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.

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 fashion into exile, and returning surreptitiously, as it were, to the city where but a few years previously he had been received as one of the kings of literature, he will ever retain a keen impression.

It was at Victoria that his journey ended, even as it had ended in 1893; but how changed the scene! He finds the station gaunt and well-nigh deserted; the few passengers are gliding away like phantoms into the morning air; the porters loiter around, and the Customs officers discharge their duties in a perfunctory, sleepy way. No crowd of Pressmen and sightseers is present; there are no delegates and address, and flowers, and cheers as of yore. Only cabby, who expostulates, and who doubtless thinks this Frenchman a bit of a crank to insist upon being driven just around the corner!

And at the hotel no army of servants appears to marshal the master to the best suite of rooms on the principal floor. In lieu thereof comes a doubtful greeting and a demand for a deposit of money, for fear lest he should be some vulgar bilker. Then, once he is in the lift, he goes up and up without stopping, until the very topmost floor is reached. And afterwards he is marched along interminable passages, with walls painted a crude, hideous shade of blue, so offensive to all artistic instinct as verily to make one's gorge rise. Then at last he finds himself in a room which, high as it is situated, is of lowly, common aspect. Yet he is only too glad to reach it, and throw himself on the bed to rest awhile, and to think.

New experiences are awaiting him. He is far away from the mob that pelted his windows with stones and yelled 'Conspuez! Conspuez!' whenever he left his house. Here there is no hostility. Here quietude prevails, save for the shrill whistles of arriving or departing trains. Yet he is also far from the great majority of his affections and friendships. But at this remembrance a fresh thought comes to him; he takes one of his visiting cards from his pocket-book, pencils a few lines on it, and encloses it in an envelope ready to be posted. Then he again lies down; tired as he is, after his exciting day at Versailles and his wearisome night journey, he soon falls soundly asleep.

II

IN LONDON

On Tuesday, July 19, I went to London on business, and did not return to my home in the south-western suburbs until nearly seven o'clock in the evening. My wife immediately placed in my hands an envelope addressed to me in the handwriting of M. Zola. At first, having noticed neither the stamp nor the postmark, I imagined that the communication had come from Paris.

On opening the envelope, however, I found that it contained a card on which was