“You are an English officer, perhaps?”
“Yes, mon père, in the old days.”
“Ah, you helped to fight for France! It was a good comradeship in those days. I was a soldier also, a captain of artillery, with the ‘Cent-Vingt.’ ”
He invited Bertram to his simple pot-au-feu, with a cup of coffee afterwards, and a petit verre.
It was over that cup of coffee that they argued about French and British policy, and then that Bertram defended the British point of view.
“Why do your English Liberals hate France so much?” asked the priest. “I cannot understand. It is to me incredible!”
Bertram denied that English Liberals hated France. He tried to explain, in faulty French, the “Liberal” idea in England. It was a belief that another frightful war could only be prevented by allowing Germany to recover, and dealing with her so generously that she would not desire vengeance. English Liberals believed that the whole philosophy of Europe must be changed, and that people should rise beyond the old “Balance of Power,” with secret or open alliances dividing Europe into groups. The peoples of all nations wanted peace. It was only the old diplomacy that prevented the fulfilment of their desire, and a general brotherhood of European democracy.
The priest struck his fist on the table so that the coffee cups jumped.
“All that is illusion,” he said, and he almost shouted the words. “It is hypocritical nonsense. Peace can only be secured by keeping Germany crushed and weak. England is treacherous to France by making secret overtures to Germany. It is a betrayal of the dead. An outrage to France.”
Bertram lit his pipe, and smoked in silence for a moment, astonished and distressed by the violent passion in this priest’s voice, by the flash of fire in his eyes.