The Duchess of York’s cemetery reminded him of his own.  Below his house at Medan a green islet rises from the Seine.  This he purchased some years ago, and there all his favourites have since been buried:  an old horse, a goat, and several dogs.  During his exile a fresh interment took place in this island cemetery, that of his last canine favourite, the poor ‘Chevalier de Perlinpinpin,’ who, after vainly fretting for his absent master, died at last of sheer grief and loneliness.  Those only can understand Emile Zola who have seen him as I saw him then, bowed down with sorrow, distraught, indifferent to all else, both the weightiest personal interests and the very triumph of the cause he had championed; and this because his pet dog had pined away for him, and was beyond all possibility of succour.  It was of course a passing weakness with him; such weakness as may fall upon a man of kindly heart.  In Zola’s case it came, however, almost like a last blow amidst the sorrow and loneliness of the exile which he was enduring in silence for the sake of his much-loved country.

VI

STILL AT OATLANDS

For a time, at all events, Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin found themselves in fairly pleasant quarters; they could stroll about the gardens at Oatlands or along the umbrageous roads of Walton, or beside the pretty reaches of the Thames, amidst all desirable quietude.  After all his worries the master needed complete mental rest, and he laughed at his friend’s repeated appeals for newspapers.

At that period I procured a few French journals every time I went to town and posted them to Oatlands, where they were eagerly conned by M. Desmoulin, on whom the Dreyfus fever was as strong as ever.  But M. Zola during the first fortnight of his exile did not once cast eyes upon a newspaper, and the only information he obtained respecting passing events was such as Desmoulin or myself imparted to him.  And in this he evinced little interest.  Half of it, he said, was absolutely untrue, and the other half was of no importance.  There is certainly much force and truth in this curtly-worded opinion as applied to the contents of certain Paris journals.

However, communications were now being opened up between the master and his Paris friends, and every few days Wareham or myself had occasion to go to Oatlands.  There were sundry false alarms, too, through strangers calling at Wareham’s office, and now and again my sudden appearance at the hotel threw Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin into anxiety.  In other respects their life was quiet enough.  The people staying at Oatlands were, on the whole, a much less inquisitive class than those whom one had found at the Grosvenor.  There were various honeymoon-making couples, who were far too busy feasting their eyes on one another to pay much attention to two French artists.  Then, also, the family people gave time to the superintendence of their sons and daughters; whilst the old folks only seemed to care for a leisurely stroll about the grounds, followed by long spells of book or newspaper reading, under the shelter of tree or sunshade.