With Zola in England: A Story of Exile

by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

'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 proof of your bona fides before allowing you to see M. Zola.'

Then I took up the tale, now in French, now in English, for the envoy spoke both languages. Who was he? I asked. Did he claim to have received Labori's card from Labori himself? What was the document in the envelope which he would only deliver to M. Zola in person? And he replied that he was a diamond-broker. Did I know So-and-So and So-and-So of Hatton Garden? They knew him well, they did business with him; they could vouch for his honorability. But no, I was not acquainted with So-and-So and So-and-So. I never bought diamonds. Besides, it was ten o'clock on Saturday night, and the parties mentioned were certainly not at their offices for me to refer to them.

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

But what was in the envelope? That was the great question. The envoy could or would not answer it. He knew nothing certain on that point. Then we—Wareham and I—brought forward our heavy artillery. We could not allow a document to be handed to M. Zola under such mysterious conditions. We must see it. But no, the envoy had strict instructions to the contrary; he could not show it to us. In that case, we rejoined, he might take it back to Paris. He had produced no proof of any of his assertions; for all we knew he might have told us a fairy tale, and the mysterious document might simply be a copy of the much dreaded judgment of Versailles. This suggestion produced a visible impression on the little man, and for half an hour we sat arguing the point. Finally he began to compliment us: 'Oh! you guard him well!' he said. 'I shall tell them all about it when I get back to Paris. But you do wrong to distrust me; I am honourable. I am well known in Hatton Gardens. I have done business there, ten, twelve years with So-and-So and So-and-So. I speak the truth: you may believe me.'

We shrugged our shoulders. For my part, I could not shake off the bad impression which the envoy had made on me. The gleams of craft and triumph which now and again I had detected in his eyes were not to my liking. Assuredly few men are responsible for any physical repulsiveness; we cannot all be 'Belvedere' Apollos; but then the envoy was not only of the ugly, but also the cunning-looking class. Yet a more honourable man never breathed. He at once thrust one hand into the depths of a capacious inner pocket, produced the mysterious envelope, and opened it in our presence. It contained simply a long letter from Maitre Labori, accompanied by a document concerning the prosecution which had been instituted with reference to the infamous articles that Ernest Judet, of the 'Petit Journal,' had recently written, accusing Zola's father of theft and embezzlement whilst he was a wardrobe officer in the French Foreign Legion in Algeria. It was needful that Zola should see this document, and return it by messenger to Paris immediately.

The affair in question is still sub judice, and I must therefore speak of it with some reticence. But all who are interested in M. Zola's origin and career will do well to read the admirable volume written by M. Jacques Dhur, and entitled 'Le Pere d'Emile Zola,' which the Societe Libre d'Edition des Gens de Lettres (30, Rue Laffitte, Paris) published a short time ago. This will show them how strong are the presumptions that the documents cited by Judet in proof of his abominable charges are rank forgeries—similar to those of Henry and Lemercier-Picard! In this connection it afforded me much pleasure to be able to supply certain extracts from Francesco Zola's works at the British Museum, showing how subsequent to the date at which the novelist's father is alleged to have purloined State money he was received with honour by King Louis-Philippe, the Prince de Joinville, the Minister of War, and other high personages of the time—incidents which all tend to establish the falsity of the accusations by which Judet, in his venomous spite and malignity, hoped to cast opprobrium on the parentage of my dear master and friend.

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

According to our previous agreement we re-sealed the envelope, writing across it that it had been opened in the presence of Wareham and myself. And afterwards our reconciliation also was 'sealed' over a friendly glass. Nevertheless the envoy never saw M. Zola. M. Desmoulin luckily turned 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 our suspicions had been unfounded. Nevertheless the whole conversation of the last hour had left its mark on us; and, for my part, I was in much the same state of mind as in the old days of the siege of Paris, when the spy mania led to so many amusing incidents. Thus, the circumstance of finding two persons at the corner of Salisbury Square as we left it—two persons who were speaking in French and who eyed us very suspiciously—revived my alarm. They even followed us along Fleet Street towards the Ludgate Circus, and though we dodged them through the cavernous Ludgate Hill Railway Station, across sundry courts and past the stores of Messrs. Spiers and Pond, we again found them waiting for us on our return towards the embankment, determined, so it seemed, to convoy us home. We hastened our steps and they hastened theirs. We loitered, they loitered also. At last Wareham made me dive into a side street and thence into a maze of courts, and though the others seemed bent on following us, we at last managed to give them the slip.

I never saw these men again, but I have retained a strong suspicion that no mere question of coincidence could explain that seeming pursuit. I take it that the individuals had come over to England on the track of the little French envoy; for it was after he had bidden us good-night outside the 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 and strolling about Salisbury Court whilst anxiously awaiting Wareham's arrival with his promised answer. Whether these men were French police spies, whether they were simply members of some swell mob who know that the little gentleman with the huge head and the coal-black hair sometimes journeyed to London with a fortune in diamonds in his possession, must remain a mystery. As for Wareham and myself, when we had again reached Fleet Street we hailed a passing hansom and drove away to Waterloo.