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