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

InLondon

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 written in French and in pencil:—­

’My dear confrere,—­Tell nobody in the world, and particularly no newspaper, that I am in London.  And oblige me by coming to see me to-morrow, Wednesday, at eleven o’clock, at Grosvenor Hotel.  You will ask for M. Pascal.  And above all, absolute Silence, for the most serious interests are at stake.

                                        ’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.