'Cordially,
'EMILE ZOLA.'
I was for a moment amazed and also somewhat affected by this message, the first addressed by M. Zola to anybody after his departure from France. Since the publication of his novel 'Paris,' which had followed his first trial, I had not seen him, and we had exchanged but few letters. I had written to express my sympathy over the outcome of the proceedings at Versailles, but owing to his sudden flitting my note had failed to reach him. And now here he was in London—in exile, as, curiously enough, I myself had foretold as probable some time before in a letter to one of the newspapers.
My first impulse was to hurry to the Grosvenor immediately, but I reflected that I might not find him there, and that even if I did I might inconvenience him, as he had appointed the following day for my call. So I contented myself with telegraphing as follows: 'Pascal, Grosvenor Hotel.—Rely on me, tomorrow, eleven o'clock.' And, as a precautionary measure, I signed the telegram merely with my Christian name.
As I afterwards learnt, M. Zola had spent that day companionless, walking about the Mall and St. James's Park, and purchasing a shirt, a collar, and a pair of socks at a shop in or near Buckingham Palace Road, where, knowing no English, he explained his requirements by pantomime. He had further studied several street scenes, and had given some time to wondering what purpose might be served by a certain ugly elongated building, overlooking a drive and a park. There was a sentry at the gate, but the place had such a gaunt, clumsy, and mournful aspect, that M. Zola could not possibly picture it as the London palace of her most Gracious Majesty the Queen.
However, evening found him once more in his room at the Grosvenor; and feeling tired and feverish he lay down and dozed. When he awoke between nine and ten o'clock he perceived a buff envelope on the carpet near by him. It had been thrust under the door during his sleep, and its presence greatly astonished him, for he expected neither letter nor telegram. For a moment, as he has told me, he imagined this to be some trap; wondered if he had been watched and followed to London, and almost made up his mind to leave the hotel that night. But when, after a little hesitation, he had opened the envelope and read my telegram, he realised how groundless had been his alarm.
On the morrow, when I reached the Grosvenor and inquired at the office there for M. Pascal, I was asked my name, on giving which I received a note from M. Zola saying that he unexpectedly found himself obliged to go out, but would return at 2.30 P.M. As I stood reading this note, I espied a couple of individuals scrutinising me in what I deemed a most suspicious manner. Both were Frenchmen evidently; they wore billycock hats and carried stout sticks; and one of them, swarthy and almost brigandish of aspect, had the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole. It was easy to take these individuals for French detectives, and I hastily jumped to the conclusion that they were on 'M. Pascal's' track.
To make matters even more suspicious, when, after placing Zola's note in my pocket, I began to cross the vestibule, the others deliberately followed me, and in all likelihood I should have fled never to return if a well-known figure in a white billycock and grey suit had not suddenly advanced towards us from the direction of the staircase. In another moment I had exchanged greetings with M. Zola, and my suspicious scrutinisers had been introduced to me as friends. One of them was none other than M. Fernand Desmoulin. They had arrived from Paris that morning, and were about to sally forth with M. Zola in search of Mr. Fletcher Moulton, Q.C., to whom they had brought a letter of introduction from Maitre Labori.
Hence the note which M. Zola had already deposited for me at the hotel office. Had I been a moment later I should have found them gone.
My arrival led to a change in the programme. It was resolved to begin matters with lunch at the hotel itself, to postpone the quest for Mr. Fletcher Moulton until the afternoon. I made, at the time, a note of our menu. The 'bitter bread of exile' consisted on this occasion of an omelet, fried soles, fillet of beef, and potatoes. To wash down this anchoretic fare M. Desmoulin and myself ordered Sauterne and Apollinaris; but the contents of the water bottle sufficed for M. Zola and the other gentleman.
With waiters moving to and fro, nearly always within hearing, there was little conversation at table, but we afterwards chatted in all freedom in M. Zola's room just under the roof. Ah! that room. I have already referred to the dingy aspect which it presented. Around Grosvenor Hotel, encompassing its roof, runs a huge ornamental cornice, behind which are the windows of rooms assigned, I suppose, to luggageless visitors. From the rooms themselves there is nothing to be seen unless you throw back your head, when a tiny patch of sky above the top line of the cornice becomes visible. You are, as it were, in a gloomy well. The back of the cornice, with its plaster stained and cracked, confronts your eyes; and with a little imagination you can easily fancy yourself in a dungeon looking into some castle moat.