"Well, really, Miss Witherup," said Miss Phipps-Phipps, "we don"t know where he is, but we think--it is not my thought, but that of the corporation--we think you will find him playing golf at St. Andrews."
"Thank you," said I. "But, after all," I added, "it is not what the corporation thinks so much as what you as an individual think. Where do you believe I may find Mr. Lang?"
"Among the Immortals," was the answer, spoken with enthusiasm.
And believing that the lady was right, I ceased to look for Mr. Lang, for in the presence of immortals I always feel myself to be foolish.
Nevertheless, I am very glad to have seen the Lang Company at Woking, and I now understand many things that I never understood before.
ZOLA
To visit a series of foreign celebrities at home without including emile Zola in the list would be very like refusing to listen to the lines of Hamlet in Bacon"s immortal tragedy of that name. Furthermore, to call upon the justly famous novelist presupposes a visit to Paris, which is a delightful thing, even for a lady journalist. Hence it was that on leaving Woking, after my charming little glimpse into the home life of the Lang Ma.n.u.script-Manufacturing Company, I decided to take a run across the Channel and look up the Frenchman of the hour. The diversion had about it an air of adventure which made it pleasantly exciting. For ten hours after my arrival at Paris I did not dare ask where the novelist lived, for fear that I might be arrested and sent to Devil"s Island with Captain Dreyfus, or forced to languish for a year or two at the Chateau d"If, near Ma.r.s.eilles, until the government could get a chance formally to inquire why I wished to know the abiding-place of M.
Zola. There was added to this also some apprehension that even if I escaped the gendarmes the people themselves might rise up and string me to a lamp-post as a suitable answer to so treasonable a question.
[Ill.u.s.tration: SEEKING ZOLA]
To tell the truth, I did not go about my business with my usual nerve and aplomb. Had I represented only myself, I should not have hesitated to expose myself to any or to all danger. Intrusted as I was, however, with a commission of great importance to those whom I serve at home, it was my duty to proceed cautiously and save my life. I therefore went at the matter diplomatically. For fifty centimes I induced a small flower-girl, whom I encountered in front of the Cafe de la Paix, to inquire of the head waiter of that establishment where M. Zola could be met. The tragedy that ensued was terrible. What became of the child I do not know, but when, three hours later, the troops cleared the square in front of the cafe, the dead and wounded amounted to between two hundred and fifty and three hundred, and the china, tables, and interior decorations of the cafe were strewn down the Avenue de l"Opera as far as the Rue de l"Ech.e.l.le, and along the boulevard to the Madeleine. The opera-house itself was not appreciably damaged, although I am told that pieces of steak and chops and canned pease have since been found clinging to the third-story windows of its splendid facade.
[Ill.u.s.tration: CONSULTING "LA PATRIE"]
My next effort was even more cautious. I bought a plain sheet of note-paper, and addressed it anonymously to the editor of _La Patrie_, asking for the desired information. The next morning _La Patrie_ announced that if I would send my name and address to its office the communication would be answered suitably. My caution was still great, however, and the name and address I gave were those of a blanchisseuse who ran a pretty little shop on Rue Rivoli. That night the poor woman was exiled from France, and the block in which she transacted business demolished by a mob of ten thousand.
I was about to give up, when chance favored me. The next evening, while seated in my box at the opera, the door was suddenly opened, and a heavy but rather handsome-eyed brunette of I should say fifty years of age burst in upon me.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ""SAVE ME!" SHE CRIED"]
"Mon Dieu!" she cried, as I turned. "Save me! Tell them I am your chaperon, your mother, your sister--anything--only save me! You will never regret it."
She had hardly uttered these words when a sharp rap came upon the door.
"Entrez," I cried. "Que voulez-vous, messieurs?" I added, with some asperity, as five hussars entered, their swords clanking ominously.
"Your name?" said one, who appeared to be their leader.
"Anne Warrington Witherup, if you refer to me," said I, drawing myself up proudly. "If you refer to this lady," I added, "she is Mrs. Watkins Wilbur Witherup, my--ah--my step-mother. We are Americans, and I am a lady journalist."
Fortunately my remarks were made in French, and my French was of a kind which was convincing proof that I came from Westchester County.
A great change came over the intruders.
"Pardon, mademoiselle," said the leader, with an apologetic bow to myself. "We have made the grand _faux pas_. We have entered the wrong box."
"And may I know the cause of your unwarranted intrusion," I demanded, "without referring the question to the State Department at home?"
"We sought--we sought an enemy to France, mademoiselle," said they. "We thought he entered here."
"I harbor only the friends of France," said I.
"Vive la Witherup!" cried the hussars, taking the observation as a compliment, and then chucking me under the chin and again apologizing, with a sweeping bow to my newly acquired step-mother, they withdrew.
"Well, mamma," said I, turning to the lady at my side, "perhaps you can shed some light on this mystery. Who are you?"
"Softly, if you value your life," came the answer. "_Zola, c"est moi!_"
"Mon Doo!" said I. "Vous? Bien, bien, bien!"
"Speak in English," he whispered. "Then I can understand."
"Oh, I only said well, well, well," I explained. "And you have adopted this disguise?"
"Because I have resolved to live long enough to get into the Academy,"
he explained. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your timely aid. If they had caught me they would have thrown me down into the midst of the claque."
"Come," said I, rising and taking him by the hand. "I have come to Paris to see you at home. It was my only purpose. I will escort you thither."
"Non, non!" he cried. "Never again. I am much more at home here, my dear lady, much more. Pray sit down. Why, when I left home by a subterranean pa.s.sage, perhaps you are not aware, over a thousand members of the National Guard were singing the "Ma.r.s.eillaise" on the front piazza.
Three thousand were dancing that shocking dance, the cancan, in my back yard, and four regiments of volunteers were looking for something to eat in the kitchen, a.s.sisted by one hundred and fifty petroleuses to do their cooking. All my bedroom furniture was thrown out of the second-story windows, and the ma.n.u.scripts of my new novel were being cut up into souvenirs."
"Poor old mamma!" said I, taking him by the hand. "You can always find comfort in the thought that you have done a n.o.ble action."
"It was a pretty good scheme," replied Zola. "A million pounds sterling paid to your best advertising mediums couldn"t have brought in a quarter the same amount of fame or notoriety; and then, you see, it places me on a par with Hugo, who was exiled. That"s really what I wanted, Miss Witherup. Hugo was a poseur, however, and if he hadn"t had the kick to be born before me--"
"Ah," said I, interrupting, for I have rather liked Hugo. "And where do you wish to go?"
"To America," he replied, dramatically. "To America. It is the only country in the world where realism is not artificial. You are a simple, unaffected, outspoken people, who can hate without hating, can love without marrying, can fight without fighting. I love you."
"Sir--or rather mamma!" said I, somewhat indignantly, for as a married man Zola had no right to make a declaration like that, even if he is a Frenchman.
"Not you as you," he hastened to say, "but you as an American I love.
Ah, who is your best publisher, Miss Witherup?"
I shall not tell you what I told Zola, but they may get his next book.
"M. Zola," said I, placing great emphasis on the M, "tell me, what interested you in Dreyfus--humanity--or literature?"
"Both," he replied; "they are the same. Literature that is not humanity is not literature. Humanity that does not provide literary people with opportunity is not broad humanity, but special and selfish, and therefore is not humanity at all."
"Did Dreyfus write to you?" I asked.
"No," said he. "Nor I to him. I have no time to write letters."
"Then how did it all come about?" I demanded.
"He was attracting too much attention!" cried the novelist, pa.s.sionately. "He was living tragedy while I was only writing it. People said his story was greater than any I, emile--"
"Witherup!" said I, anxiously, for it seemed to me that the people in the next box were listening.