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.’