France’s financial troubles were the stumbling block: The country’s tax-payers were already overburdened, yet a larger revenue must be raised. Briand and his friends felt that the man who, as Premier, attempted to set those troubles right, and who failed in the difficult endeavour, would not remain Premier for long. They considered leaving the ungrateful job to Clemenceau, unless they could put through the Chamber of Deputies their brilliant idea.
They wanted to pay off the French war debt by means of a lottery loan. There would be daily prizes. They contemplated one as high as a million francs. And they expected to sell a large proportion of the tickets in America!
What, they asked, did I think of the plan?
“Gentlemen,” I said, “you are evidently unaware that there is a law against lotteries in the United States.”
“But this lottery,” said Briand, “would be in France; we would merely sell tickets in America through the mails.”
“It was precisely by forbidding the use of the mails for such purposes,” I explained, “that we stopped lotteries. It is a criminal offence to sell lottery-tickets in the United States or to use our mails for that purpose.”
I shall never forget the expression of disappointment with which Briand and Count Aupin greeted this announcement. It meant that their scheme must be abandoned and that Briand must still longer postpone the overthrow of Clemenceau.
Much of what was passing behind the scenes at the Conference it would not be proper for me to tell. Part of that is the story of “The Passing of the Third-Floor Front,” when the meetings of the American Commissioners were transferred from Colonel House’s room on the third floor of the Crillon to Secretary Lansing’s rooms on the first floor. But there is an anecdote that I do venture to repeat because it throws a light on the character and careful methods of Lloyd George.
Even the British Premier was keen to gain favour with those close to President Wilson, and one night he invited to dine with him Admiral Cary T. Grayson, whom he knew to be not only Mr. Wilson’s physician, but one of his personal confidants as well. Now, Grayson was a Southerner of the Southerners; he was born in Virginia’s Culpepper County, and studied at William and Mary College. Consequently, he pricked up his ears when Lloyd George’s entire table conversation confined itself to that America which lies south of Mason-and-Dixon’s line. The Premier showed himself specially familiar with the career of Stonewall Jackson, for whom he professed a warm admiration. Finally, the dinner ended, Mr. Lloyd George’s niece went to the piano, and sang—American Southern melodies!
This was too much for Grayson.