It often happened that the newspaper correspondents ‘were not in it.’  Things were known to M. Zola and at times to myself hours—­and even days—­before there was any mention of them in print.  The blundering anti-Dreyfusites have often if not invariably overlooked the fact that their adversaries number men of acumen, skill, and energy.  Far from it being true that money has played any role in the affair, everything has virtually been achieved by brains and courage.  In fact, from first to last, the Revisionist agitation, whilst proving that the Truth must always ultimately conquer, has likewise shown the supremacy of true intellect over every other force in the world, whether wealth, or influence, or fanaticism.

But I must return to M. Zola.  He now knew all he wished to know.  As there had been no postponement of the Court’s decision there need be none of his return.  A telegram to Paris announcing his departure from London was hastily drafted and I hurried with it to the post-office, meeting on my way M. and Mme. Fasquelle, who were walking towards the Queen’s Hotel.

We had a right merry little dinner that evening.  We were all in the best of humours.  M. Zola’s face was radiant.  A great victory had been won; and then, too, he was going home!

He recalled the more amusing incidents of his exile; it seemed to him, said he, as if for months and months he had been living in a dream.

And M. Fasquelle broke in with a reminder that M. Zola must be very careful when he reached his house, and must in no wise damage the historic table for which he, Fasquelle, had given such a pile of money at the memorable auction in the Rue de Bruxelles.

Ah, that table!  We were in a mood to laugh about anything, and we laughed at the thought of the table; at the thought, too, of all the simple-minded folk who had imagined that they would be able to purchase ‘souvenirs’ at the auction so abruptly brought to an end.

Then the Fasquelles, having been to the Oaks on the previous day, began to talk of Epsom, and the scene, unique in the whole world, which the famous racecourse presents during Derby week.  M. Zola half regretted that he had missed going.  ‘But I will go everywhere and see everything,’ he repeated, ’the next time I come to England.  I shall then be able to do so openly, without any playing at hide and seek.  Oh, it won’t be till after the Paris Exhibition, that is certain, but I have written an oratorio for which Bruneau has composed the music, and if it is sung in London, as I hope, I shall come over and spend a month going about everywhere.  But, of course,’ he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘I have about two years’ imprisonment to do as things stand, so I must make no positive promises.’

The rest is soon told.  Final arrangements were made, and we came away, M. and Mme. Fasquelle and myself, about ten o’clock.  ’It is your last night of exile,’ I said to M. Zola as I pressed his hand, ’and it will soon be over.  You must try to sleep well.’