“Sir,” I cried, “we have talked for half an hour. I think I know less of your thoughts on this subject now than before we began. In the name of the publicity for which I have heard you appeal in the League of Nations, say something specific of your hopes and fears, something to which posterity may point a finger, saying, ‘Here was a statesman with vision. He knew.’”
“That,” he replied with gentle gravity, “is a little difficult. Er—as ... as you know, I am always unwilling to assume the rôle of prophet. Indeed, I am not prepared to say that in the scheme of things as I understand it—and using ... using the word in the sense that is customary to me—that such a thing as a prophecy has any existence at all. But I feel—yes, I feel the necessity which you have urged upon me with—er—with—er ... so eloquently; and I am above all things—and at all times—desirous of affording such proper information as the public ought to receive, upon such a topic as our present Conference, to those whose ... whose work it is to—to disseminate—er—such information. I see no harm, therefore, in acceding to your request, at the same time making it clear that, since these issues are momentous and easily imperilled, you must observe the ... the greatest discretion in any use—er—in any use to which you may put my words.”
Overpowered at the apparent success of my appeal to his better feelings, I could only bow my thanks. The veteran statesman veiled his eyes with their tired lids and seemed to ponder.
“Well,” he said at last, “subject to what I have already stated, I see no reason why I should not say that the Outlook is not ... is not as bad as it might be. And now—yes, this is where I must leave you. It has been a great pleasure to speak so frankly; and I know you will be discreet. Good-bye.”
And then he left me and strolled on his way with serene detachment. But whether the “Outlook” to which he referred was the paper of that name, or the prospect before the Washington Conference, those who have read so far are as well able to judge as I.
WITH MONSIEUR BRIAND AFTER THE WASHINGTON CONFERENCE
The great liner warped into the quay. Hushed expectation poised itself over the multitude. A dumpy figure, almost incredibly small against the vastness of the ship, appeared at the head of the accommodation ladder, and waddled slowly down the side, followed, at a respectful distance, by obsequious midgets. It approached nearer, resolving itself into a small round-shouldered man with a heavy, pale face, distinguished eyebrows and prodigious moustaches. His eyes were grey and meditative; his hair a shaggy, black mane, bursting irrepressibly from under his hat. He strode ashore, and prostrated himself on the soil of his beloved country.
“Ah, la patrie,” he cried in his thrilling, resonant voice, rising from his knees as he spoke, and lifting his right hand in solemn invocation. “Ah, my country, thy faithful Aristide, thy humble servitor salutes thee. He returns, inflated with no Imperialism, but none the less from the depths of his heart proud to have upheld, in thy name, before all the assembled conscience of mankind, those principles of liberty, those imperishable ideals of justice, of international comity and brotherhood, that fine spirit of self-abnegation in which it has ever been the boast of France to lead the world. Oh, liberty, what sacrifice would we not willingly offer in thy behalf? Oh, freedom, where is thy source if not in France? Oh, humanity——”
I tapped him on the shoulder.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” I said.