During the latter part of his stay at Norwood, when the door between his bedroom and sitting-room remained open, one could see on a chest of drawers in the former apartment a pair of life-size porcelain cats, coloured a purplish maroon, with sparkling yellow gla.s.s eyes, and an abundance of fantastic yellow spots. These cats had been bought by him as a souvenir of England and English art, for he was much struck by their oddity. He had been offered others--for instance, white ones with little coloured landscapes printed all over their backs and sides--surely as idiotic an embellishment as any insane potter could devise--but although these had sorely tempted him he had finally decided in favour of the maroon and yellow abominations.

A little girl of mine, who found herself face to face with these cats one day in his room, was quite startled by them, and has since expressed the opinion that Sir John Tenniel ought to have seen them before he drew the Cheshire cat for 'Alice in Wonderland.' For my own part I can imagine the laughter and the jeers of M. Zola's artistic friends when those choice specimens of British art are shown to them in Paris.

At intervals during his long sojourn at the Queen's Hotel M. Zola received a few brief visits from French friends, chiefly literary men and politicians, whose names need not be mentioned, but who have identified themselves with the cause of Revision. At times these gentlemen found themselves in London on other matters, and profited by the opportunity to run down to Norwood. On other occasions they made the journey from France for the especial purpose of quieting M. Zola's impatience, and telling him that he must not yet think of returning home. Again, M. Fasquelle, the French publisher, came over four or five times, now on business and now in a friendly way.

I think that during the seven or eight months that M. Zola stayed at the Queen's Hotel, he received altogether some ten visits from compatriots, which visits were often of only an hour or two's duration. Thus, Mme.

Zola having returned to France, he was frequently very much alone.

During the last months of his exile my wife fell seriously ill, and I could not then go so often to Norwood. Afterwards ague caught me in its grip, and my visits ceased for two or three successive weeks. All I could do in an emergency was to place my eldest daughter or my son at M. Zola's disposal.

The foreign visitors he received--by foreign I mean non-French--were (apart from the Warehams, myself and family) very few in number. I think that an eminent Russian _publiciste_ who happened to be a personal friend (M. Zola has long been popular in Russia, where even the Emperor has read many of his books) saw him on one occasion. Then, when M. Yves Guyot called, he brought with him an English friend who was pledged to secrecy.

A well-known English novelist and art critic, M. Zola's oldest English friend, and his earliest champion in this country, likewise saw him.

Further, in a friendly capacity he received an English journalist for whom he has much regard, and who came to see him quite apart from any journalistic matters. To this list I will add the names of Mr. Andrew Chatto and Mr. Percy Spalding of Messrs. Chatto and Windus, and Mr.

George P. Brett, of the Macmillan Company of New York.

Such, then, were M. Zola's visitors and guests--say, apart from the Warehams, myself and family, less than a score of persons, the total duration of whose visits added together amounted perhaps to a hundred and twenty hours spread over many long and trying months.

At times when we chatted together, M. Zola and myself, and mention was made of his friends--of persons occasionally whom we both knew--he referred to the many estrangements caused by the divergence of views on the Dreyfus affair. Friends of twenty and thirty years' standing, men who had laboured sided by side often in pursuit of the same ideal, had not only quarrelled and parted but had a.s.sailed each other with the greatest virulence in the Press and at public meetings.

Many whom he himself had regarded as close and sincere friends had trodden upon all the past and attacked him abominably, as though he were the veriest sc.u.m of the earth. Some in the earlier stages of the affair had hypocritically feigned sympathy, in order to provoke his confidence, and had then turned round to hold him up to execration and ridicule. One or two had behaved so badly that he had refused ever to receive them at his house again.

He spoke to me of an eminent French _litterateur_ who at the outset of the agitation on behalf of Dreyfus had immediately promised his help, and had even prepared articles and appeals on behalf of the prisoner of Devil's Island. But this _litterateur_ had of recent years been lapsing into mysticism, and at the behests of the reverend father his confessor, he had abruptly destroyed what he had written, and gone over to the other side to wage desperate warfare upon the cause he had promised to help.

The writer in question (one who will probably leave a name in French literature) was tortured by the everlasting fear that he might go to h.e.l.l when he died, and he was the more timorous, the more easily influenced by certain persons, as he suffered from a horrible, incurable complaint, and feared that his medical man--a bigoted Romanist--might abandon him to all the pangs of sudden death if he did not comply with the injunctions of the Church.

Then there was a friend of many years' standing, a Minister in successive Cabinets, who feigned that by remaining in office he would be able to favour the cause, and who, instead of that, did his utmost against it. A playwright wrote: 'I am heartily with you, but for G.o.d's sake don't say it, for my plays might be hissed.'* Another prominent man started on a long journey to avoid having to express any opinion. Nearly all the baser pa.s.sions of humanity were made manifest in some degree--treachery, rancour, jealousy, and moral and physical cowardice.

* Apropos of the stage, it is a curious circ.u.mstance that nine-tenths of 'the profession' in France are ardent Dreyfusards.

Nearly every actor and actress and vocalist of note has been on the same side as M. Zola from the outset.

But, of course, there was another and a brighter side to the picture.

There were men of high intellect and courage who had not hesitated to state their views and plead for truth and justice, men who, when in office, had been arbitrarily suspended and removed. There were many who had risked their futures, many too who, after years of labour, were well ent.i.tled to rest and retirement, yet had come forward with all the ardour of youth to do battle for great principles and save their country from the shame of a cruel crime.

Adversity makes one acquainted with strange bedfellows, and M. Zola was more than once struck by the heterogeneous nature of the Revisionist army. He found men of such varied political and social views banded together for the cause. It all helped to remove sundry old-time prejudices of his.

For instance, he said to me one day: 'I never cared much for the French Protestants; I regarded them as people of narrow minds, fanatics of a kind, far less tolerant and human than the great ma.s.s of the Catholics.

But they have behaved splendidly in this battle of ours, and shown themselves to be real men.'

All through the spring M. Zola eagerly followed the inquiry which the Cour de Ca.s.sation was conducting, and when M. Ballot-Beaupre was appointed reporter to the Court, there came a fresh spell of anxiety. M.

Ballot-Beaupre is a man of natural piety, and the anti-Revisionist newspapers, basing themselves on his religious views, at first made certain that he would show no mercy to the Jew Dreyfus, but would report strongly in favour of the prisoner's guilt. Certain Dreyfusite journals, on the other hand, bitterly attacked the learned judge for his supposed clerical leanings; and indeed so much was insinuated that M. Zola for a short time half believed it possible that M. Ballot-Beaupre might show himself hostile to revision.

When I saw M. Zola he repeatedly expressed to me his feelings of disquietude. Then everything suddenly changed. Certain newspapers discovered that M. Ballot-Beaupre, if pious, was by no means a fanatic, and, further, that he was a very sound lawyer, much respected by his colleagues. This cleared the atmosphere, for it seemed impossible that any man of rect.i.tude and judgment could pa.s.s over the d.a.m.ning revelations which the Cour de Ca.s.sation's inquiry, as published in 'Le Figaro,' had produced.

Time went on, and at last the issue, so frequently postponed, so longingly awaited, came in sight. The week before the public proceedings of the Cour de Ca.s.sation opened M. Zola said to me: 'I shall have finished the last chapter of "Fecondite" by Sat.u.r.day or Sunday, so I shall have my hands quite free and be able to give all my attention to what takes place at the Courts. I am hopeful, yes, very hopeful, and yet at moments some horrid doubt will spring up to torture me. But no! you'll see, our cause will gain the day, revision will be granted, and justice will be done.'

And at last came the fateful week which was to prove the accuracy of his surmises.

XV

LAST DAYS--DEPARTURE

I spent the afternoon of Sat.u.r.day, May 27, with M. Zola, and we then spoke of the proceedings impending before the Cour de Ca.s.sation. All our information pointed to the conclusion that the Court would give judgment on the Sat.u.r.day following, and it was decided that M. Zola should return to France a few days afterwards. The date ultimately agreed upon was Tuesday, June 6, and the train selected was that leaving Charing Cross for Folkestone at 2.45 in the afternoon.

Though according to every probability the Court's judgment would be in favour of revision, M. Zola was resolved to return home whatever might be the issue, and such were his feelings on the matter that nothing any friend might have urged would have prevented him from doing so. As a matter of fact one friend did regard the return as somewhat unwise, and intimated it both by telegram and letter. This compelled me to see M.

Zola again on the following Tuesday (May 30), but the objections were overruled by him, and the arrangements which had been planned were adhered to.

M. Zola had now drafted the declaration which he proposed issuing on the morrow of his return home, and this he gave me to read. It was the article 'Justice,' published in 'L'Aurore,' to which I have occasionally referred in the course of the present narrative.

I left M. Zola rather late that Tuesday night in the expectation that everything which had been arranged would follow in due course. As the writing of 'Fecondite' was now finished he had time on his hands, and a part of this he proposed to devote to taking a few final snapshots of Norwood, the Crystal Palace, and surrounding scenery. He needed something to do, for he could not sit hour by hour in his room at the Queen's Hotel anxiously waiting for news of the proceedings at the Paris Palais de Justice.

For my part I had begun to prepare the present narrative, and as he would not listen to my repeated offers to take him to the Derby, it was arranged that I should not see him again until the end of the week. On Friday, however, reports were already in circulation to the effect that M. Fasquelle (M. Zola's French publisher) had come to London for the purpose of escorting him home.

This was true, and I foresaw that the rumours might lead to some modifications of our programme; for M. Zola did not wish his return to have any public character. He had forbidden all the demonstrations which his friends in Paris were anxious to arrange in his honour, declaring that he desired to go back quietly and privately, and then at once place himself at the disposal of the public prosecutor.

On Friday I sent my daughter Violette to Norwood with a parcel of M.

Zola's photographs, received by Messrs. Chatto and Windus from Miss Loie Fuller, who being greatly interested in the Clarence Ward of St. Mary's Hospital, particularly wished M. Zola to sign these portraits in order that they might be sold at a bazaar which was to be held for the benefit of the hospital referred to. I told my daughter that I should myself go down to the Queen's Hotel on the morrow, and she brought me back a message to the effect that I really must go, as complications had arisen, and M. Zola particularly desired to see me.

On the following day, Sat.u.r.day, I therefore betook myself to Norwood with a parcel of M. Zola's books, which I had received from Messrs. Macmillan & Co. on behalf of the Countess of Bective, who (prompted by the same spirit as Miss Loie Fuller) wished to sell these volumes at the 'Bookland' stall on the occasion of the Charing Cross Hospital Bazaar.

And when I arrived I found indeed that it was most desirable that the programme of M. Zola's departure should be modified.

He had already seen M. and Mme. Fasquelle, the former of whom was much annoyed at the reports of his presence in London, and thought it most advisable to precipitate the departure. Delay might, indeed, be harmful if it was desired to avoid demonstrations. Besides, why should he wait until the ensuing Tuesday? Why not return the very next night--that of Sunday, June 4--by the Dover and Calais route? Mme. Fasquelle had declared that she in no way objected to travelling at night time; and so far as the departure from London was concerned, there would be few people about on a Sunday evening, which was another point to be considered. I cordially a.s.sented, for now that the imminence of M. Zola's return to Paris had been reported in the newspapers it was certain that delay meant a possibility of demonstrations both for and against him. In spite of his prohibition, many of his friends still wished to greet him like a conquering hero on his arrival at the Northern Railway Station in Paris.

And the other side would unfailingly send out its recruiting agents to a.s.semble a contingent of loafers at two francs per demonstration, who would be duly instructed to yell 'Conspuez,' and 'A bas les juifs.' Then a brawl would inevitably follow.

Now M. Zola (as I have already mentioned) did not wish for a homecoming of that kind. There was no question of refusing to 'face the music,' of shunning a hostile crowd, and so forth. It was purely and simply a matter of dignity and of doing nothing that might lead to a disturbance of the public peace. The triumph of justice was undoubtedly imminent, and it must not be followed by disorder.

When I had expressed my concurrence in the views held by M. Zola and M.

Fasquelle, M. Zola and I attended to business. First came the question of Lady Bective's books, in each of which a suitable inscription was inserted. Afterwards, in a friend's birthday book M. Zola inscribed his famous, epoch-making phrase, 'Truth is on the march, and nothing will be able to stop it.' Finally, a few brief notes were written and posted, and work was over.

For a little while we chatted together. Some notable incidents connected with the interminable Affair had occurred during the last few days.

Colonel du Paty de Clam, for whose arrest the Revisionist journals had clamoured so long and so pertinaciously, had at last been cast into prison. In M. Zola's estimation, the Colonel's arrest had been merely a question of time ever since the day when one had learnt that he had disguised himself with a false beard and blue gla.s.ses when he went to meet the notorious Esterhazy.

'A man may be guilty of any misdeed and may yet find forgiveness and even favour,' M. Zola had then said to me, 'but he must not make himself, his profession, and his cause ridiculous. In France, as you know, "ridicule kills." The false beard and the blue spectacles, following the veiled lady, are decisive. One need scarcely trouble any further about M. du Paty de Clam. His fate is as good as sealed.'

And now that the Colonel had at last been arrested, the master remarked, 'The military party is throwing him over to us as a kind of sop; it would be delighted to make him the general scapegoat, and thereby save all the other culprits. But it won't do. There are men higher placed than Du Paty who must bear their share of censure and, if need be, punishment.'

Then we spoke of Esterhazy, 'that fine type for a melodrama or a novel of the romantic school,' as M. Zola often remarked. The Commandant had just acknowledged to the 'Times' and the 'Daily Chronicle' that the famous _bordereau_ had been penned by him, and we laughed at the remembrance of his squabbles on this subject with the proprietress of another newspaper.

How indignantly he had then denied having ever acknowledged the authorship of the _bordereau_, and how complacently he now admitted it!

As for the circ.u.mstances under which he a.s.serted the doc.u.ment to have been written, M. Zola could make nothing of them. 'So far, the explanations explain nothing,' said he; 'take them whichever way you will, there is no sense, no plausibility even, in them. Hitherto I always thought Esterhazy a very shrewd and clever man, but after reading his statements in the "Times" and the "Chronicle" I no longer know what to think. Still, one point is gained; he admits having written the _bordereau_, and others hereafter will tell us the exact circ.u.mstances under which he did so. Colonel Sandherr, at whose bidding he says he wrote it, is dead; but others who know a great deal about him are still alive.'

While M. Zola thus expressed himself, we sat face to face, he in his favourite arm chair on one side of the fireplace, and I on the other, in the familiar room, with its three windows overlooking the lively road, while all around curvetted the scrolls and arabesques of the light fawn-tinted wall paper. And after chatting about Du Paty and Esterhazy we gradually lapsed into silence. It was a fateful hour. There were ninety-nine probabilities out of a hundred that the decision of the Cour de Ca.s.sation would be given that same afternoon; and whatever that decision might be we felt certain that before it was made public by any newspaper in London we should be apprised of it. We knew that five minutes after judgment should have been p.r.o.nounced a telegram would be speeding through the wires to the Queen's Hotel, Norwood.

M. Zola did not tell me his thoughts, yet I could guess them. We can generally guess the thoughts of those we love. But the hours went by and nothing came. How long they were, those judges! Whatever could be the cause of their delay? Surely--trained, practised men that they were, men who had spent their lives in seeking and proclaiming the truth--surely no element of doubt could have penetrated their minds at the final, the supreme moment.

Ah! the waiter entered, and there on his salver lay a buff envelope, within which must surely be the ardently awaited message that would tell us of victory or defeat. M. Zola could scarcely tear that envelope open; his hands trembled violently. And then came an anti-climax. The wire was from M. Fasquelle, who announced that he and his wife were inviting themselves to dinner at Norwood that evening.