my interviewer is by no means an impossible one, consideringthe many dastardly attempts made to discredit and ruin M. Zola. And yet, suspicious and abrupt as was the man's leave-taking when he heard Frenchbeing spoken outside Wareham's private room (where the interview tookplace), I nowadays think it more charitable to assume that he was atrifle crazy. One thing is certain, he had come to the wrong person inapplying to me to aid and abet him in the foolhardy enterprise he spokeof. 

This is the first time I have told this anecdote in any detail; but atthe period when the incident occurred I spoke of it casually to a fewfriends, to which circumstance I am inclined to attribute the earlierparagraphs which appeared in the newspapers about American schemes fordelivering Dreyfus. The person whom I saw was, I believe, aGerman-American. 

Well, this incident, preposterous as it may appear (but truth, remember, is quite as fantastic as fiction), had proved another link in the chainof suspicious occurrences in which I had been mixed up prior to M. Zola'sexile. Other curious little incidents had followed, and thus for manymonths I had been living--even as we lived long ago in besieged Paris--indistrust of all strangers, and the climax had come with my foolish fearsrespecting a couple of French musicians. The story I have told goesagainst me, but the man who cannot tell a story against himself when hethinks it a good one can have, I think, little grit in his composition. 

From the time of my adventure with the French musicians I steeled myselfagainst excessive fears whilst remaining duly vigilant. On one point Iwas still anxious, which was that M. Zola should be able to settle downin a convenient retreat where him himself would enjoy all necessaryquietude; whilst we, Wareham and I, knowing him to be well screened fromhis enemies, would be less liable to those 'excursions and alarums' whichhad hitherto troubled us. As the next chapter will show, thisconsummation was near at hand. 

 IX

 A QUIET HOME AND A HAUNTED HOUSE

It was M. Zola himself who, after some stay at Oatlands, discovered, inthe course of his excursions with M. Desmoulin, a retreat to his liking. It was a house in that part of Surrey belonging to a city merchant, whowas willing to let it furnished for a limited period. The owner met M. Zola on various occasions and showed himself both courteous and discreet. 

The details of the 'letting' were arranged between him and Mr. Wareham;and my wife hastily procured servants for the new establishment. Theseservants, however, did not speak French, and I settled with M. Zola thatmy eldest daughter, Violette, should stay with him to act in some measureas his housekeeper and interpreter. This was thrusting a young girl, notquite sixteen, into a position of considerable responsibility, but Ithought that Violette would be equal to the task, provided she followedthe instructions and advice of her mother; and as she was then at homefor the summer holidays she was sent down to M. Zola's without more ado. 

I shall have occasion to speak of her hereafter in some detail, inconnection with a very curious incident which marked M. Zola's exile. Here I will merely mention that a Parisienne by birth and speaking Frenchfrom her infancy, it was easy for her to understand and explain themaster's requirements. 

Like M. Zola, she was provided with a bicycle, and the pair of themoccasionally spent an afternoon speeding along leafy Surrey lanes andvisiting quaint old villages. The mornings, however, were devoted towork, for it was now that M. Zola started on his novel, 'Fecondite, ' thefirst of a series of four volumes, which will be, he considers, hisliterary testament. 

These books, indeed, are to embody what he regards as the four cardinalprinciples of human life. First Fruitfulness, as opposed toneo-Malthusianism, which he holds to be the most pernicious of alldoctrines; next Work, as opposed to the idleness of the drones, whom hewould sweep away from the human community; then Truth, as opposed tofalsehood, hypocrisy, and convention; and, finally, Justice to one andall, in lieu of charity to some, oppression to others, and favours forthe privileged few. 

All four books--'Fruitfulness, ' 'Work, ' 'Truth, ' and 'Justice'--are to bestories; for years ago M. Zola arrived at the conclusion that mere essayson sociology, though they may work good in time among people of culture, fail to reach and impress the masses in the same way as a story may do. It is, I take it, largely on this account that Emile Zola has become anovelist. He has certainly written essays, but he knows howinconsiderable have been their sales in comparison with those of hisworks embodying precisely the same principles, but placed before theworld in the form of novels. To criticise him as a mere story-teller isarrant absurdity. 

He himself put the whole case in a nutshell when he remarked, 'My novelshave always been written with a higher aim than merely to amuse. I haveso high an opinion of the novel as a means of expression that I havechosen it as the form in which to present to the world what I wish to sayon the social, scientific, and psychological problems that occupy theminds of thinking men. I might have said what I wanted to say to theworld in another form. But the novel has to-day risen from the placewhich it held in the last century at the banquet of letters. It was thenthe idle pastime of the hour, and sat low down between the fable and theidyll. To-day it contains, or may be made to contain, everything; and itis because that is my creed that I am a novelist. I have, to my thinking, certain contributions to make to the thought of the world on certainsubjects, and I have chosen the novel as the best means of communicatingthese contributions to the world. '

If critics in reviewing one or another of M. Zola's books would only bearthese declarations of the author in mind, the reading public would oftenbe spared many irrelevant and foolish remarks. 

M. Zola's device is _Nulla dies sine linea_, and even before thematerials for 'Fecondite' were brought to him from France he had given anhour or two each day to the penning of notes and impressions forsubsequent use. With the arrival of his books and memoranda, work beganin a more systematic way. At half-past eight every morning he partook ofa cup of coffee and a roll and butter, no more, and shortly after nine hewas at his table in a small room overlooking the garden of the house hehad rented. And there he remained regularly, hard at work, until theluncheon hour, covering sheet after sheet of quarto paper with serriedlines of his firm, characteristic handwriting. 

M. Zola has retained possession of the MSS. Of almost every work writtenby him, and I know that these MSS. Often differ largely from the booksactually given to the world. The 'copy' is not only extremely clear, butremarkably free from erasures and interpolations. But when his firstproofs reach him M. Zola revises them with the greatest care. He willstrike out whole passages in the most drastic manner, and alter othersuntil they are almost unrecognisable. 

He will even at the last moment change some character's name, and I knowall the inconvenience that arises on certain occasions from having had toprepare portions of my translations from first proofs, through lack oftime to wait for the corrected matter. 

This was notably the case with my version of 'Paris. ' While that work waspassing through the Press M. Zola was already in all the throes of theDreyfus affair, and somehow, as he has acknowledged to me with regret, heforgot to tell me that at the last moment he had changed the names ofseveral personages in the story. Thus Duthil (as originally written andgiven in my translation) became Dutheil in the French book; Sagnier waschanged to Sanier; the Princess de Horn was renamed Harn and finallyHarth, and young Lord George Eliott became Elson. 

Of course some of the reviewers of my translations attacked me virulentlyfor my unwarrantable presumption in changing the very names of M. Zola'scharacters; they were unaware that the names given by me were those firstselected by the author, who had afterwards altered them and forgotten totell me of it. 

Coming back to 'Fecondite, ' I should say that M. Zola wrote an average ofthree pages per day of that book during his exile in England. Work ceasedat the luncheon hour, as I have said, and consequently he could disposeof his afternoons. 

But it will be remembered that the summer of 1898 was exceptionally hot, so hot indeed that M. Zola, though many years of his childhood were spentunder the scorching sun of Provence, found a siesta absolutely necessaryafter the midday meal. It was only later that he ventured out on foot oron his bicycle, often taking his hand camera with him. 

At some distance from the house where he was residing, in the midst oflarge deserted grounds, overrun with grass and weeds, there stood amournful-looking, unoccupied private residence of some architecturalpretensions, on the building of which a considerable sum had evidentlybeen expended. The place took M. Zola's fancy the first time he passed iton his bicycle. The iron entrance gate was broken, and he was able toenter the garden and peep through the ground-floor windows. 

All spoke of decay and abandonment; and when, through my daughter, M. Zola began to make inquiries about the place, he was told a fantastictragic story. A murder, it was said, had been committed there many yearspreviously; a poor little girl had been killed by her stepmother, and herremains had been buried beneath a scullery floor. 

There was also talk of the child's father, who at night drove up to thehouse in a phantom carriage drawn by ghostly horses, and hammered at thedoor of the mansion and shouted aloud for his dead child!

The story was alleged to be well known, and it was said that not a girlfrom Chertsey to Esher, from Walton to Byfleet, would have dared to passthat house after nightfall, when harrowing voices rang out through thetrees, and the shadowy horses of the ghostly carriage trotted swiftly andsilently over the gravel. 

The story not only impressed my daughter Violette, but it greatlyinterested M. Zola, on whose behalf I made various inquiries. Forinstance, I closely questioned an old gardener who had known the districtfor long years. All he could tell me, however, was that there werecertainly some strange rumours abroad among the womenfolk, but that forhis own part he had never heard of any crime and had never seen anyghost. 

And at last others told me quite a different story of the house'sabandonment, and this I here venture to give, though I certainly cannotvouch for its accuracy. The place had been built, it seemed, some fortyyears previously by a retired and wealthy London pawnbroker, a gaunt, shrivelled old man, who, mounted on a white mare, had in his decliningyears been a familiar figure on the roads of the district. 

Extremely eccentric, he had largely furnished and decorated the housewith unredeemed articles that had been pledged with him. There wasnothing _en suite_. Old chairs of divers patterns were mingled with oddtables and sideboards and sofas; there were also innumerable daubs'ascribed' to old masters, and a wonderful display of Wardour-street_bric-a-brac_. But, indeed, one has only to look at an averagepawnbroker's shop to picture what kind of articles the house must havecontained. 

It seems that the old fellow in question had three daughters, whom hekept more or less imprisoned on his recently-acquired property, thoughthey were charming girls well worthy of being sought in marriage; and thestory I heard was that three officers sojourning in the district had oneday espied the three forlorn damsels over the garden hedge, and hadforthwith begun to court them, much to the ire of the misanthropic, retired pawnbroker. That stern old gentleman ordered his daughters intothe house, and then kept them in stricter confinement than ever. 

But love laughs at locksmiths, and the amorous officers eventuallycarried the place by storm, and beat down all parental resistance. Threeweddings followed on the same day, and all ended for a time as in a fairytale. But the old pawnbroker subsequently married again to relieve hissolitude, and after his death his will was attacked, and an interminablelawsuit ensued, with the result that the property was left unoccupied. Now, it appeared, it was for sale, and before long would probably be cutup into building plots. 

Whatever romantic element there might be in the story of the pawnbrokerand his daughters, M. Zola much preferred the popular and gruesome legendof the little girl murdered in the scullery; and, some time later, whenhe consented to write a short story for 'The Star, ' it was this legendwhich he took as his basis, building thereon the pathetic sketch of'Angeline, ' the scene of which he transferred to France. 

He has stated in his article 'Justice, ' published in Paris on his returnfrom exile, that during most of the time he spent in England he wasvirtually in a desert. There were people about him of course; but heretired into himself as it were, communing with his own thoughts, andseeking no intercourse with strangers. This is true of the period towhich I am now referring. Still he did not complain of solitude. In facthe knew that quiet was essential for his work. Only once or twice didanything happen of a nature to cause any anxiety. Neither Wareham normyself was much troubled at this period; there was a lull even in theperiodical visits which gentlemen of the Press kindly favoured me. 

Still we had taken our precautions by admitting a mutual friend, Mr. A. W. Pamplin, into our confidence. If M. Zola's communications with Paris, through Wareham and myself, should be threatened, Mr. Pamplin was to takeupon himself the duty of re-establishing them. 

At M. Zola's house there was, so far as I am aware, but one brief_alerte_. This occurred one afternoon, when a servant came to my daughterwith the tidings that there was a French hunchback at the door. Violetteimpulsively rushed off to tell M. Zola of it; but when in her turn shewent to the door to see who the person might be, she found that he was anEnglishman, a traveller for some county directory, who had merelyperformed his legitimate work in requesting to know the name of theoccupier of the house. Of course the only name given was that of theowner, then absent at the seaside. 

Thus the hot days sped by peacefully enough. M. Zola had at least foundoccupation and quietude, though it was naturally impossible that heshould feel content with his lot. Each day brought more and more home tohim the consciousness that he was in exile, and that contumely had beenhis reward for seeking to save France from the shame of a great crime. 

I have previously mentioned that during the first week or so of hissojourn in England he had refused to look at newspapers and--at least soit seemed to me--had sought to banish the Dreyfus affair and his owntroubles from his mind, much as one might seek to drive away a hatefulnightmare. But before long he again fell under the spell and followed thecourse of events with the keenest interest. And again and again, readingof the great battle being waged in France, he longed to return home, andgrew restless and impatient. 

Moreover a complaint from which he has suffered on and off for some yearstroubled him on more than one occasion. He always rallied, however, andreturned to his work with renewed energy. 'Fecondite' was already takingshape in the leafy solitude in which he dwelt. And undoubtedly the steadytask of creation, resumed morning by morning, greatly helped him to quietthe anguish of heart which the course of events in France would otherwisehave rendered intolerable. 

 NOTE. --While this work was appearing serially in the 'Evening News' I received numerous letters from readers interested in various matters mentioned by me. With respect to the foregoing chapter, a lady living at Staines wrote saying that she was looking out for 'a cheap haunted house, ' and asking for the address of the one I had mentioned. I was unable to comply with her request, as personally I do not believe the house was haunted at all. Moreover, to prevent the sale or letting of any particular house by asserting it to be haunted would be an offence under the libel laws. As I could not tell what course my lady-correspondent might take in the matter, I preferred not to answer her. May she forgive me my impoliteness!

 X

 'LE REVE': THE DREAM

When the owner of the house which M. Zola had rented desired to resumepossession, it became necessary to find new quarters of a similarcharacter for the master. And so he was transferred to another Surreycountry house where the arrangements remained much the same aspreviously: work every morning, resting or bicycling in the afternoon, followed by newspaper reading and letter-writing in the evening. 

The grounds of M. Zola's new retreat were very extensive, and in partvery shady, which last circumstance proved extremely welcome to thenovelist, who on coming to 'cold, damp, foggy England, ' as the French putit, had never imagined that he would have to endure a temperatureapproaching that of the tropics. 

The heat deprived him of appetite, and, moreover, he did not particularlyrelish some of the dishes provided for him by a new cook who had latelybeen engaged. We all know how great is the servant difficulty even underthe best of circumstances; and when cooks and maids have to be secured inhot haste an entirely satisfactory result is hardly to be expected. Moreover, many servants refuse to live in country retirement, far awayfrom their 'followers, ' and thus one has at times to take such as one canfind. 

As for the cookery to which M. Zola was at certain periods treated, hebeheld it with wonder and repulsion. His tastes are simple, but to himthe plain, boiled, watery potato and the equally watery greens wereabominations. Plum tart, though served hot (why not cold, like the French_tarte_?) might be more or less eatable; but, surely, apple pudding--theinveterate breeder of indigestion--was the invention of a savage race. And why, when a prime steak was grilled, should the cook water it inorder to produce 'gravy, ' instead of applying to it a little butter andchopped parsley? This, Dundreary-wise, was one of those things whichnobody, not even M. Zola, could understand. 

However, a visit to a fishmonger's shop had made him acquainted with thehaddock, the kipper, and likewise the humble bloater; and occasionally, Ibelieve, when his appetite needed a stimulant he turned to the smokedfish, which seemed so novel to his palate. The cook, of course, wasmightily incensed thereat. For her part, she most certainly would not eathaddock or kippers for dinner; she had too much self-respect to do such athing, so she boiled or roasted a leg of mutton for her own repast andthe maids'. I do not say that she was wrong; and, indeed, M. Zola neverforced people to eat what they did not care for. 

But in the same way he wished for something that he himself could eat, and he was weary of the perpetual joint and the vegetables _a l'eau_. Oneday, when in a jocular spirit he was talking to me on this subject, Itold him that we English had a saying to the effect that 'God sent usfood, but the devil invented cooks. '

'You are quite right, ' he replied, 'only as a Frenchman I should put itthis way: "God sent us food, but the devil invented English cooks. "'

Towards the end of August he again became very dispirited. The 'cause'did not at that time appear to be prospering in France, where so manypeople remained under the spell of the deceptive declarations anddocuments which had been made public in the Chamber of Deputies by WarMinister Cavaignac early in July. 

Of course the Revisionists were still hard at work, but in the face of M. Cavaignac's speech, placarded throughout the 36, 000 townships of France, they seemed to have a very uphill task before them. The anti-Dreyfusiteson their side were more arrogant than ever, and although M. Zola neveronce lost faith in the justice of his cause and its ultimate triumph, hedid, on more than one occasion, question whether that triumph would comein a peaceful way. 

Felix Faure was then still President of the Republic, and I am abusing, Ithink, no confidence in saying that M. Zola regarded that vain, showy manas one of the great obstacles to the victory of truth and justice. Faure, he said to me, had undoubtedly at one time enjoyed well-deservedpopularity; he, Zola, had been received by him and in the most cordialmanner. But the President's intercourse with crowned heads, and hisintimacy with arrogant general officers, coupled with all the flummery ofthe Protocole, all the pomp and display observed whenever he stirred fromthe Palace of the Elysee, had virtually turned his head. He was in thehands of those military men who opposed revision, and he shielded thembecause their downfall would mean his own. He was bent on the hushing-upcourse lest his Presidency should become synonymous with a great judicialcrime; he feared that he might be forced to resign even before his termof office was over, or, at all events, that he might have to abandon allhope of re-election. 

And thus with the President and the more prominent generals opposed torevision, M. Zola, though confident in the final issue, more than oncesaid to me that there might be serious trouble before all was over. 

He was now kept very well informed of all that took place in France;intelligence often reached him before it appeared in the newspapers; andnow and again he told me what was brewing. Going backward, too, heconfided to me some curious particulars of the genesis of the Revisionistcampaign. But he will himself some day tell all this in a book of hisown, and I must not anticipate him. I will only say that variousimportant things he mentioned to me in the autumn of 1898 have sincebecome well-known, acknowledged facts, and I have every reason to believethat time will duly show the accuracy of those which have not as yet beenpublicly revealed. 

There is one point to which I must refer at more length. In hisdeclaration 'Justice, ' published on the expiration of his exile, M. Zolastated that he had long suspected Colonel Henry, though he had possessedno actual proof of that officer's guilt. This is so true, that I wellrecollect listening to a conversation between him and M. Desmoulin duringthe first days of their sojourn in England, when they compared notes withrespect to their impressions of Henry, whom they had particularly noticedat Versailles on the occasion of M. Zola's sentence by default. 

They had then observed how nervous and crestfallen the colonellooked--the very picture, indeed, of a man who dreads the discovery ofhis guilt. This was the more remarkable, as Henry's confident arroganceat the earlier trial in Paris had been so conspicuous. The man had askeleton in his cupboard--to Zola and Desmoulin that was certain. 

M. Zola is a good physiognomist, and his friend (as a portraitist) isscarcely less gifted in that respect, and they felt equally certain ofHenry's culpability. As yet they could not say that it was he who hadactually forged that famous 'absolute proof' of Dreyfus's guilt, whichthey knew to have been forged by some one, but that time would prove himguilty of some abominable machination was to them a foregone conclusion. 

One day, it must have been I suppose the 31st of August, a rather strangetelegram in French reached me for transmission to M. Zola. It came fromParis, and was, so far as I remember, to this effect: 'Be prepared for agreat success. '

A name I was acquainted with followed; but what the telegram might mean Iknew not. There was absolutely nothing in the newspapers with referenceto any great success achieved at that moment by the Revisionist party;but possibly the message might refer to one or another of M. Zola'slawsuits, such as that with the 'Petit Journal' or that with thehandwriting experts. I re-telegraphed it to M. Zola, and that day, at allevents, I thought no more of the matter. 

But I afterwards learnt that the telegram had perplexed him quite as muchas it perplexed me. A great success? What could it be? He racked his mindin vain. He reviewed all the phases and aspects of the Dreyfus case, wondering whether this or that had happened, but not suspecting thepublic revelations which were then impending, the tragedy which was beingenacted. 

For a while he walked up and down, feverish and anxious (he was at thetime in poor health), and then he would fling himself on a sofa, stilland ever indulging in his surmises. With that kind of prescience which hehad so frequently displayed in the Dreyfus affair, he felt certain thatsomething very important had occurred, for otherwise such a mysterioustelegram would never have been sent him. This lasted the whole evening. 

My daughter Violette was with him at the time, and his feverishnessdoubtless gained on her. At last she retired to rest, while M. Zola, according to his wont, carried a lamp into his own room to sit there awhile and read some French newspapers which had reached him, via Wareham, by the evening delivery. There was nothing in them of a nature to explainthe mysterious telegram; still he read on and on in the hope, as it were, of quieting himself. 

It was, I believe, between eleven o'clock and midnight when he rose to goto bed, and as he did so he heard some loud exclamations, followed by acry. At first he fancied that the calls came from one of the servants'rooms, and he paused on the landing. Then, however, as they wererepeated, he found that they came from my daughter's apartment. Withfatherly solicitude he waited and listened. Violette was calling in hersleep. 

Practical enough in matters of everyday life, this girl of mine hasliterary partialities of a somewhat gruesome kind, and her avowedambition (I quote her own words) is to write, some day, stories full ofwitches and wizards, that shall make people's flesh creep. For thisreason I keep such of Anne Radcliffe's uncanny novels as I possesscarefully locked up. 

I can well remember my daughter telling me at times of strange thingsdreamt by her in her sleep; but not of being of a romantic or a mysticalturn myself, I have usually pooh-poohed all this as nonsense. And such Ibelieve is the course which fathers usually adopt if their daughters'imaginations begin to run riot. 

As for M. Zola, when he heard Violette calling in her sleep, his firstimpulse was to rouse her, but all suddenly became still again. The girlhad probably sunk into a more peaceful slumber. And so, after waiting afew minutes longer, he thought it best to leave her as she was. 

Nothing further disturbed M. Zola that night; but on the followingmorning, when he met Violette downstairs, he asked her how she felt, andtold her that he had heard her calling in her sleep. He had probablyformed the same opinion as I should have formed under the circumstances, namely, that it was a case of indigestion or a little excitement. 

But she turned to him and replied, 'Oh! I had such a frightful dream. . . I was in a big black place, and there was a man on the ground coveredwith blood, and people were crowding round him, talking with greatexcitement. And I saw you, Monsieur Zola, and you came up looking like agiant and waved your arms again and again, and seemed well pleased. '

M. Zola was dumbfounded. He could make nothing of it. A man in a pool ofblood and others round him; and he, Zola, waving his arms and lookingwell pleased! It was nonsense; and he was disposed to laugh at the girland chide her. But a little later, with the arrival of some morningnewspapers, the position suddenly changed. 

Here I should mention that as the Paris journals only reached M. Zolawith a delay of twelve or four-and-twenty hours, it had just beenarranged that he should be supplied with two or three London papers everymorning, and that he and Violette between them should put the telegramsconcerning the Dreyfus business into French. 

He opened one of these English newspapers--which it was I do notrecollect--and there he saw a whole column dealing with the arrest andconfession of Colonel Henry. The heading to the telegrams, the very words'arrest' and 'confession, ' made everything intelligible to M. Zola; andbeneath all this came a brief wire headed, I think, 'Paris, midnight, 'and worded much to this effect: 'Colonel Henry has been found dead in hiscell at Mont Valerien. '

So that was the man whom Violette, in her dream, had seen weltering in apool of blood, surrounded by his custodians, who had rushed in full ofexcitement! M. Zola's presence in that vision was, so to say, symbolical. 'He had waved his arms and had seemed well pleased'--so the girl had putit in her frank, artless way. 'Well pleased' may perhaps appear to bescarcely the correct expression. At all events, it needs to beinterpreted. Most certainly Zola never desired the death of a sinner;but, on the other hand, he could only feel some satisfaction at knowingthat Henry's crime was at last divulged to the world. 

This, then, is how my daughter dreamt Henry's death. I do not wish toinsist unduly on the incident, and I have no intention of appealing tothe Psychical Research Society to test, corroborate, or disprove thecase. 

There was one rather curious feature that I have not yet mentioned. Mydaughter has assured me that during the same night she dreamt the samething over and over again. She tried to banish the vision, but ever andever it returned, as if to impress itself indelibly upon her mind. Andever did she see M. Zola waving his arms as he hovered round the scene. 

At that time the girl knew nothing of Colonel Henry; she understood verylittle about the Dreyfus case; and all she had to go upon was theenigmatical telegram and M. Zola's talk during the evening, when he wasexpressing his thoughts aloud. But at that moment he had foreseen nodeath, murder, or suicide, and if the possibility of any arrest hadoccurred to him it was that of M. Du Paty de Clam, which the Revisionistpapers were then demanding. 

It is true that in infancy my daughter had often seen Mont Valerien, as Ilived for some years at Boulogne-sur-Seine, and the hill and fortresstowering across the river were then familiar objects to us all. But thegirl was little more than a baby at the time, and so this circumstancecan have exercised no influence upon her. Moreover, she has told me thatshe had no notion as to what might be the actual scene of her dream; itmerely appeared to her that she was in France, because the people she sawraised ejaculations in French. 

Passing from this incident, I may point out that the telegram sent to M. Zola through me was explained by the news in the English newspapers. Itwas evident that the 'great success' referred to in the message was thediscovery of Henry's forgery and possibly his arrest. 

Directly I saw the news in a London newspaper I hurried off to M. Zola's, and when I reached his abode about noon I found him expecting me. We thenwent over matters together, the press telegrams, my daughter's dream andthe probable outcome of the whole affair. 

As was natural, M. Zola was quite excited. First, the document whichHenry had confessed to having forged was the very one that General dePellieux had imported into the Zola trial in Paris as convincing proof ofDreyfus's guilt. At that time already its effect had been very great; ithad destroyed all chance of M. Zola's acquittal. Then, too, it had beensolemnly brought forward in the Chamber of Deputies by War MinisterCavaignac, who had vouched for its authenticity. And now, as previouslyalleged by Colonel Picquart, it was shown to be a forgery of theclumsiest kind. 

Here at least was 'a new fact' warranting the revision of the wholeDreyfus case. Surely the blindest bigot could not resist such evidence ofthe machinations of those who had sent Dreyfus to Devil's Island; truthand justice would speedily triumph, and in a week or two he, Zola, wouldbe able to return to France again. 

But he did not take sufficient account of human obstinacy and vileness. His friends, to whom he appealed on the subject of his return, urged himto remain where he was, for the battle, they said, was by no means over, and his name was still like the red scarf of the matador that goads thebull to fury. The advice proved good, for again were passions stirred. Henry, the ignoble forger, was raised to the position of martyr, andCavaignac and Zurlinden and Chanoine in turn strove to impede the courseof justice. 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick, ' and thus M. Zola, finding so many difficulties in the way of his return, abandoned for atime all work and fell into brooding melancholy. 

 XI

 THROUGH THE AUTUMN

Important events were now taking place in Paris. Cavaignac resigned theposition of War Minister and was succeeded by Zurlinden; Du Paty de Clamwas turned out of the army; Esterhazy, who had likewise been 'retired, 'fled from France, Mme. Dreyfus addressed to the Minister of Justice aformal application for the revision of her unfortunate husband's case;and that application was in the first instance referred to a Commissionof judges and functionaries. Then General Zurlinden resigned hisMinisterial office, and again becoming Governor of Paris, apprehended thegallant Picquart on a ridiculous charge of forgery, and cast him intoclose confinement in a military prison. There was talk, too, of amilitary plot in Paris, and again and again were attempts made to preventthe granting of Revision. 

Throughout those days of alternate hope and fear M. Zola suffered keenly. It was, too, about this time that he heard of the death of his favouritedog--an incident to which I have previously referred as coming like ablow of fate in the midst of all his anxiety. 

When he rallied he spoke to me of his desire to familiarise himself insome degree with the English language, with the object principally ofarriving at a more accurate understanding of the telegrams from Pariswhich he found in the London newspapers. A dictionary, a conversationmanual, and an English grammar for French students were then obtained;and whenever he felt that he needed a little relaxation, he took up oneor another of these books and read them, as he put it to me, 'from aphilosophical point of view. '

Later I procured him a set of Messrs. Nelson's 'Royal Readers' forchildren, when he greatly praised, declaring them to be much superior tothe similar class of work current in France. Afterwards he himselfpurchased a prettily illustrated edition of the classic 'Vicar ofWakefield' (the work to which all French young ladies are put whenlearning our language), but he found portions difficult to understand, and a French friend then procured him an edition in which the text isprinted in French and English on alternate pages. 

One day when he had been dipping into English papers and books he tackledme on rather a curious point. 'Why is it, ' said he, 'that the Englishmanwhen he writes of himself should invariably use a capital letter? Thattall "I" which recurs so often in a personal narrative strikes me asbeing very arrogant. A Frenchman, referring to himself, writes _je_ witha small _j_; a German, though he may gratify all his substantives withcapital letters, employs a small _i_ in writing _ich_; a Spaniard, whenhe uses the personal pronoun at all, bestows a small _y_ on his _yo_, while he honours the person he addresses with a capital _V_. I believe, indeed--though I am not sufficiently acquainted with foreign languages tospeak with certainty on the point--that the Englishman is the only personin the world who applies a capital letter to himself. That "I" strikes meas the triumph of egotism. It is tall, commanding, and so brief! "I"--andthat suffices. How did it originate?'

It was difficult for me to answer M. Zola on the point; I am a very poorscholar in such a matter, and I could find nothing on the subject in anywork of reference I had by me. I surmised, however, that the capital I, as a personal pronoun, was a survival of the time when English, whetherwritten or printed, was studded with capitals, even as German is to-day. If I am wrong, perhaps some one who knows better will correct me. Onething I have often noticed is that a child's first impulse is to write'i, ' and that it is only after admonition that the aggressive andegotistical 'I' supplants the humbler form of the letter. This did notsurprise M. Zola, since vanity, like most other vices, is acquired, notinherent in our natures. But in a chaffing way he suggested that onemight write a very humorous essay on the English character by taking asone's text that tall, stiff, and self-assertive letter 'I. '

How far M. Zola actually carried his study of English I could hardly say, but during the last months of his exile he more than once astonished meby his knowledge of an irregular verb or of the correct comparative andsuperlative of an adjective. And if he seldom attempted to speak English, he at least made considerable progress in reading it. By the time hereturned to France he could always understand any Dreyfus news in theEnglish papers. Of course the language in which the news was couched wasof great help to him, as in three instances out of four it was simplydirect translation from the French. 

In this connection, while praising many features of the English Press, M. Zola more than once expressed to me his surprise that so much of theParis news printed in London should be simply taken from Paris journals. Some correspondents, said he, never seemed to go anywhere or to seeanybody themselves. They purely and simply extracted everything fromnewspapers. This he was able to check by means of the many Paris printswhich he received regularly. 

'Here, ' he would say, 'this paragraph is taken verbatim from "Le Figaro";this other appeared in "Le Temps, " this other in "Le Siecle, "' and soforth. And he was not alluding to extracts from editorials, but todescriptive matter--accounts of demonstrations and ceremonies, fashionable weddings and other social functions, interviews, and soforth. The practice upset all his ideas of a foreign correspondent'sduties, which should be to obtain first-hand and not second-handinformation. 

In principle this is of course correct, but a correspondent cannot beeverywhere at the same time; and nowadays, moreover, English journalistsin Paris do not enjoy quite the same facilities as formerly. As regardsmore particularly the Dreyfus business, the French, with a sensitivenessthat can be understood, have all along deprecated anything in the way offoreign interference, and the English Pressman of inquiring mind on thesubject has more than once met with a rebuff from those in a position togive information. Again, the political difficulties between the twocountries of recent years have often placed the Paris correspondents in avery invidious position. 

This brings me to the Fashoda trouble, which arose last autumn while M. Zola was still in his country retreat. The great novelist's enemies haveoften alleged that he was no true Frenchman; but for my part, afterthirty years' intimacy with the French, I would claim for him that hiscountry counts no better patriot. He is on principle opposed to warfare, but there is a higher patriotism than that which consists in perpetuallybeating the big drum, and that higher patriotism is Zola's. 

The Fashoda difficulties troubled him sorely, and directly it seemedlikely that the situation might become serious he told me that it wouldbe impossible for him to remain in England. The progress of thenegotiations between France and Great Britain was watched with keenvigilance, and M. Zola was ready to start at the first sign of thosenegotiations collapsing. As all his friends were opposed to his return toFrance (they had again virtually forbidden it late in September when theBrisson Ministry finally submitted the case for revision to the CriminalChamber of the Cour de Cassation), he would probably have gone toBelgium, but I doubt whether he would have remained long in that country. 

I have said that M. Zola is opposed to warfare on principle. His views inthis respect have long been shared by me. Life's keenest impressions arethose acquired in childhood and youth. And in my youth--I was butseventeen, though already acting as a war correspondent, the youngest, Isuppose, on record--I witnessed war attended by every horror:--A city, Paris, starved by the foreigner and subsequently in part fired by some ofits own children. And between those disasters, having passed through thehostile lines, I saw an army of 125, 000 men with 350 guns, that ofChanzy, irretrievably routed after battling in a snowstorm of three days'duration, cast into highways and byways, with thousands of barefootedstragglers begging their bread, with hundreds of farmers bewailing theircrops, their cattle, and their ruined homesteads, with mothersinnumerable weeping for their sons, and fair girls in the heyday of theiryouth lamenting the lads to whom their troth was plighted. And in that'Retraite Infernale, ' as one of its historians has called it, I saw want, hunger, cupidity, cruelty, disease, stalking beside the war fiend; so nowonder that, like Zola, I regard warfare as the greatest of abominationsthat fall upon the world. I often regret that, short of actual war itselfand its disaster and misery, there should be no means of bringing thewhole horror of the thing home to those silly, arm-chair, jingojournalists of many countries, our own included, who, viewing war simplyas a means of imposing the will of the stronger upon the weaker, andlosing sight of all that attends it, save martial pomp and individualheroism, ever clamour for the exercise of force as soon as any difficultyarises between two governments. 

Ties of affection, bonds of marriage, as well as long years of intimacy, link me moreover to the French people; and more keenly, perhaps, thaneven the master himself, did I realise what war between France andEngland might mean; thus we both had an anxious time during the Fashodatrouble. Fortunately for the general peace hostilities were averted, andM. Zola was thus able to remain in his secluded English home, and tocontinue the writing of his novel. 

The weather was still very fine, and now and again he ventured upon alittle excursion. The principal one was to Virginia Water, where hestrolled round the lake, then drove through part of the Great Park, andthence on to Windsor Castle, where he saw all the sights, the Stateapartments, St. George's Hall and Chapel, the Albert Memorial Chapel, andso forth. And, as he had brought his hand camera with him, he was able totake a few snapshots of what he saw. I was not present on that occasion;his companions were a French gentleman, a very intimate friend, and mydaughter, but I was pleased to hear that he had, at all events, seenWindsor. As a rule, it was extremely difficult to induce him to emergefrom his solitude. When he took a walk or a bicycle ride his destinationwas simply some sleepy Surrey village or deserted common. 

He appreciated English scenery. Around Oatlands he had been much struckby the beauty of the trees, and was greatly astonished to find such loftyand perfect hedges of holly running at times for a mile almost without abreak on either side of the roads. I suppose that some of the finestholly hedges in England are to be found in that district. Then, too, therookeries surprised and interested him. There was one he could see fromhis window at the last half of his country residences, and many an idlehalf-hour was spent by him in watching the flight of the birds or theiroccasional parliaments. 

Nobody recognised him on his rambles. I even doubt if people, generally, thought him a foreigner. He had long ceased to wear his rosette of theLegion of Honour, and he had replaced his white billycock by an Englishstraw hat. Towards the close of the fine weather he purchased a 'bowler, 'which greatly altered his appearance. Indeed, there is nothing like a'bowler' to make a foreigner look English. 

Wareham and I had now quite ceased to fear that any attempt would be madeto serve the Versailles judgment on M. Zola. We were only troubled bygentlemen of the Press, both French and English, for since Esterhazy hadfled from France and the case for revision had been formally referred tothe Cour de Cassation, several newspapers had become desirous ofascertaining M. Zola's views on the course of events. My instructionsremained, however, the same as formerly: I was to tell every applicantthat M. Zola declined to make any public statement, and that he wouldreceive nobody. I was occasionally inclined to fancy that some of thosewho called on me imagined that these instructions were of my owninvention, and that I was simply keeping M. Zola _au secret_ for purposesof my own. But nothing was further from the truth. 

Personally, at certain moments, when the revision proceedings began, whenM. Brisson fell from office, when M. Dupuy, listening to the clamour of apack of jackals, transferred the revision inquiry from the CriminalChamber to the entire Court of Cassation, I thought that it might reallybe advisable for him to speak out. But, anxious though he was, disgusted, indignant, too, at times, he would do nothing to add fuel to the flame. Passions were roused to a high enough pitch already, and he had no desireto inflame them more. 

Besides the cause was in very good hands; Clemenceau and Vaughan, YvesGuyot and Reinach, Jaures and Gerault-Richard, Pressense, Cornely, andscores of others were fighting admirably in the Press, and hisintervention was not required. Many a man circumstanced as M. Zola waswould have rushed into print for the mere sake of notoriety, but hecondemned himself to silence, stifling the words which rose from histhrobbing heart. And, after all, was not that course more worthy, moredignified?

Thus I could only return one answer to the newspaper men who wrote to meor called at my house. Late in autumn there was an average of threeapplications a week. One or two gentlemen, I believe, imagined that M. Zola was staying very near me, and, failing to learn anything at myplace, they tried to question one or two tradesmen in the neighbourhood. One of these, a grocer, became so irate at the frequent inquiries as towhether a Frenchman, who wrote books and had a grey beard, and woreglasses, was not staying in the vicinity, that he ended by receiving thereporters with far more energy than politeness, not only ordering themout of his shop at the double quick, but pursuing them with hisvituperative eloquence. 'Taking one consideration with another, areporter's lot, at times, is not a happy one. '

A climax was reached when one gentleman, after communicating with M. Zolaby letter through various channels and receiving no answer from him, ascertained my address and called there. As servants are not always to bedepended upon, we had made it virtually a rule at home that whenever astranger was seen at the front door my wife herself should, if possible, answer it. And she did so in the instance I am referring to. 

Well, the gentleman first asked for me, and on learning that I wasabsent, he explained that he was a friend, a private friend of M. Zola, whom he wished to see on an important private matter. Could she, my wife, oblige him with M. Zola's address? No, she could not; he had betterwrite, and his letter would be duly forwarded by me. Then the applicantstarted on another story. It was no use his writing, he must see me. Should I be at home on the morrow? The matter was of great importance, itwould mean a large sum of money for myself and so on. My wife had notmuch confidence in what was told her, but she requested the visitor toleave his name and address in order that I might make an appointment withhim, should I think such a course advisable. 

She was, at the moment, far more amazed and amused than indignant. Shebade the gentleman keep his money, and then showed him to the door. To methat evening she did not mention the incident, and, indeed, I only heardof it after I had taken the trouble to communicate with M. Zolarespecting the gentleman's urgent private business, which (so it turnedout) was purely and simply connected with journalism, my visitor havingacted on behalf of the owner of a well-known London newspaper. 

I do not know whether his principal had any knowledge of his impudentattempt at bribery. For my own part I much regret that my wife (I supposein the interests of peace) should have kept it from me at that time asshe did, for the gentleman might otherwise have experienced, as hedeserved, a rather unpleasant ten minutes. 

 XII

 THE FINAL RESTING-PLACE

At last the time arrived when it became necessary to remove M. Zola fromhis country quarters, and by his desire Wareham and I then looked aroundus for a suitable suburban hotel. The autumn was now far spent and M. Zola felt confident that he would be back in Paris by the end of theyear. Had he foreseen that his exile would prove so long, he wouldcertainly have sent for a couple of his French servants, and have set upa quiet establishment in some other furnished house. But for anothermonth or two he considered that hotel accommodation would well suffice. 

The place selected for him by Wareham and myself was the Queen's Hotel, Upper Norwood, and there he remained from late in the autumn of 1898until his departure from England. 

A glance at the Queen's Hotel shows one that it is composed of what wereonce separate houses, now connected together by buildings of one storeyonly. Each of these houses, or, as one may perhaps call them, pavilions, has a separate entrance and staircase; and the advantage of this, to onecircumstanced as M. Zola was, must be obvious. A person lodging in one ofthe pavilions can come and go freely. There is no vast hall to cross, with a dozen servants standing around, ready to scrutinise you as youpass in and out. You have your suite of rooms in one or another pavilion, you take your meals there in your own dining-room, and you can shutyourself off, as it were, from the greater part of the establishment andenjoy privacy and quiet. This, no doubt, is the reason why so manywell-to-do people, who dislike the stir and bustle of the ordinary hotel, patronise the hostelry at Upper Norwood. 

There at one time--when consulting Sir Morell Mackenzie, Ibelieve--stayed the unfortunate Emperor Frederick; and now it may add toits list of patrons the most famous Frenchman of his day. 

It seemed to Wareham and me that the Queen's Hotel would, under thecircumstances, prove an ideal retreat for M. Zola. Moreover, UpperNorwood stands on very high ground, and it was probable therefore that hewould largely escape the winter fogs. Of course the Crystal Palace wascomparatively near, but it was not very largely patronised in the winter, and, besides, if M. Zola wished to escape a crowd, he had only to takehis walks in another direction. 

The Queen's Hotel stands back from the road; but, in the first instance, as a precautionary measure it was thought best to select for M. Zola asuite of rooms overlooking the extensive gardens. As time went on, however, the trees lost their last leaves, the vista from these rooms, charming enough in summer, became very cheerless. So the master'squarters were shifted to a larger suite on the ground floor, with thewindows of the two communicating sitting-rooms overlooking both the roadand the garden. 

The two sitting-rooms were an advantage, particularly during the timethat Mme. Zola stayed at the Queen's Hotel (for she joined her husband onand off), as he could devote one of them entirely to his work. But whenMme. Zola finally left England (in a very ailing state, after a terriblecold had kept her within doors for some weeks) her husband moved onceagain, and installed himself on the second floor, where the rooms weresmaller and therefore easier to warm. It was then mid-winter. 

The various rooms M. Zola occupied and in which he spent from seven toeight months--that is by far the greater portion of his exile--were allpart of the same house or pavilion, this being the last of the pavilionsconstituting the hotel proper. Adjoining is a lower building, belongingto the same proprietary as the hotel, but, in a measure, distinct fromit. Most of M. Zola's tenancy was spent in the topmost rooms. Afterbringing the master up from the country, I took him one morning down toNorwood, and he cordially approved of the arrangements which had beenmade for him. There was only one thing amiss. Wareham and I had beenpromised that he should have a waiter speaking French to attend on him;and the one provided knew perhaps just a few words of that language. However, he was very intelligent, very discreet, very willing tooblige--a pattern waiter of the good old English school. And when I hadexplained to him exactly what would be required, he took due note ofeverything, and for many months the arrangements that were made workedvirtually without a hitch. 

If M. Zola's surroundings had altered, the routine of his life remainedthe same as formerly. With regard to his novel 'Fecondite' he had, as thesaying goes, 'warmed to his work, ' which he pursued at the Queen's Hotelwith unflagging energy. 

Knowing his habits I never (unless under exceptional circumstances)visited him till he had finished his daily quantum of 'copy, ' that wasabout the luncheon hour. Then we would talk business, communicate to oneanother such news as might be necessary, and at times exchangeimpressions with regard to the incidents of the day. 

Among other matters often discussed were the English birth-rate and therearing of English children, points which deeply interested M. Zola, asthey were germane to the subject of 'Fecondite. ' I could at first onlygive him general information, but the Rev. R. Ussher, vicar of Westbury, Bucks, the able author of 'Neo-Malthusianism, ' very kindly sent me a copyof his exhaustive work, which contained many particulars on the pointsthat principally interested M. Zola. Moreover, Mr. George P. Brett, thePresident of the Macmillan Company of New York (M. Zola's Americanpublishers), supplied him with some interesting information respectingthe United States. 

With regard to England, M. Zola had been much struck by certainproceedings instituted during his exile against medical men, midwives, and others, proceedings which seemed to point to the existence in thiscountry of a state of affairs much akin to that prevailing in France. Theaffair of the brothers Chrimes, who first sold bogus medicines and thenproceeded to blackmail the women who had purchased them, was, in Zola'sestimation, particularly significant, for here were hundreds and hundredsof Englishwomen applying to those men for the means of accomplishing thegreatest crime against Nature there could be. 

On that point M. Zola spoke in no uncertain language. He understood wellenough that the authorities could not justly single out a few of thosehundreds of women for prosecution and punishment: but he censured thewomen quite as much as he censured the convicted men, who were, afterall, but common scoundrels. 

And he was amazed to find that so few English newspapers ventured tospeak out on the matter. There were plenty of leaderettes on the cunningshown by the men, but the alacrity of the women to purchase the bogusmedicines was, as a rule, lightly passed over; and great as is M. Zola'sadmiration for the English Press in many respects, he could but regardits attitude towards the Chrimes case as lamentably inadequate andlacking in moral courage. 

'A great responsibility, ' said he, 'rests with those who, possessingcommanding influence, refrain from requisite action, and who, instead ofseeking to cure proved and acknowledged evils, connive at driving thembeneath the surface, where, in secret, they steadily grow and expand. 'And all this for the sake of the 'young person, ' to whose mythicalinnocence the welfare of a whole nation is often sacrificed. M. Zola'sviews are summed up in the words: 'Let all be exposed and discussed, inorder that all may be cured!'

He regards Neo-Malthusianism and its practices as abominable, and when hehad learnt more of the actual situation in England he was emphatically ofopinion that his book 'Fecondite, ' though applied to France alone, mightwell, with little alteration, be applied to this country also. 

The fluctuations in the English birth-rate from 1872 to 1897 were to himfull of meaning. At a certain period, for instance, they showed all theharm wrought by the abominable Bradlaugh-Besant campaign. But what hedwelt on still more was the absolute physical incapacity of so manyEnglish mothers to suckle their own offspring. Circumstances are much thesame both in France and the United States, at least among the olderColonial families. In three or four generations the women of a family inwhich the practice of suckling has ceased, are altogether unable to givethe breast; and the 'bottle' ensues, with its thousand evils and agradual deterioration of the race. 

On the last occasion when James Russell Lowell came to England he wasasked what change, if any, he remarked since his last visit, among thepeople he met, and he replied that he was most struck by the falling offin height, and breadth of shoulders, of the average man in the Londonstreets. 

Though matters have not yet reached such a point as in France andelsewhere, it is I think incontestable that the English race, like manyanother, is physically deteriorating. Athletics tend to improve thestandard, but there must be proper material to work upon, and M. Zola, Ifound, held the view that for a race to be healthy its womenfolk shouldbe willing and able to discharge the primary duties of Nature. When hediscovered that so many Englishwomen would not or could not suckle theirbabes, he remarked that England had started on the same downward courseas France. 

He often watched the troops of nursemaids and children whom he met duringhis afternoon strolls. He noticed and told me how many of the formerneglected their charges, standing about, flirting or gossiping, orlooking into shop windows, while the baby in the bassinette or themail-cart sucked away at that vile invention the bone and gutta-percha'soother, ' and he was astonished that ladies should apparently considerit beneath them to accompany baby on the promenade. Indeed the invariableabsence of the mothers gave him a rather bad opinion of them: for surelythey must know that many of the nurse-girls neglected the infants and yetthey exercised no supervision. 'Of course, ' said he, 'they are visitingor receiving, or reading novels, or bicycling or playing lawn tennis. Ah!well, that is hardly my conception of a mother's duty towards her infant, whatever be her station in life. '

Now and again at intervals I accompanied him on his afternoon walks. These generally took a semi-circular form. We descended from the plateauof Upper Norwood on one side to climb to it again on another. Sometimeswe passed by way of Beulah Spa, then round by some fields and arecreation ground, with the name of which I am not acquainted. There wereseveral shapely oak trees thereabouts, which he greatly admired and evenphotographed. 

'Do you know, ' he remarked to me one afternoon, 'when I come out allalone for my usual constitutional, and want to shake off some worryingthoughts, I often amuse myself by counting the number of hairpins which Isee lying on the foot-pavement. Oh! you need not laugh, it is verycurious, I assure you. I already had ideas for two essays--one on thecapital "I" in its relation to the English character, and another on thephysiology of the English "guillotine" window and the forms it affects, not forgetting the circumstance that whenever an architect introduces aFrench window into an English house, it invariably opens outwardly so asto be well buffeted by the wind, instead of into the room as it shoulddo. Well, now I am beginning to think that I might write something on thecarelessness of Englishwomen in fastening up their hair, and thephenomenal consumption of hairpins in England. For the consumption mustbe enormous since the loss is so great, as I will show you. '

Then he proceeded to ocular demonstration. As we walked on for half anhour or so, principally along roads bordered by the umbrageous gardens ofvilla residences, we counted all the hairpins we could see. There wereabout four dozen. And he was careful to point out that we had chieflyfollowed a route where there was but a moderate amount of traffic. 

Not one man in a thousand probably would have thought of counting thelost hairpins in the streets; but then M. Zola is an observer, and if Itell this anecdote, which some may think puerile, it is by way ofillustrating his powers of observation and the length to which heoccasionally carries them. 

On one point, I told him, he was rather in the wrong. The great loss ofhairpins did not proceed so much from the carelessness of women infastening their hair, as from their 'pennywise and pound-foolish' systemof buying cheap hairpins with few and inefficient 'twists. ' These cheaphairpins never 'caught' properly in their coiled-up tresses. The womenwent out, walked rapidly, tossed their heads perchance, and one at leastof their hairpins fell to the ground. Supposing one hundred women passedalong a certain road or street in the course of the day, it would not besurprising to find that at least thirty hairpins were lost there. And Iconcluded by saying that, to the best of my belief, the aforesaidhairpins were 'made in Germany. '

Another thing which amused and interested M. Zola when he took his walksaround Norwood was to note the often curious and often high-soundingnames bestowed on villa residences. As a rule the smaller the place themore grandiose the appellation bestowed on it. Some of the names M. Zola, having now made progress with his English, could readily understand;others, too, were virtually French, such as Bellevue, Beaumont, and soforth; but there were several that I had to interpret, such as Oakdene, Thornbrake, Beechcroft, Hillbrow, Woodcote, Fernside, Fairholme, Inglenook, etc. And there was one name that I could not explain to him atall--an awful name, which I fancied might be Gaelic or Celtic, though Iappealed in vain to Scottish, Irish, and Welsh friends for aninterpretation of its meaning. It was written thus: 'Ly-ee-Moon. '

Nobody of my acquaintance was able to explain it to me. M. Zola wrote itdown in his memorandum-book as an abstruse puzzle. However, while thisnarrative was appearing in the 'Evening News, ' several correspondentskindly informed me that Ly-ee-Moon (at times written 'Lai-Mun') wasChinese, being the name of a narrow passage or strait between the islandof Hong-Kong and the mainland of China (now transferred to GreatBritain), at the eastern entrance to the harbour of the city of Victoriaon the island. 

It seems also that Ly-ee-Moon is a name often given to ships sailing inthe China seas. And in the case of the Norwood house, built by a retiredshipowner and sea captain, the name was taken from a vessel plying on theAustralian coast for many years, and ultimately wrecked with great lossof life. The owner of the Norwood house had an engraving of the shipexecuted on a plate-glass window of this hall. Until these explanationsreached me both M. Zola and myself were quite as much at sea (with regardto 'Ly-ee-Moon') as ever its owner and captain was. 

When I spent an afternoon at Norwood with M. Zola we generally returnedto the hotel about half-past four for a cup of tea. And on the way back(particularly during the last months) I frequently purchased postagestamps for him at the chief post-office. He might, of course, have boughtthem himself, and as a matter of fact he did at times do so. But he wasaware, I think, that he was regarded with some suspicion by the younglady clerks under the control of the Duke of Norfolk. 

At certain periods, Christmas time and the New Year, for instance, M. Zola's correspondence became extensive, and on the first occasion when heentered the Upper Norwood post-office and asked for fifty 2 1_2 d. Stampshe was looked at with surprise. When, a couple of days later, he appliedfor another fifty, the young ladies eyed him as if he were a genuinecuriosity. A hundred 2 1_2 d. Stamps in four days! What could he do withthem? Nobody could tell. When, shortly afterwards, he returned foranother supply of the same kind, the Norwood post-office was convulsed. And I doubt if even now some of the young ladies have quite got over thatbrief but extraordinary run on the so-called 'foreign stamp. '

I hope they do not imagine that M. Zola was hungry, and bought thosestamps to eat. 

 XIII

 WINTER DAYS

The winter was hardly a cold one, but it proved very tempestuous, andUpper Norwood, standing high as it does, felt the full force of thegales. Christmas found M. Zola alone; still, this did not particularlyaffect him, as Christmas, save as a religious observance, is but littlekept up in France, where festivity and holiday-making are reserved forthe New Year. In M. Zola's rooms the only token of the season was a hugebranch of mistletoe hanging over the chimney-piece. This he had boughthimself, after I had told him of the privileges attached to mistletoe inEngland. There were, however, no young ladies to kiss, and, if I rememberrightly, Mme. Zola, who had been absent in Paris, did not return toNorwood until a day or two before the New Year. 

While her husband formed a fairly favourable opinion of England, itscustoms and its climate, Mme. Zola, I fear, was scarcely pleased withthis country. At all events, she finally left it vowing that she wouldnever return. But then for three or four weeks bronchitis and kindredailments had kept her absolutely imprisoned in her room--her illnesslasting the longer, perhaps, because she was unwilling to place herselfin the hands of any medical man. 

The New Year was but a day or two old, when one of the London morningnewspapers announced with a great show of authority that an applicationfor the extradition of M. Zola was imminent. Somebody, moreover, informedthe same journal that he had recognised and interviewed M. Zola anevening or two previously, to which statement was appended a briefaccount of some of M. Zola's views. All this amazed me the more as on thevery day mentioned in the newspaper I had been with the master till nineP. M. And I could hardly believe than anybody had interviewed him afterthat hour. Moreover, my wife had since seen him, and he had said nothingto her of any visit or interview. Nevertheless, as other papers proceededto copy the statements to which I have referred, I thought it well tocommunicate with our exile on the subject. 

Through the carelessness of one of M. Zola's friends, Wareham's name andaddress had lately been given to an English journalist usually residentin Paris, and this journalist had then come to London to try to discoverthe master's whereabouts. It was therefore possible that there might besome truth in the story. But M. Zola promptly wired to me that such wasnot the case, and followed up his telegram with a note in which he said:

'My dear confrere and friend, --I have just telegraphed to you that thewhole story of a journalist having interviewed me is purely and simply afalsehood. I have seen nobody. Again, there can be no question ofextradition in my case; all that could be done would be to serve me withthe judgment of the Assize Court. Those people don't even know what theywrite about. 

'As for -----'s indiscretion, this is to be regretted. I am writing tohim. For the sake of our communications, I have always desired thatWareham's name and address should be known only to those on whom one candepend. Tell him that he must remain on his guard and _never_ acknowledgethat he knows my address. Persevere in that course yourself. I will waita few days to see if anything occurs before deciding whether thecorrespondence arrangements should be altered. It would be a big affair;and I should afterwards regret a change if it were to prove uncalled for. Let us wait. '

Going through the many memoranda and notes I received from M. Zola duringhis exile, I also find this, dated February: 'You did right to refuse Mr. ----- my address. I absolutely decline to see anybody. No matter who maycall on you, under whatever pretext it be, preserve the silence of thetomb. Less than ever am I disposed to let people disturb me. '

Again, a little later: 'No; I will see neither the gentleman nor thelady. Tell them so distinctly, in order that they may worry you no more. '

With the New Year, it will be remembered, had come a succession ofstartling events which kept M. Zola in a state of acute anxiety. Theviolent attacks of the anti-Revisionists on the Criminal Chamber of theCour de Cassation culminated in the resignation of Q. De Beaurepaire, inan inquiry into the Criminal Chamber's methods of investigation, andfinally in the passing of a law which transferred the task of theCriminal Chamber to the whole of the Supreme Court. On the many intriguesof that period I often conversed with M. Zola, who was particularlyangered by the blind opposition of President Faure and the impudentduplicity of Prime Minister Dupuy. These two were undoubtedly doing theirutmost to impede the course of justice. 

Then suddenly, on February 17, came a thunderbolt. Faure had died on theprevious evening, and by his death one of the greatest obstacles to thetriumph of truth was for ever removed. We talked of the defunct presidentat some length, M. Zola adhering to the opinions that he had expressedduring the summer. 

But the great question was who would succeed M. Faure. When M. Brissonhad fallen from office after initiating the Revision proceedings, M. Zolahad said to me: 'Brisson's present fall does not signify; it was bound tocome. But hereafter he will reap his reward for his courage in favouringrevision. Brisson will be Faure's successor as President of theRepublic. '

In expressing this opinion M. Zola had imagined that Faure would live tocomplete his full term of office. His death in the very midst of thebattle entirely changed the position. M. Brisson's time had not come, andconsidering his age it indeed now seemed as if he might never attain tothe supreme magistracy. The future looked blank; but M. Loubet waselected President, and a feeling of great relief followed. 

I have reason to believe that M. Zola regards the death of PresidentFaure as the crucial turning-point in the whole Dreyfus business. HadFaure lived every means would still have been employed to shield theguilty; all the influence of the Elysee would, as before, have beenbrought to bear against the unhappy prisoner of Devil's Island. 

During those January and February days M. Zola was an eager reader of thenewspapers. Rumours of all kinds were in circulation, and once again inM. Zola's mind did despondency alternate with hopefulness. I must say, however, that he was not particularly impressed by Paul Deroulede'sattempt to induce General Roget to march on the Elysee. He regardsDeroulede as a scarcely sane individual, and holds views on Parisiandemonstrations which may surprise some of those who believe everythingthey read in the newspapers. 

These views may be epitomised as follows: The Government can always putdown trouble in the streets when it desires to do so. If trouble occursit is because the Government allows it. Three-fourths of the'demonstrations' that have taken place in Paris during the last year ortwo have been simply 'got up' by professional agitators. The men whostart the shouting and the marching are paid for their services, thetariff being as a rule two francs per demonstration. With 500 francs, that is 20 l. , one can get 250 men together. These are joined by as manyfools and a small contingent of enthusiasts, and then you have a rumpuson the boulevards, and half the newspapers in Europe announcing on themorrow: 'Serious Disturbances in Paris. Impending Revolution. ' Somepeople may ask, Where does the money for many of these demonstrationscome from? The answer is that it comes largely from much the same sourcesas those whence General Boulanger's funds were derived--that is, from theOrleanist party. 

As for military insubordination, plotting, or anything of that kind, M. Zola often pointed out to me that no general could effect a revolution, for the simple reason that he could not rely on his men to follow him inan illegal attempt. It was quite possible that now and again othergenerals besides Boulanger had dreamt of overturning the Republic, butthey had not the means to do so. It was as likely as not that the officerfoolhardy enough to make the attempt would be shot in the back by some ofthe Socialists among the rank and file. Boulanger no doubt could havecounted on a good many men and 'non-coms. , ' as he was popular with them, but few if any officers above the rank of captain would have followedhim. 

To-day, moreover, intense jealousy still reigns among the French generalofficers. There is not one among them of sufficient pre-eminence andpopularity to gather round him a large contingent of military men of highrank for any political purpose. And this, of course--quite apart from theopinions of the masses--largely makes for a continuance of the Republicanregime. 

With a weak Government in office, one with a policy of drift, everythingmay become possible; but, so long as foresight and vigilance are shown, the Republic remains impregnable. If military malcontents becomeobstreperous it is only necessary to treat them as General Boulanger wastreated. 

I recollect hearing M. Yves Guyot, who was a member of the Cabinet whichput down 'the brave general on the black horse, ' and who was also one ofthe few French friends who visited M. Zola during his exile, give a briefaccount of some of the decisive steps which were taken to stop theBoulangist agitation. The Prefect of Police of that time was summoned tothe Ministry of the Interior, where two or three members of theGovernment awaited his arrival. Amongst other orders given him was one(if I remember rightly) for the dissolution of M. Deroulede's 'League ofPatriots, ' which then, as more recently, was at the bottom of much of theagitation. 

The Prefect hesitated; he was afraid to execute his orders. 'Very well, then, ' said M. Constans, M. Guyot, and others, 'you may regard yourresignation as accepted; you are not the man for the situation; if youare afraid, there are plenty who are not; and we shall immediatelyreplace you. '

The threat of the loss of office wrought an immediate change in thePrefect. He became as brave as he had been timorous, and with all dueenergy he proceeded to carry out his instructions. Boulangism was crushedand held up to public opprobrium and ridicule; and but for the culpableweakness and connivance of M. Felix Faure and his favourite PrimeMinister, M. Meline, it would never have revived in its varied forms ofanti-Semitism, anti-Dreyfusism, etc. 

French functionaries, those of the Civil Service, are, as a rule, adocile set; but every now and again a Government finding some laxityamong prefects and sub-prefects makes a few examples. Three or fourprefects of departments are transferred in disgrace to less importanttowns; two or three are cashiered, and the same method is followed withsome of the sub-prefects. Thereupon, all the others, prefects and 'subs, 'throughout the eighty and odd departments of France, hasten to showthemselves vigilant and, if need be, energetic. Taking one considerationwith another, this system of frightening the prefects into obedience andvigilance has, so far as the maintenance of public order is concerned, answered admirably well whenever it has been applied during the lastfifty years. It has undoubtedly been adopted at times for the furtheranceof purely despotic or arbitrary aims; but if ever it was justified suchwas the case during the Dreyfus agitation. If the Government had notconnived, for purposes of its own, at the proceedings of what the Frenchcall the 'militarist' party, there would have been no turmoil at all. 

But those in power desired to shield culprits of high rank and to defendthe effete organisation of the French War-office. And those who thusmisused the power they held, who sacrificed the national interests, whotrampled truth and justice under foot, and rendered their country anobject of amazement, distrust, and ridicule throughout the length andbreadth of Europe (Russia not excepted) will be censured and condemned inno uncertain voice by the France of to-morrow. 

But I am forgetting the prefects and sub-prefects. I mentioned thempartly because M. Zola himself might have been one of them. It is notgenerally known, I believe, that at the time of the Franco-German war hein some degree assisted one of the sub-prefects in the discharge of hisduties, and (had he only so chosen) might even have become a sub-prefecthimself. He had been an opposition, a Republican journalist, before thefall of the Empire, and M. Gambetta, during his virtual dictatorshipthroughout the latter part of the Franco-German war, was very fond ofappointing journalists of that description to office, both in the armyand the Civil Service. M. Zola, then, might have become a sub-prefect tobegin with; and, later, a full-blown prefect. Picture him in a cocked hatand a uniform bedizened with gold lace, and with a slender sword danglingby his side. That, at all events, was how sub-prefects and prefects usedto array themselves when 'in the exercise of their functions. '

I doubt of M. Zola would ever have made a good functionary. His characteris too independent, and in all likelihood he would have resigned the veryfirst time that he happened to have 'a few words' with his Minister. Butpolitics having caught him in their grasp he would doubtless (like thefew functionaries of independent views who throw up their posts inFrance) have next come forward as a candidate for the Chamber or theSenate. And then--why not? He might have been an Under-Secretary ofState, later a Minister, and finally President of the Republic. True, ashe himself knows, and readily admits, he is no orator; but then oratorsare not always the men who get on in France. Thiers was a ready andfluent speaker, but MacMahon could scarcely say (or learn by heart)twenty consecutive words. Grevy, it is true, could be long-winded, prosy, and didactic; but the powers of elocution which Carnot and Felix Faurepossessed were infinitesimal. And so the idea of Emile Zola, President ofthe Republic, may not be so far-fetched after all, particularly when oneremembers Zola's great powers of observation, analysis, and foresight. 

Had he taken to politics in his younger days he would at least have madehis mark in the career thus chosen. And it may be that, in some respects, French public life might then have been healthier than it has provedduring the last quarter of a century. Perchance, too, on the other hand, many old maids and young persons, not to mention ecclesiastics andvigilance societies, would have been spared manifold pious ejaculationsand gasps of horror. Again, my poor father--imprisoned, ruined, andhounded to his death--might still have been alive. 

Unless some other courageous man had arisen to tear the veil away frombefore human life, such as it is in so-called civilised communities, andshow society its own self in all its rottenness, foulness, andhypocrisy--so that on more than one occasion, shrinking guiltily from itsown image, it has denounced the plain unvarnished truth as libel--therewould have been no 'Nana' and no 'Pot Bouille, ' no 'Assommoir, ' and no'Germinal. ' And no 'La Terre. ' 'La Debacle, ' and 'Lourdes, ' and 'Rome, ''Paris, ' and 'Fecondite, ' and all the other books that have flowed fromEmile Zola's busy pen would have remained unwritten. But for my own partI would rather that the world should possess those books than that Zolawhen tempted, as he was, should have cast literature aside to plunge intothe abominable and degrading vortex of politics. 

Like all men of intellect he certainly has his views on importantpolitical questions, and again and again he has enunciated them in theface of fierce opposition. In the Dreyfus case, however, he has been nopolitician, but simply the indignant champion of an innocent man. And histask over, truth and justice vindicated, he asks no reward, no office; hesimply desires to take up his pen once more and revert to his lifework:--The delineation and exposure of the crimes, follies, andshort-comings of society as now constituted, in order that those who_are_ in politics, who control human affairs, may, in full knowledge ofexisting evils, do their utmost to remedy them and prepare the way for abetter and a happier world. 

 XIV

 'WAITING FOR THE VERDICT'

I can still see before me the sitting-room on the second floor of theQueen's Hotel, in which M. Zola spent so much of his time and wrote somany pages of 'Fecondite' during the last six months or so of his exile. A spacious room it was, if a rather low one, with three windowsoverlooking the road which passes the hotel. 

A very large looking-glass in a gilt frame surmounted the mantelpiece, onwhich stood two or three little blue vases. Paper of a light colour and alarge flowing arabesque pattern with a broad frieze covered the walls. There was not a single picture of any kind in the room, neither steelengraving, nor lithograph, nor chromo; and remembering what picturesusually are, even in the best of hotels, it was perhaps just as well thatthere should have been none in that room at the Queen's. Yet during themany hours I spent there the bareness of the walls often worried me. 

Against the one that faced the fireplace stood a small sideboard. Then onanother side was a sofa, and here and there were half a dozen chairs. Theroom was rich in tables, it counted no fewer than five. On a foldingcard-table in one corner M. Zola's stock of letter and 'copy' paper, hisweighing scales for letters, his envelopes, pens, and pencils, were dulyset out. Then in front of the central window was the table at which heworked every morning. It was of mahogany, little more than three feetlong and barely two feet wide. Whenever he raised his eyes from hiswriting, he could see the road below him, and the houses across the way. On a similar table at another of the windows he usually kept such booksand reviews as reached him from France. 

In the centre of the room, under the electric lights--which, however, were only fitted towards the end of M. Zola's sojourn at the hotel, sothat throughout the winter a paraffin lamp supplied the necessaryillumination--stood the table at which one lunched and dined. It wasround and would just accommodate four persons. Finally, beside M. Zola'sfavourite arm-chair, near the fireplace, was a little gipsy table, onwhich he usually kept the day's newspapers, and perchance the volume hewas reading at the time. 

A doorway on the same side as the fireplace gave ingress to thebedchamber, which was smaller than the sitting-room, and adequately, butby no means luxuriously furnished. 

On the little writing-table near the middle window were first a smallinkstand belonging to the hotel, then a few paper-weights coveringmemoranda jotted down on little square pieces of paper, about threeinches long either way, together with an old yellowish newspaper whichdid duty as a blotting pad; and a pen with a 'j' nib and a very heavyivory handle, so heavy, indeed, that though the master often offered itto me I could never write with it. With this pen, however, he himself didall his work. That work he generally cleared away before lunch, andlocked up in his bedroom wardrobe, so that by the time a visitor arrivedthere was never any litter in the sitting-room. 

The road, viewed from the writing-table window, was at times fairlylively. Nursemaids and children, bicyclists and others passed constantlyto and fro. Stylish carriages also rolled by during the afternoon, and atintervals a little green omnibus went its way at a slow jog-trot. Thedetached villa residences on the other side of the road were, however, singularly lifeless. One day M. Zola remarked to me: 'I have never seen asoul in those houses during all the months I have been here. They areoccupied certainly, for the window blinds are pulled up every morning andlowered every evening, but I can never detect who does this; and I havenever seen anybody leave the houses or enter them. '

At last one afternoon he told me that one of these villas had woke up, for on the previous day he had espied a lady in the garden watering someflowers. 

Rather lower down the road there was a livelier house, one which had abalconied window, which was almost invariably open, and here servants andchildren were often to be seen. 'That, ' said M. Zola, 'is the one littlecorner of life and gaiety, amidst all the other silence and lack of life. Whenever I feel dull or worried I look over there. '

As a rule the Queen's Hotel itself is, as I have already mentioned, avery quiet place; but now and again a wedding breakfast was given there. Broughams and landaus would then roll over the gravel sweep, and M. Zolaand I would at times lean out of the windows and exchange opinions withrespect to the bridal pair and the guests. What surprised and amused him, on one occasion when a wedding party came to the hotel, was to noticethat all the coachmen of the carriages wore yellow flowers and favours;for in France yellow is not only associated with jealousy, but also withconjugal faithlessness. 

'If those flowers ware to be taken as an omen, ' said M. Zola to me, 'thathappy pair will soon be in the Divorce Court. '

During the latter part of his stay at Norwood, when the door between hisbedroom and sitting-room remained open, one could see on a chest ofdrawers in the former apartment a pair of life-size porcelain cats, coloured a purplish maroon, with sparkling yellow glass eyes, and anabundance of fantastic yellow spots. These cats had been bought by him asa souvenir of England and English art, for he was much struck by theiroddity. He had been offered others--for instance, white ones with littlecoloured landscapes printed all over their backs and sides--surely asidiotic an embellishment as any insane potter could devise--but althoughthese had sorely tempted him he had finally decided in favour of themaroon and yellow abominations. 

A little girl of mine, who found herself face to face with these cats oneday in his room, was quite startled by them, and has since expressed theopinion that Sir John Tenniel ought to have seen them before he drew theCheshire cat for 'Alice in Wonderland. ' For my own part I can imagine thelaughter and the jeers of M. Zola's artistic friends when those choicespecimens of British art are shown to them in Paris. 

At intervals during his long sojourn at the Queen's Hotel M. Zolareceived a few brief visits from French friends, chiefly literary men andpoliticians, whose names need not be mentioned, but who have identifiedthemselves with the cause of Revision. At times these gentlemen foundthemselves in London on other matters, and profited by the opportunity torun down to Norwood. On other occasions they made the journey from Francefor the especial purpose of quieting M. Zola's impatience, and tellinghim that he must not yet think of returning home. Again, M. Fasquelle, the French publisher, came over four or five times, now on business andnow in a friendly way. 

I think that during the seven or eight months that M. Zola stayed at theQueen's Hotel, he received altogether some ten visits from compatriots, which visits were often of only an hour or two's duration. Thus, Mme. Zola having returned to France, he was frequently very much alone. 

During the last months of his exile my wife fell seriously ill, and Icould not then go so often to Norwood. Afterwards ague caught me in itsgrip, and my visits ceased for two or three successive weeks. All I coulddo in an emergency was to place my eldest daughter or my son at M. Zola'sdisposal. 

The foreign visitors he received--by foreign I mean non-French--were(apart from the Warehams, myself and family) very few in number. I thinkthat an eminent Russian _publiciste_ who happened to be a personal friend(M. Zola has long been popular in Russia, where even the Emperor has readmany of his books) saw him on one occasion. Then, when M. Yves Guyotcalled, he brought with him an English friend who was pledged to secrecy. 

A well-known English novelist and art critic, M. Zola's oldest Englishfriend, and his earliest champion in this country, likewise saw him. Further, in a friendly capacity he received an English journalist forwhom he has much regard, and who came to see him quite apart from anyjournalistic matters. To this list I will add the names of Mr. AndrewChatto and Mr. Percy Spalding of Messrs. Chatto and Windus, and Mr. George P. Brett, of the Macmillan Company of New York. 

Such, then, were M. Zola's visitors and guests--say, apart from theWarehams, myself and family, less than a score of persons, the totalduration of whose visits added together amounted perhaps to a hundred andtwenty hours spread over many long and trying months. 

At times when we chatted together, M. Zola and myself, and mention wasmade of his friends--of persons occasionally whom we both knew--hereferred to the many estrangements caused by the divergence of views onthe Dreyfus affair. Friends of twenty and thirty years' standing, men whohad laboured sided by side often in pursuit of the same ideal, had notonly quarrelled and parted but had assailed each other with the greatestvirulence in the Press and at public meetings. 

Many whom he himself had regarded as close and sincere friends hadtrodden upon all the past and attacked him abominably, as though he werethe veriest scum of the earth. Some in the earlier stages of the affairhad hypocritically feigned sympathy, in order to provoke his confidence, and had then turned round to hold him up to execration and ridicule. Oneor two had behaved so badly that he had refused ever to receive them athis house again. 

He spoke to me of an eminent French _litterateur_ who at the outset ofthe agitation on behalf of Dreyfus had immediately promised his help, andhad even prepared articles and appeals on behalf of the prisoner ofDevil's Island. But this _litterateur_ had of recent years been lapsinginto mysticism, and at the behests of the reverend father his confessor, he had abruptly destroyed what he had written, and gone over to the otherside to wage desperate warfare upon the cause he had promised to help. 

The writer in question (one who will probably leave a name in Frenchliterature) was tortured by the everlasting fear that he might go to hellwhen he died, and he was the more timorous, the more easily influenced bycertain persons, as he suffered from a horrible, incurable complaint, andfeared that his medical man--a bigoted Romanist--might abandon him to allthe pangs of sudden death if he did not comply with the injunctions ofthe Church. 

Then there was a friend of many years' standing, a Minister in successiveCabinets, who feigned that by remaining in office he would be able tofavour the cause, and who, instead of that, did his utmost against it. Aplaywright wrote: 'I am heartily with you, but for God's sake don't sayit, for my plays might be hissed. '* Another prominent man started on along journey to avoid having to express any opinion. Nearly all the baserpassions of humanity were made manifest in some degree--treachery, rancour, jealousy, and moral and physical cowardice. 

 * Apropos of the stage, it is a curious circumstance that nine-tenths of 'the profession' in France are ardent Dreyfusards. Nearly every actor and actress and vocalist of note has been on the same side as M. Zola from the outset. 

But, of course, there was another and a brighter side to the picture. There were men of high intellect and courage who had not hesitated tostate their views and plead for truth and justice, men who, when inoffice, had been arbitrarily suspended and removed. There were many whohad risked their futures, many too who, after years of labour, were wellentitled to rest and retirement, yet had come forward with all the ardourof youth to do battle for great principles and save their country fromthe shame of a cruel crime. 

Adversity makes one acquainted with strange bedfellows, and M. Zola wasmore than once struck by the heterogeneous nature of the Revisionistarmy. He found men of such varied political and social views bandedtogether for the cause. It all helped to remove sundry old-timeprejudices of his. 

For instance, he said to me one day: 'I never cared much for the FrenchProtestants; I regarded them as people of narrow minds, fanatics of akind, far less tolerant and human than the great mass of the Catholics. But they have behaved splendidly in this battle of ours, and shownthemselves to be real men. '

All through the spring M. Zola eagerly followed the inquiry which theCour de Cassation was conducting, and when M. Ballot-Beaupre wasappointed reporter to the Court, there came a fresh spell of anxiety. M. Ballot-Beaupre is a man of natural piety, and the anti-Revisionistnewspapers, basing themselves on his religious views, at first madecertain that he would show no mercy to the Jew Dreyfus, but would reportstrongly in favour of the prisoner's guilt. Certain Dreyfusite journals, on the other hand, bitterly attacked the learned judge for his supposedclerical leanings; and indeed so much was insinuated that M. Zola for ashort time half believed it possible that M. Ballot-Beaupre might showhimself hostile to revision. 

When I saw M. Zola he repeatedly expressed to me his feelings ofdisquietude. Then everything suddenly changed. Certain newspapersdiscovered that M. Ballot-Beaupre, if pious, was by no means a fanatic, and, further, that he was a very sound lawyer, much respected by hiscolleagues. This cleared the atmosphere, for it seemed impossible thatany man of rectitude and judgment could pass over the damning revelationswhich the Cour de Cassation's inquiry, as published in 'Le Figaro, ' hadproduced. 

Time went on, and at last the issue, so frequently postponed, solongingly awaited, came in sight. The week before the public proceedingsof the Cour de Cassation opened M. Zola said to me: 'I shall havefinished the last chapter of "Fecondite" by Saturday or Sunday, so Ishall have my hands quite free and be able to give all my attention towhat takes place at the Courts. I am hopeful, yes, very hopeful, and yetat moments some horrid doubt will spring up to torture me. But no! you'llsee, our cause will gain the day, revision will be granted, and justicewill be done. '

And at last came the fateful week which was to prove the accuracy of hissurmises. 

 XV

 LAST DAYS--DEPARTURE

I spent the afternoon of Saturday, May 27, with M. Zola, and we thenspoke of the proceedings impending before the Cour de Cassation. All ourinformation pointed to the conclusion that the Court would give judgmenton the Saturday following, and it was decided that M. Zola should returnto France a few days afterwards. The date ultimately agreed upon wasTuesday, June 6, and the train selected was that leaving Charing Crossfor Folkestone at 2. 45 in the afternoon. 

Though according to every probability the Court's judgment would be infavour of revision, M. Zola was resolved to return home whatever might bethe issue, and such were his feelings on the matter that nothing anyfriend might have urged would have prevented him from doing so. As amatter of fact one friend did regard the return as somewhat unwise, andintimated it both by telegram and letter. This compelled me to see M. Zola again on the following Tuesday (May 30), but the objections wereoverruled by him, and the arrangements which had been planned wereadhered to. 

M. Zola had now drafted the declaration which he proposed issuing on themorrow of his return home, and this he gave me to read. It was thearticle 'Justice, ' published in 'L'Aurore, ' to which I have occasionallyreferred in the course of the present narrative. 

I left M. Zola rather late that Tuesday night in the expectation thateverything which had been arranged would follow in due course. As thewriting of 'Fecondite' was now finished he had time on his hands, and apart of this he proposed to devote to taking a few final snapshots ofNorwood, the Crystal Palace, and surrounding scenery. He needed somethingto do, for he could not sit hour by hour in his room at the Queen's Hotelanxiously waiting for news of the proceedings at the Paris Palais deJustice. 

For my part I had begun to prepare the present narrative, and as he wouldnot listen to my repeated offers to take him to the Derby, it wasarranged that I should not see him again until the end of the week. OnFriday, however, reports were already in circulation to the effect thatM. Fasquelle (M. Zola's French publisher) had come to London for thepurpose of escorting him home. 

This was true, and I foresaw that the rumours might lead to somemodifications of our programme; for M. Zola did not wish his return tohave any public character. He had forbidden all the demonstrations whichhis friends in Paris were anxious to arrange in his honour, declaringthat he desired to go back quietly and privately, and then at once placehimself at the disposal of the public prosecutor. 

On Friday I sent my daughter Violette to Norwood with a parcel of M. Zola's photographs, received by Messrs. Chatto and Windus from Miss LoieFuller, who being greatly interested in the Clarence Ward of St. Mary'sHospital, particularly wished M. Zola to sign these portraits in orderthat they might be sold at a bazaar which was to be held for the benefitof the hospital referred to. I told my daughter that I should myself godown to the Queen's Hotel on the morrow, and she brought me back amessage to the effect that I really must go, as complications had arisen, and M. Zola particularly desired to see me. 

On the following day, Saturday, I therefore betook myself to Norwood witha parcel of M. Zola's books, which I had received from Messrs. Macmillan& Co. On behalf of the Countess of Bective, who (prompted by the samespirit as Miss Loie Fuller) wished to sell these volumes at the'Bookland' stall on the occasion of the Charing Cross Hospital Bazaar. And when I arrived I found indeed that it was most desirable that theprogramme of M. Zola's departure should be modified. 

He had already seen M. And Mme. Fasquelle, the former of whom was muchannoyed at the reports of his presence in London, and thought it mostadvisable to precipitate the departure. Delay might, indeed, be harmfulif it was desired to avoid demonstrations. Besides, why should he waituntil the ensuing Tuesday? Why not return the very next night--that ofSunday, June 4--by the Dover and Calais route? Mme. Fasquelle haddeclared that she in no way objected to travelling at night time; and sofar as the departure from London was concerned, there would be few peopleabout on a Sunday evening, which was another point to be considered. Icordially assented, for now that the imminence of M. Zola's return toParis had been reported in the newspapers it was certain that delay meanta possibility of demonstrations both for and against him. In spite of hisprohibition, many of his friends still wished to greet him like aconquering hero on his arrival at the Northern Railway Station in Paris. And the other side would unfailingly send out its recruiting agents toassemble a contingent of loafers at two francs per demonstration, whowould be duly instructed to yell 'Conspuez, ' and 'A bas les juifs. ' Thena brawl would inevitably follow. 

Now M. Zola (as I have already mentioned) did not wish for a homecomingof that kind. There was no question of refusing to 'face the music, ' ofshunning a hostile crowd, and so forth. It was purely and simply a matterof dignity and of doing nothing that might lead to a disturbance of thepublic peace. The triumph of justice was undoubtedly imminent, and itmust not be followed by disorder. 

When I had expressed my concurrence in the views held by M. Zola and M. Fasquelle, M. Zola and I attended to business. First came the question ofLady Bective's books, in each of which a suitable inscription wasinserted. Afterwards, in a friend's birthday book M. Zola inscribed hisfamous, epoch-making phrase, 'Truth is on the march, and nothing will beable to stop it. ' Finally, a few brief notes were written and posted, andwork was over. 

For a little while we chatted together. Some notable incidents connectedwith the interminable Affair had occurred during the last few days. Colonel du Paty de Clam, for whose arrest the Revisionist journals hadclamoured so long and so pertinaciously, had at last been cast intoprison. In M. Zola's estimation, the Colonel's arrest had been merely aquestion of time ever since the day when one had learnt that he haddisguised himself with a false beard and blue glasses when he went tomeet the notorious Esterhazy. 

'A man may be guilty of any misdeed and may yet find forgiveness and evenfavour, ' M. Zola had then said to me, 'but he must not make himself, hisprofession, and his cause ridiculous. In France, as you know, "ridiculekills. " The false beard and the blue spectacles, following the veiledlady, are decisive. One need scarcely trouble any further about M. DuPaty de Clam. His fate is as good as sealed. '

And now that the Colonel had at last been arrested, the master remarked, 'The military party is throwing him over to us as a kind of sop; it wouldbe delighted to make him the general scapegoat, and thereby save all theother culprits. But it won't do. There are men higher placed than Du Patywho must bear their share of censure and, if need be, punishment. '

Then we spoke of Esterhazy, 'that fine type for a melodrama or a novel ofthe romantic school, ' as M. Zola often remarked. The Commandant had justacknowledged to the 'Times' and the 'Daily Chronicle' that the famous_bordereau_ had been penned by him, and we laughed at the remembrance ofhis squabbles on this subject with the proprietress of another newspaper. How indignantly he had then denied having ever acknowledged theauthorship of the _bordereau_, and how complacently he now admitted it!As for the circumstances under which he asserted the document to havebeen written, M. Zola could make nothing of them. 'So far, theexplanations explain nothing, ' said he; 'take them whichever way youwill, there is no sense, no plausibility even, in them. Hitherto I alwaysthought Esterhazy a very shrewd and clever man, but after reading hisstatements in the "Times" and the "Chronicle" I no longer know what tothink. Still, one point is gained; he admits having written the_bordereau_, and others hereafter will tell us the exact circumstancesunder which he did so. Colonel Sandherr, at whose bidding he says hewrote it, is dead; but others who know a great deal about him are stillalive. '

While M. Zola thus expressed himself, we sat face to face, he in hisfavourite arm chair on one side of the fireplace, and I on the other, inthe familiar room, with its three windows overlooking the lively road, while all around curvetted the scrolls and arabesques of the lightfawn-tinted wall paper. And after chatting about Du Paty and Esterhazy wegradually lapsed into silence. It was a fateful hour. There wereninety-nine probabilities out of a hundred that the decision of the Courde Cassation would be given that same afternoon; and whatever thatdecision might be we felt certain that before it was made public by anynewspaper in London we should be apprised of it. We knew that fiveminutes after judgment should have been pronounced a telegram would bespeeding through the wires to the Queen's Hotel, Norwood. 

M. Zola did not tell me his thoughts, yet I could guess them. We cangenerally guess the thoughts of those we love. But the hours went by andnothing came. How long they were, those judges! Whatever could be thecause of their delay? Surely--trained, practised men that they were, menwho had spent their lives in seeking and proclaiming the truth--surely noelement of doubt could have penetrated their minds at the final, thesupreme moment. 

Ah! the waiter entered, and there on his salver lay a buff envelope, within which must surely be the ardently awaited message that would tellus of victory or defeat. M. Zola could scarcely tear that envelope open;his hands trembled violently. And then came an anti-climax. The wire wasfrom M. Fasquelle, who announced that he and his wife were invitingthemselves to dinner at Norwood that evening. 

It was welcome news, but not the news so impatiently expected. And, atlast, suspense become intolerable, I resolved to go out and try topurchase some afternoon newspapers. 

There had been rumours to the effect that as each individual judge mightpreface his decision by a declaration of the reasons which prompted it, the final judgment might after all be postponed until Monday. Both M. Zola and I had thought this improbable; still, there was a possibility ofsuch delay, and perhaps it was on account of a postponement of the kindthat the telegram we awaited had not arrived. 

I scoured Upper Norwood for afternoon papers. There was, however, nothingto the point at that hour (about five P. M. ) in 'The Evening News, ' the'Globe, ' the 'Echo, ' the 'Star, ' the 'Sun, ' the three 'Gazettes. ' They, like we, were 'waiting for the verdict. ' I went as far as the lower levelstation in the hope of finding some newspaper that might give an inklingof the position, and I found nothing at all. It was extremely warm, and Iwas somewhat excited. Thus I was perspiring terribly by the time Ireturned to the hotel, to learn that no telegram had come as yet, thatthings were still _in statu quo_. 

Then all at once the waiter came up again with another buff envelopelying on his plated salver. And this time our anticipations wererealised; here at last was the expected news. M. Zola read the telegram, then showed it to me. 

It was brief, but sufficient. 'Cheque postponed, ' it said; and Zola knewwhat those words meant. 'Cheque paid' would have signified that not onlyhad revision been granted, but that all the proceedings against Dreyfuswere quashed, and that he would not even have to be re-tried by anothercourt-martial. And in a like way 'cheque unpaid' would have meant thatrevision had been refused by the Court. 'Cheque postponed' implied thegranting of revision and a new court-martial. 

The phraseology of this telegram, as of previous ones, had long sincebeen arranged. For months many seemingly innocent 'wires' had been fullof meaning. There had been no more enigmatical telegrams, as at the timeof Henry's arrest and death, but telegrams drafted in accordance with M. Zola's instructions and each word of which was perfectly intelligible tohim. 

It often happened that the newspaper correspondents 'were not in it. 'Things were known to M. Zola and at times to myself hours--and evendays--before there was any mention of them in print. The blunderinganti-Dreyfusites have often if not invariably overlooked the fact thattheir adversaries number men of acumen, skill, and energy. Far from itbeing true that money has played any role in the affair, everything hasvirtually been achieved by brains and courage. In fact, from first tolast, the Revisionist agitation, whilst proving that the Truth mustalways ultimately conquer, has likewise shown the supremacy of trueintellect over every other force in the world, whether wealth, orinfluence, or fanaticism. 

But I must return to M. Zola. He now knew all he wished to know. As therehad been no postponement of the Court's decision there need be none ofhis return. A telegram to Paris announcing his departure from London washastily drafted and I hurried with it to the post-office, meeting on myway M. And Mme. Fasquelle, who were walking towards the Queen's Hotel. 

We had a right merry little dinner that evening. We were all in the bestof humours. M. Zola's face was radiant. A great victory had been won; andthen, too, he was going home!

He recalled the more amusing incidents of his exile; it seemed to him, said he, as if for months and months he had been living in a dream. 

And M. Fasquelle broke in with a reminder that M. Zola must be verycareful when he reached his house, and must in no wise damage thehistoric table for which he, Fasquelle, had given such a pile of money atthe memorable auction in the Rue de Bruxelles. 

Ah, that table! We were in a mood to laugh about anything, and we laughedat the thought of the table; at the thought, too, of all thesimple-minded folk who had imagined that they would be able to purchase'souvenirs' at the auction so abruptly brought to an end. 

Then the Fasquelles, having been to the Oaks on the previous day, beganto talk of Epsom, and the scene, unique in the whole world, which thefamous racecourse presents during Derby week. M. Zola half regretted thathe had missed going. 'But I will go everywhere and see everything, ' herepeated, 'the next time I come to England. I shall then be able to do soopenly, without any playing at hide and seek. Oh, it won't be till afterthe Paris Exhibition, that is certain, but I have written an oratorio forwhich Bruneau has composed the music, and if it is sung in London, as Ihope, I shall come over and spend a month going about everywhere. But, ofcourse, ' he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, 'I have about two years'imprisonment to do as things stand, so I must make no positive promises. '

The rest is soon told. Final arrangements were made, and we came away, M. And Mme. Fasquelle and myself, about ten o'clock. 'It is your last nightof exile, ' I said to M. Zola as I pressed his hand, 'and it will soon beover. You must try to sleep well. '

'Sleep!' he replied. 'Oh, there is no sleep for me to-night. From thismoment I shall be counting the hours, the very minutes. '

'It will make a change for you, Vizetelly, ' said M. Fasquelle, as he, Mme. Fasquelle, and myself walked towards the railway station. 'You willbe missing him now. '

This was true. All the routine, all the _alertes_, the meetings, themissions of those eleven months were about to cease abruptly. What had atfirst seemed to me novel had with time become confirmed habit, and forthe first few days after M. Zola's departure I felt my occupation gone. 

That departure took place, as arranged, on Sunday evening, June 4. It wasthe day when President Loubet was cowardly assailed at a race-meeting bythe friends and partisans of the foolish Duke of Orleans; but of all thatwe remained (_pro tem. _) in blissful ignorance. The Fasquelles went downto Norwood and brought M. Zola to Victoria. I was busy during the daypreparing for the 'Westminster Gazette' an English epitome of thedeclaration which 'L'Aurore' was to publish on the morrow. That workaccomplished, I met the others on their arrival in town. Wareham had beenwarned of the change in the programme on the previous night, and came upfrom Wimbledon with my wife. There was a hasty scramble of a dinner at arestaurant near Victoria. We were served, I remember, by a very amusingand familiar waiter, who, addressing M. Zola by preference (I wonder ifhe recognised him?), kept on repeating that he was a 'citizen of the mostnoble Helvetian Confederation, ' and assured us that potatoes for twowould be ample, and that chicken for three would be as much as we shouldcare to eat. 'Take this, ' said he, 'it's to-day's. Don't have that, itwas cooked yesterday. ' And all this made us extremely merry. 'It seems tome more than ever that I am living in a dream, ' said M. Zola after afinal laugh. 'That waiter has given the finishing touch to my illusion. '

The train started at nine P. M. , and we had a full quarter of an hour atour disposal for our leave-takings in the dimly-lighted station. Therewere few passengers travelling that night, and few loiterers about. Wemade M. Zola take his seat in a compartment, and stood on guard before ittalking to him. Only one gentleman, a short dapper individual withmutton-chop whiskers (Wareham suggested that he looked like a barrister), paid any attention to the master, and, it may be, recognised him. For therest, all went well. There were _au revoirs_ and handshakes all round, and messages, too, for one and another. And M. Zola would have his littlejoke. 'If you should come across Esterhazy, ' he said to me, 'tell himthat I've gone back, and ask him when he's coming. '

'Well, ' I replied, 'he will probably want another safe-conduct beforeanswering that question. '

'Do you think that a safe-conduct to take Dreyfus's place would suithim?' was M. Zola's retort. 

But the clock was now on the stroke of the hour, the carriage doors werehastily closed, and the signal for departure was given. 

'Au revoir, au revoir!' A last handshake, and the train started. Foranother half-minute we could see our dear and illustrious friend at hiscarriage window waving his arm to us. And then he was gone. Theresponsibility which had so long rested on Wareham and myself was ended;Emile Zola's exit was virtually over: shortly after five o'clock on thefollowing morning he would once more be in Paris, ready to take his partin the final, crowning act of one of the greatest dramas that the worldhas ever witnessed. Truth was still marching on, and assuredly nothingwould be able to stop it.