"M. Zola," said I, placing great emphasis on the M, "tell me, what
interested you in Dreyfus--humanity--or literature?"
"Both," he replied; "they are the same. Literature that is not humanity
is not literature. Humanity that does not provide literary people with
opportunity is not broad humanity, but special and selfish, and
therefore is not humanity at all."
"Did Dreyfus write to you?" I asked.
"No," said he. "Nor I to him. I have no time to write letters."
"Then how did it all come about?" I demanded.
"He was attracting too much attention!" cried the novelist,
passionately. "He was living tragedy while I was only writing it. People
said his story was greater than any I, Emile--"
"Witherup!" said I, anxiously, for it seemed to me that the people in
the next box were listening.
"Merci!" said he. "Yes, I, Mrs. Watkins Wilbur Witherup, of Westchester
City, U. S. A., was told that this man's story was greater and deeper in
its tragic significance than any I could conceive. Wherefore I wrote to
the War Department and accused it of concealing the truth from France in
the mere interests of policy, of diplomacy. _I_ made them tremble. _I_
made the army shiver. _I_ have struck a blow at the republic from which
it will not soon recover. And to-day Dreyfus pales beside the
significance of Zola. I believe in free institutions, but Heaven help a
free institution when it clashes with a paying corporation like
Emile--"
"Witherup! Do be cautious," I put in again. "Yet, sir," I added, "they
have quashed your sentence, and you need not go to jail."
"No," said he, gloomily. "I need not. Why? Because jail is safer than
home. That is why they did it. They dare not exile me. They hope by
quashing me to be rid of me. But they will see. I will force them to
imprison me yet."
"If you are so anxious to visit America, why don't you?" I suggested.
"There is no duty on the kind of thing we do not wish to manufacture
ourselves."
"Ah," said he; "if I was exiled, they would send me. If I go as a
private citizen, well, I pay my own way."
"Oh," said I. "I see."
And then, as the opera was over, we departed. Zola saw me to my
carriage, and just as I entered it he said: "Excuse me, Miss Witherup,
but what paper do you write for?"