“What way, mon cher!”
“We must get up the comb of the Gallic cock—set his feathers on end.”
“I don’t comprehend you.”
“It’s very simple. On our side we’ll insult your ambassador, De Morny—some trifling affront that can be afterward explained and apologised for. I’ll manage that. You then recall him in great anger, and let the two nations be roused to an attitude of hostility. An exchange of diplomatic notes, with sufficient and spiteful wording, some sharp articles in the columns of your Paris press—I’ll see to the same on our side—the marching hither and thither of a half-dozen regiments, a little extra activity in the dockyards and arsenals, and the thing’s done. While the Gallic cock is crowing on one side of the Channel, and the British bull-dog barking on the other, your Assembly may pass the disfranchising act without fear of being disturbed by the blouses. Take my word it can be done.”
“My lord! you’re a genius!”
“There’s not much genius in it. It’s simple as a game of dominoes.”
“It shall be done. You promise to kick De Morny out of your court. Knowing the reason, no man will like it better than he!”
“I promise it.”
The promise was kept. De Morny was “kicked out” with a silken slipper, and the rest of the programme was carried through—even to the disfranchising of the blouses.