‘Do I kiss it?’ he inquired, doubtful of the etiquette.
Sir Roland discreetly shook his head. The ceremony was over.
There was a pause. Then: ‘Faites vos jeux, Messieurs!’ said the Voice.
This was unexpected to all; and to one cryptic.
‘What does that mean?’ inquired Mr. Trimblerigg, in whose Free Church training French had not been included.
The Prime Minister rose lightly to the occasion. ‘It means, or it practically means, ‘Make your Peace, Gentlemen.’ Then, to the unseen Presence: ‘The game is over sir,—well over. Now we have only to collect the winnings.’
This statement of the facts was apparently not accepted: the game was to go on. ‘Couleur gagne!’ went the Voice; and then again, ‘Faites vos jeux, Messieurs.’
‘Our present game,’ respectfully insisted the Prime Minister, ‘is to make peace. To you, therefore, Sir, we come, as an authority—in this matter of peace-making a very special authority. We as victors are responsible; and we have to find a solution. The peace will not be negotiated, it will be dictated. The question is on what terms; under what sanctions; with what penalties? Under a Democracy such as ours—’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ came the Voice, ‘Democracy does not exist. Invite public opinion; say you agree; then ignore it, and do as you think best. Sanctions? You will not get good work from a man while the rope is round his neck; he wastes time and brain thinking how soon he will die. Penalties? Yes: if you think you can get hold of the really responsible ones.’
‘We think we can,’ purred the Prime Minister.