With Zola in England | Page 6

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.
Such, then, was the way in which M. Zola travelled across London,
obligingly passed on from policeman to policeman, and carrying a slip
of paper--a 'way-bill,' as it were--in his hand! As the above account was
given to me by himself, it will probably be deemed more worthy of
credit than the amusing romance which was so successfully palmed off
on M. de Blowitz of the 'Times.'
Of his journey from Paris that night, he reclining alone in his
compartment as the Calais express rushed across the plains of Picardy
under a star-lit sky; of his embarking on board the little Channel boat

amidst the glimmer of lanterns, his transference to a fresh train at
Dover, followed by another and even faster rush on to London; of his
gloomy thoughts at this sudden severance from one and all, at speeding
in this lonely