With Zola in England: A Story of Exile

by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

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

The points urged in favour of his departure abroad were as follows: He must do his utmost to avoid personal service of the judgment given against him by default, as the Government was anxious to cast him into prison and thus stifle his voice. If such service were effected the law would only allow him a few days in which to apply for a new trial, and as he could not make default a second time, and could not hope at that stage for fresh and decisive evidence in his favour, or for a change of tactics on the part of the judges, this would mean the absolute and irrevocable loss of his case.

On the other hand, by avoiding personal service of the judgment he would retain the right to claim a new trial at any moment he might find convenient; and thus not only could he prevent his own case from being closed against him and becoming a chose jugee, but he would contribute powerfully towards keeping the whole Dreyfus affair open, pending revelations which even then were foreseen. And, naturally, England which so freely gives asylum to all political offenders, was chosen as his proper place of exile.

The amusing story of the nightgown tucked under his arm and the bank notes sewn up in his coat is, of course, pure invention. A few toilet articles were pressed upon him, and his wife emptied her own purse into his 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. Fortunately enough he secured a first-class compartment which had no other occupant.

M. Clemenceau had previously suggested to him that on his arrival at London he might well put up at the Grosvenor Hotel, and it is quite possible 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 excellent memory, and when he reached Victoria Station at forty minutes past five o'clock on the morning of July 19, the name of the hotel where he had arranged to fix his quarters for a few days came readily enough to his lips.

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

'Grosvenor Hotel,' repeated the novelist; and then, seeing that the cabby seemed bent on further expostulation, he resolutely took his seat in the vehicle. This driver, doubtless after the fashion of certain of his Paris colleagues, must be trying to play some trick in order to avoid a long journey. It was as well, therefore, to teach him to refrain from trifling with 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 a spasmodic trot turned out of the station, and pulled up in front of the caravansary which an eminent butcher has done so much to immortalise.

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

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