A great success? What could it be? He racked his mind
in vain. He reviewed all the phases and aspects of the Dreyfus case,
wondering whether this or that had happened, but not suspecting the
public revelations which were then impending, the tragedy which was being
enacted.
For a while he walked up and down, feverish and anxious (he was at the
time in poor health), and then he would fling himself on a sofa, still
and ever indulging in his surmises. With that kind of prescience which he
had so frequently displayed in the Dreyfus affair, he felt certain that
something very important had occurred, for otherwise such a mysterious
telegram would never have been sent him. This lasted the whole evening.
My daughter Violette was with him at the time, and his feverishness
doubtless gained on her. At last she retired to rest, while M. Zola,
according to his wont, carried a lamp into his own room to sit there a
while and read some French newspapers which had reached him, via Wareham,
by the evening delivery. There was nothing in them of a nature to explain
the mysterious telegram; still he read on and on in the hope, as it were,
of quieting himself.
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