“Vous dites, M’sieur?” he asked indignantly.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” I repeated sternly. “What do I hear that you’ve been saying in Washington about British warships and sardine-hunting, French submarines and botanical expeditions, and the unknown X?”
He showed his teeth in a grim smile.
“The unknown X? Qu’est-ce que c’est ça? M’sieur veut dire peut-être ‘La femme X’?”
“No evasions,” I warned him. “I am here in the interests of the British public. They are pained, Monsieur, pained! They know nothing of international politics, and very little about politicians—even their own. But they know that, in their quiet way, they’ve grown to be fond of your people. They see that you misunderstand them. And it hurts them to think that the Entente Cordiale——”
He flicked his fingers impatiently.
“L’entente cordiale! Ah, M’sieu, l’entente cordiale! ... Are you understanding French?”
“Not noticeably,” I confessed.
“Alors! Well, I shall tell you in English.... What is it, this Entente Cordiale? Hein? An understanding of friends, n’est ce pas? What the Americans call a ‘gentleman’s agreement.’ You make it because you trust so much, that you will not care to have a Treaty. Well, then, but you must trust your vis-à-vis. You must not put all the bad construction on his doing. Not even a Treaty will stand that. You cannot have Entente, and then go on nag, nag, nag, like an old peasant woman with the toothache. Oh, it is impossible, M’sieu, impossible!”
“Angora?” I hinted.