rn 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.'

'Sleep!' he replied. 'Oh, there is no sleep for me to-night. From this
moment I shall be counting the hours, the very minutes.'

'It will make a change for you, Vizetelly,' said M. Fasquelle, as he,
Mme. Fasquell