“There is this difference,” said I, “that in whist you sit opposite to your ally: in politics, as in war, your vis-à-vis is your enemy.”
“For my part,” said he, good-humoredly, “I think, having fought against each other—bravely fought, as France and England have—is one of the very best elements towards a lasting peace. Each must by this time have attained to a proper estimate of the other; and from that source alone a degree of respect springs up, fit to become the foundation of true friendship.”
“Your theory excludes all notion of a rivalry, sir.”
“Rivalry can exist only between small states or individuals. Great countries have great ambitions, and these are usually above mere rivalries.”
I have quoted, word for word, the expressions he made use of, less for any importance of their own than for the sake of the man who spoke them. They were, as I afterwards came to know, specimens of that careless habit of talking in which he constantly indulged, and in which an indolent goodnature rather swayed him than the use of those fine faculties of judgment he so eminently possessed. My more intimate acquaintance with France and its language gave me certain advantages in our discussion which he soon perceived, and he questioned me closely about the people and their natural tendencies.
Colonel Canthorpe came twice to announce that the horses were ready, and yet still Mr. Fox stood, inquiring eagerly into points of which he confessed himself quite uninformed.
“How glad I should be,” said he, “to have an opportunity of continuing this conversation. Is there any chance of our meeting at Paris?”
I owned that the expression of his wish on the subject quite decided me to go there.
“On what day, then, may I expect you? Shall we say Saturday, and at dinner?”
“Most willingly,” said I, “if I can accomplish it.”