To visit a series of foreign celebrities at home without including Emile
Zola in the list would be very like refusing to listen to the lines of
Hamlet in Bacon's immortal tragedy of that name. Furthermore, to call
upon the justly famous novelist presupposes a visit to Paris, which is a
delightful thing, even for a lady journalist. Hence it was that on
leaving Woking, after my charming little glimpse into the home life of
the Lang Manuscript-Manufacturing Company, I decided to take a run
across the Channel and look up the Frenchman of the hour. The diversion
had about it an air of adventure which made it pleasantly exciting. For
ten hours after my arrival at Paris I did not dare ask where the
novelist lived, for fear that I might be arrested and sent to Devil's
Island with Captain Dreyfus, or forced to languish for a year or two at
the Chateau d'If, near Marseilles, until the government could get a
chance formally to inquire why I wished to know the abiding-place of M.
Zola. There was added to this also some apprehension that even if I
escaped the gendarmes the people themselves might rise up and string me
to a lamp-post as a suitable answer to so treasonable a question.
[Illustration: SEEKING ZOLA]
To tell the truth, I did not go about my business with my usual nerve
and aplomb. Had I represented only myself, I should not have hesitated
to expose myself to any or to all danger. Intrusted as I was, however,
with a commission of great importance to those whom I serve at home, it
was my duty to proceed cautiously and save my life. I therefore went at
the matter diplomatically. For fifty centimes I induced a small
flower-girl, whom I encountered in front of the Cafe de la Paix, to
inquire of the head waiter of that establishment where M. Zola could be
met. The tragedy that ensued was terrible. What became of the child I do
not know, but when, three hours later, the troops cleared the square in
front of the cafe, the dead and wounded amounted to between two hundred
and fifty and three hundred, and the china, tables, and interior
decorations of the cafe were strewn down the Avenue de l'Opera as far as
the Rue de l'Echelle, and along the boulevard to the Madeleine. The
opera-house itself was not appreciably damaged, although I am told that
pieces of steak and chops and canned pease have since been found
clinging to the third-story windows of its splendid facade.
[Illustration: CONSULTING "LA PATRIE"]
My next effort was even more cautious. I bought a plain sheet of
note-paper, and addressed it anonymously to the editor of _La Patrie_,
asking for the desired information. The next morning _La Patrie_
announced that if I would send my name and address to its office the
communication would be answered suitably. My caution was still great,
however, and the name and address I gave were those of a blanchisseuse
who ran a pretty little shop on Rue Rivoli. That night the poor woman
was exiled from France, and the block in which she transacted business
demolished by a mob of ten thousand.
I was about to give up, when chance favored me. The next evening, while
seated in my box at the opera, the door was suddenly opened, and a heavy
but rather handsome-eyed brunette of I should say fifty years of age
burst in upon me.
[Illustration: "'SAVE ME!' SHE CRIED"]
"Mon Dieu!" she cried, as I turned. "Save me! Tell them I am your
chaperon, your mother, your sister--anything--only save me! You will
never regret it."
She had hardly uttered these words when a sharp rap came upon the door.
"Entrez," I cried. "Que voulez-vous, messieurs?" I added, with some
asperity, as five hussars entered, their swords clanking ominously.
"Your name?" said one, who appeared to be their leader.
"Anne Warrington Witherup, if you refer to me," said I, drawing myself
up proudly. "If you refer to this lady," I added, "she is Mrs. Watkins
Wilbur Witherup, my--ah--my step-mother. We are Americans, and I am a
lady journalist."
Fortunately my remarks were made in French, and my French was of a kind
which was convincing proof that I came from Westchester County.
A great change came over the intruders.
"Pardon, mademoiselle," said the leader, with an apologetic bow to
myself. "We have made the grand _faux pas_. We have entered the wrong
box."
"And may I know the cause of your unwarranted intrusion," I demanded,
"without referring the question to the State Department at home?"
"We sought--we sought an enemy to France, mademoiselle," said they. "We
thought he entered here."
"I harbor only the friends of France," said I.
"Vive la Witherup!" cried the hussars, taking the observation as a
compliment, and then chucking me under the chin and again apologizing,
with a sweeping bow to my newly acquired step-mother, they withdrew.
"Well, mamma," said I, turning to the lady at my side, "perhaps you can
shed some light on this mystery. Who are you?"
"Softly, if you value your life," came the answer. "_Zola, c'est moi!_"
"Mon Doo!" said I. "Vous? Bien, bien, bien!"
"Speak in English," he whispered. "Then I can understand."
"Oh, I only said well, well, well," I explained. "And you have adopted
this disguise?"
"Because I have resolved to live long enough to get into the Academy,"
he explained. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your timely
aid. If they had caught me they would have thrown me down into the midst
of the claque."
"Come," said I, rising and taking him by the hand. "I have come to Paris
to see you at home. It was my only purpose. I will escort you thither."
"Non, non!" he cried. "Never again. I am much more at home here, my dear
lady, much more. Pray sit down. Why, when I left home by a subterranean
passage, perhaps you are not aware, over a thousand members of the
National Guard were singing the 'Marseillaise' on the front piazza.
Three thousand were dancing that shocking dance, the cancan, in my back
yard, and four regiments of volunteers were looking for something to eat
in the kitchen, assisted by one hundred and fifty petroleuses to do
their cooking. All my bedroom furniture was thrown out of the
second-story windows, and the manuscripts of my new novel were being cut
up into souvenirs."
"Poor old mamma!" said I, taking him by the hand. "You can always find
comfort in the thought that you have done a noble action."
"It was a pretty good scheme," replied Zola. "A million pounds sterling
paid to your best advertising mediums couldn't have brought in a quarter
the same amount of fame or notoriety; and then, you see, it places me on
a par with Hugo, who was exiled. That's really what I wanted, Miss
Witherup. Hugo was a poseur, however, and if he hadn't had the kick to
be born before me--"
"Ah," said I, interrupting, for I have rather liked Hugo. "And where do
you wish to go?"
"To America," he replied, dramatically. "To America. It is the only
country in the world where realism is not artificial. You are a simple,
unaffected, outspoken people, who can hate without hating, can love
without marrying, can fight without fighting. I love you."
"Sir--or rather mamma!" said I, somewhat indignantly, for as a married
man Zola had no right to make a declaration like that, even if he is a
Frenchman.
"Not you as you," he hastened to say, "but you as an American I love.
Ah, who is your best publisher, Miss Witherup?"