Zola’s passion for truth and justice surmounted the opposition’s aggressive attempts, and he swore to us that day by the Seine, “I will continue to write, to speak, to show up, in the name of what is right.”
If only he knew the cost of his tenacity.
The fate of animals is of greater importance to me than the fear of appearing ridiculous; it is indissolubly connected with the fate of men.
Émile Zola
Chapter Nineteen
Located in the Palais de Justice building in Paris, the Court of Cessation is one of France’s courts of last resort, having jurisdiction over review in determining miscarriages of justice. As the court of final appeal for civil and criminal cases, its main purpose is to evaluate the lower court rulings for legal or procedural errors. The appellant must obtain the court’s permission before an appeal can be deliberated. It may support or set aside lower court rulings. New evidence to the case being submitted is not admissible. Published judgments are quite brief, including a statement of the case and a summary of the ruling. Labori explained all of this to Zola and me.
Filed by Labori, and Perrenx’s attorneys, the appeal was accepted and put on the calendar for the Court of Cessation for April 2, 1898. That day dragged on as Zola tried to busy himself answering mail and tending to backlogged communications. A handful of friends, including myself, were at his side. Waiting for the panel of five judges to meet and render their decision was extremely trying on the nerves. A loud noise outside distracted us. Through the window I could see a police officer pounding his baton against the step’s railing and, in an aggressive manner, telling a crowd forming to “Go home.” When a young man, no older than in his early twenties, refused to obey and stepped toward him with a gun, the officer pounded it out of his hand with his stick.
The boy yelled, “Jew-lover deserves to rot in hell,” as he rubbed his sore arm and left. When the officer reached for his gun, the rest of the crowd dispersed.
Acid rose to my throat when I heard a carriage approach the front of the house. Soon there was a knock on the door. Smiling, Labori entered waving a piece of paper, proclaiming, “Good news.” He went to where Zola was standing, looked him square in the eyes, and told him, “They squashed the conviction.”
“On what grounds?” asked Zola.
“The proceedings should have been initiated not by the Minister of War but by the court-martial that the libel was aimed at.”
“Now what?” asked Zola.
“We wait to see if they will file another suit.”
“And so the attrition continues.” I regretted opening my mouth the minute I said it.
“Euphemistically speaking, yes,” said Labori. “As long as it’s conducted in court and we can fend off outside attackers and keep you safe,” he said looking at Zola, “we can sustain and endure.”
I admired his attitude and perseverance.
On April 11, 1898 Zola received a new citation that summoned him before the Versailles Assizes. The blow to the case was that only three lines of the famous letter, J’Accuse, were now incriminated, which narrowed the scope to make it easier for the Attorney General to try and convict his case, and make it stick this time. The trial was fixed for May 23.
On that day, crowds flocked to Versailles and the circus of irrational persecution deafened our ears. Labori, in a smart move, impeached the jurisdiction of the court on the grounds that Zola’s offence had been committed in a newspaper printed and published in Paris. Hoping to ward off the enemy, he wanted to bring it back to where the majority of Zola supporters lived. To the surprise of none of us, a decision was given against him, and, once again Labori appealed to the Court of Cessation.
After a further delay and denial to change the venue, Labori stood before the Court at Versailles and raised a new demurrer. He claimed that a court-martial was not a civil person holding property and it could not sue. As with the first trial, the combative judge disallowed it.
“Then, your honor,” Labori approached the bench, “I submit an application for leave to prove the whole of Zola’s J’Accuse be accepted instead of just three lines.” The reduction in size of the document the court had accepted made it near impossible for Zola to win. Without more included, not only would Zola be found guilty but nothing would be entered into the record to help exonerate Dreyfus, the main reason Zola wrote J’Accuse in the first place. “Your honor…”
The boisterousness in the court prevented Labori from continuing.
A pound of the gavel and “Denied!” declared the judge.
“Then,” a frustrated Labori waved the transcript from the first trial, “I request that the eighteen lines allowed from the first trial be included.”
The judge once more pounded his gavel to mute the commotion in the room and stated, “Quiet, or I will clear the courtroom.” We held our breath for this pivotal answer and what came, not just from the judge’s lips but from his entire countenance, was the same malice we had seen and heard on the streets as we rode in the protected carriage. We had been subjected to the vileness in the screams outside Zola’s home before the police removed the protestors, but here in the sanctuary of the halls of justice it tightened my muscles and sickened me, the likes of which I had not felt before. “Denied,” said the judge smiling the smirk of an executioner. My heart sank to the floor.
The proceedings had turned into a funeral. Three lines, a death to Zola’s case, was the demise of what he had hoped for by writing J’Accuse. Appealing to the conscience of decent men fell on deaf ears in the court, while the opposition to rectifying a grievous wrong crushed the voices of support for justice. This was tyrannical law!
My fiery protest is simply the cry of my very soul.
Émile Zola
Chapter Twenty
It was six in the evening. The courtroom, the whole court building, and the adjoining streets were filled to capacity with people, including the anti-Semites and many army officers. They were waiting to repeat the yells of triumph bellowed at the first verdict against Zola in the Palais de Justice. Then, he had been sentenced to the maximum penalty of a year’s imprisonment and a fine of three-thousand francs. Then, the corridors in the halls of justice sang out, “Death to the dirty Jews!” followed by fights that over a thousand police could hardly contain.
It was then that all bets were off and the ugliness knew no limits. Forged documents were given to the press to print that, while in the French Foreign Legion, Zola’s father was a thief. It was a shock to Zola and those who knew François. Designed to discredit Zola’s attempts on behalf of Dreyfus, defaming propaganda continued relentlessly. That was in May. Restless, mischievous minds were stirred up to a heightened intensity by having to wait now until July 18.
All attempts by Labori had failed, and when there was nothing to do but pursue the defense of the three lines of J’Accuse, he asked for a recess. The roar from the crowd muffled the sounds coming from the judge’s mouth. Cold-blooded vengeance in their calloused hearts rang out as the defense attorneys whisked Zola and Perrenx away. I didn’t make it to Zola’s carriage in time to get past the commotion of the wild mob and the cavalry sweeping down on them that had allowed them to escape.
Starting to walk and gain a good distance, I tried to comprehend what had just happened. Heaviness like quicksand pulled at me and I sank into a morass of grief. I walked in the slow motion of disbelief and for the first time since I was a baby, I cried like one. Zola had been taken away, just like when my parents were stripped from my life. I didn’t know where he’d be driven to or when I would see him again. But I knew from our conversations that were Labori to dead end as he had, he would walk out of the court with Zola and allow the judgment to go to default. When they failed to return to court the next morning, Zola would be a convicted criminal. Perrenx’s attorneys would do the same.
Overactive thoughts poured forth as vacillating emotions arose from courtroom scenes turning in my head. When the trial had begun, Zola was no orator as he read his declar
ation with a trembling voice. But as it came to a close, he had gained composure and the courage to bear pain and danger. Where had his strength come from, when the crowd taunted, “Proof! Proof!”—which was ridiculous since the judge and military witnesses withheld proof. Knowing how difficult it was for him to speak in public, he did far better than I expected. It aggravated me to recall the way Labori had to fight for Zola, countering the grunts when he referred to him as a patriot. To this he asserted, “Yes, a patriot like Zola. A patriot with a braver heart, a clearer vision, a loftier love of his own land than is owned by any of the shallow-minded swallowers of phrases who rage at him. One of these days you will recognize your own folly and his greatness.”
Wiping my eyes, I already missed my friend. The sense of his presence close by had vanished with him into the night. Trying to imagine where he was, I whispered, “Godspeed, dear man.”
The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one’s toes on the gravestones.
Émile Zola
Chapter Twenty-One
Wanting to lie low to avoid the wrath incurred by Zola’s friends, I waited in my home for days to pass. The gray weather and weeping clouds mimicked my mood. As I gazed out my window, all I could think about was the debacle Zola’s life had become. Depressing as the memories were, the sound of Labori’s bellicose laughter at the Attorney General’s righteous disdain made me smile. I heard Labori’s voice in my head arguing the point that the Dreyfus trial had been carried out by officers whose judgment bordered on deranged and was, therefore, valueless. The anti-Semites had expressed equal irrational fervor when Labori read from Dreyfus’s letters of the degradation he was experiencing in his prison cell. While the hatred spread, the pathetic communications of protest from Dreyfus to his wife Lucie formed a powerful impression of unjust devastation in the minds of those who were supportive. If only this had been entered into the record! And I abhorred that Zola’s intent for writing J’Accuse was for naught, for it, as well, did not make as much as a dent in the court transcript.
In need of some groceries, I waited until dusk to go out. With my head covered in a scarf and hat, I made my way past a few police who were breaking up scuffles. “Rid France of the Jewish scum,” came from an elderly man moving away from a threatening cop. The irony of the argument—to protect France—was not lost on me. Guaranteed by the fundamental rights set forth in the 1789 Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, a document considered by legal authorities to have equal legal standing as the French Constitution, was freedom of religion. The war of ignorance was based on enmity. Can one even pray for intelligence? None so blind…
§ § § §
Several very long days later I received a letter that was delivered by a trustworthy friend. My hand shook when I held it. As I opened the pages, I was relieved and grateful to see the familiar handwriting. I could hear his voice as I read that, on the last night of the trial, he was taken to a friend’s home where his wife was waiting. She, his loyal companion, had remained at his side throughout the proceedings. Along with reliable friends she had clandestinely traveled to him. His mistress and the children were hidden from harm elsewhere.
“I wished we had had a goodbye hug,” he apologized, “but I was whisked away too abruptly and lost sight of you. Forgive me.” There was and never would be anything to pardon with my friend Zola.
We both knew that, at my age (seventy-six) and no longer possessing the energy of youth, I would not be joining him. Sorrow came from the page and my heart ached when he wrote, “I don’t know when we shall see each other again.” The kindness of his concern for me, with all he had to contend with, softened the ache in my body.
He went on to write that the decision to leave Paris was based on the fact that a sentence in default meant he would have to appear in person in a few days and would not be allowed to default a second time. To avoid being served, he was urged to leave France. “London was chosen as the destination.” Hastily, he had made his way to the northern railway station, and took a compartment that held no other occupants.
“I made it to London without mishap and settled into the Grosvenor Hotel, which Clemenceau had recommended to me.” He also mentioned that he believed Perrenx went to Belgium. Although our trust with each other had been established years ago, he still felt a need to say, “Tell nobody in the world, especially no newspaper, that I am in London. I am staying under a pseudonym. There are a few friends who followed me along with Alexandrine. It is understood by them that absolute silence of my whereabouts, to protect the most serious interests at stake, is above all in importance.”
My head throbbed as I envisioned the danger he was in, were anyone to recognize his well-known face. Zola’s writing and journalistic success, which afforded him the clout to publish J’Accuse, now worked against him. He was too famous. Many favoring the dark side of human nature would take pleasure in exposing him…if not more.
Finishing the last lines of his communication, he mentioned how the transmissions between us would happen. I held the paper close to my heart before the bright and burning flames consumed it.
Two days later, I was startled by a knock on my door. Not expecting anyone, I was relieved to encounter a cohort who had been with Zola. He said he had a message for me, but this was not the route established for written correspondence. I began to sweat. “Zola did not have time to write,” he said.
Worry rang in his comment as he told me, “Counsel informed Zola that apart from English law, French authorities claimed the right to serve process on their own citizens all over the world. And,” he cleared his throat, “he has been recognized.”
“Oh no!”
“Fear not,” he continued, “as luck would have it, it was the wife of one of his former publishers. That alone proved too dangerous for him to stay in London. He was transferred to a friend’s home. That also is too close to London, so he will be seeking new arrangements as we speak.”
“Then he’s safe?”
“Yes,” he said, “for now.” Before taking leave, he assured me that Zola would get in touch with me, once settled in a secure place.
Waiting was nerve-racking as stories abounded concerning his whereabouts, which had become a main preoccupation in France. Rumors had him in Switzerland, Norway, Holland, Belgium, and other places in the world. Tensions grew when an English newspaper was onto the right track. Fortunately it came from a slip from the ex-publisher’s wife who’d seen him. Cleverly disabused of that absurd idea from her husband, she was now very sorry that she had misidentified a stranger for the famous Zola.
When a small note arrived saying, “A furnished country house has been secured for me,” I was comforted to know that my friend was safe. But for how long and would he ever return to his home? What is France without Zola?
In my view you cannot claim to have seen something until you have photographed it.
Émile Zola
Chapter Twenty-Two
As the days and months moved on, Zola informed me that he was safely tucked away with house staff, writing a novel. He had been loosely planning it during the turmoil of the Dreyfus affair. For other activity, he rode a bicycle through the lush countryside north of London and took photos with a camera that was gifted to him. He wrote of the myriad scenes he had captured of farms, churches, and reaches of the Thames. Time was Zola’s friend. As the cacophony in the streets condemning him to horrible fates calmed, his wife was able to return to Paris. She continued to travel back and forth to be with him, albeit under disguise.
With the shocks of anti-Semitic activity in Paris lessening, Zola’s life quieted. His notes to me were filled with more trivia than concern. He spoke of his bicycle excursions and photography endeavors, difficulty with a servant getting him fish, and his need for more manuscript paper. Because leases on his residences ran out on several occasions, he was moved from home to home. Though sadly for him, Alexandrine was unable to leave Paris to keep him company because she was being watched
by Zola’s enemies.
Fall gave way to winter and the weeks passed. Spring 1899 brought fortuitous news. Zola, having learned enough English on his own, read with curiosity a telegram from Paris concerning Dreyfus. It stated, “Be prepared for a great success.” Puzzled, as there was nothing in the newspapers, he keenly awaited further information. Soon afterwards a newspaper arrived with a story in it describing an account of the arrest and confession of the Dreyfus forger, Colonel Henry. A telegram followed stating, “Colonel Henry has been found dead in his cell.” After Henry’s death, Zola hoped to return to Paris. Friends, including myself, urged him to stay put. Although things had calmed in Paris, his name was still a hot iron that could rekindle the unthinkable and badly burn him. I didn’t know if either of us could endure that pain again. Satisfied that the revision of the Dreyfus case was no longer a dead issue, he was content to remain in England and ride out what would inevitably be an unearthing of chaos in France.
As the review of the Dreyfus case was delayed, Zola became anxious. “Wanting to be closer to where important incidents are occurring,” he wrote, referring to the fact that the Minister of War had been replaced and Esterhazy had taken flight, “I am growing impatient.”
To Live Out Loud: A Novel Page 7