Things were known to M. Zola and at times to myself hours--and even
days--before there was any mention of them in print. The blundering
anti-Dreyfusites have often if not invariably overlooked the fact that
their adversaries number men of acumen, skill, and energy. Far from it
being true that money has played any role in the affair, everything has
virtually been achieved by brains and courage. In fact, from first to
last, the Revisionist agitation, whilst proving that the Truth must
always ultimately conquer, has likewise shown the supremacy of true
intellect over every other force in the world, whether wealth, or
influence, or fanaticism.
But I must return to M. Zola. He now knew all he wished to know. As there
had been no postponement of the Court's decision there need be none of
his return. A telegram to Paris announcing his departure from London was
hastily drafted and I hurried with it to the post-office, meeting on my
way 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 best
of humours. M. Zola's face was radiant. A great victory had been won; and
then, 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 very
careful when he reached his house, and must in no wise damage the
historic table for which he, Fasquelle, had given such a pile of money at
the memorable auction in the Rue de Bruxelles.
Ah, that table! We were in a mood to laugh about anything, and we laughed
at the thought of the table; at the thought, too, of all the
simple-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, began
to talk of Epsom, and the scene, unique in the whole world, which the
famous racecourse presents during Derby week. M. Zola half regretted that
he had missed going. 'But I will go everywhere and see everything,' he
repeated, 'the next time I come to England. I shall then be able to do so
openly, without any playing at hide and seek. Oh, it won't be till after
the Paris Exhibition, that is certain, but I have written an oratorio for
which Bruneau has composed the music, and if it is sung in London, as I
hope, I shall come over and spend a month going about everywhere. But, of
course,' 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 night
of exile,' I said to M. Zola as I pressed his hand, 'and it will soon be
over. You must try to sleep well.'
'Sleep!' he replied. 'Oh, there is no sleep for me to-night. From this
moment 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 will
be missing him now.'
This was true. All the routine, all the _alertes_, the meetings, the
missions of those eleven months were about to cease abruptly. What had at
first seemed to me novel had with time become confirmed habit, and for
the 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 was
the day when President Loubet was cowardly assailed at a race-meeting by
the friends and partisans of the foolish Duke of Orleans; but of all that
we remained (_pro tem._) in blissful ignorance. The Fasquelles went down
to Norwood and brought M. Zola to Victoria. I was busy during the day
preparing for the 'Westminster Gazette' an English epitome of the
declaration which 'L'Aurore' was to publish on the morrow. That work
accomplished, I met the others on their arrival in town. Wareham had been
warned of the change in the programme on the previous night, and came up
from Wimbledon with my wife. There was a hasty scramble of a dinner at a
restaurant near Victoria. We were served, I remember, by a very amusing
and familiar waiter, who, addressing M. Zola by preference (I wonder if
he recognised him?), kept on repeating that he was a 'citizen of the most
noble Helvetian Confederation,' and assured us that potatoes for two
would be ample, and that chicken for three would be as much as we should
care to eat. 'Take this,' said he, 'it's to-day's. Don't have that, it
was cooked yesterday.' And all this made us extremely merry. 'It seems to
me more than ever that I am living in a dream,' said M. Zola after a
final 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 at
our disposal for our leave-takings in the dimly-lighted station. There
were few passengers travelling that night, and few loiterers about. We
made M. Zola take his seat in a compartment, and stood on guard before it
talking to him. Only one gentleman, a short dapper individual with
mutton-chop whiskers (Wareham suggested that he looked like a barrister),
paid any attention to the master, and, it may be, recognised him. For the
rest, all went well. There were _au revoirs_ and handshakes all round,
and messages, too, for one and another. And M. Zola would have his little
joke. 'If you should come across Esterhazy,' he said to me, 'tell him
that I've gone back, and ask him when he's coming.'
'Well,' I replied, 'he will probably want another safe-conduct before
answering that question.'
'Do you think that a safe-conduct to take Dreyfus's place would suit
him?' was M. Zola's retort.
But the clock was now on the stroke of the hour, the carriage doors were
hastily closed, and the signal for departure was given.
'Au revoir, au revoir!' A last handshake, and the train started. For
another half-minute we could see our dear and illustrious friend at his
carriage window waving his arm to us. And then he was gone. The
responsibility which had so long rested on Wareham and myself was ended;
Emile Zola's exit was virtually over: shortly after five o'clock on the
following morning he would once more be in Paris, ready to take his part
in the final, crowning act of one of the greatest dramas that the world
has ever witnessed. Truth was still marching on, and assuredly nothing
would be able to stop it.
End of Project Gutenberg's With Zola in England, by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly