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.