That was the line the father was going to take. Budd's didn't engage in any wars; Budd's made munitions, and played no favorites. The father found time, in the midst of excitements and confusions, to hammer that fact in and rivet it. “I'll have to go back to Newcastle, to try to straighten out my father and brothers; and I don't want my son to step into anybody's bear trap. Remember, there never was a war in which the right was all on one side. And remember that in every war both sides lie like hell. That's half the battle — keeping up the spirits of your own crowd, and getting allies to help you. Truth is whatever you can get believed. Remember it every time you pick up a newspaper.”
The father went on to prove his case. He told how Bismarck had forged a telegram in order to get the Franco-Prussian war started when he was ready for it. He told about the intrigues of the Tsar's government, the most despotic and corrupt in Europe. He explained how the great financial interests, the steel cartels, the oil and electrical trusts, and the banks which financed them, controlled both France and Germany. They owned properties in both countries, and would see that those properties were protected; they would make billions of profits, and buy new properties, and be more than ever masters, however the war might end.
“And that's all right,” continued the father; “that's their business; only remember it isn't yours. Remember that among their properties are all the big newspapers. Find out who owns the one you read.” Robbie took up several that were lying on the table. “This is the de Wendels',” he said; “the Comite des Forges — the steel trust that runs French politics. This one is Schneider-Creusot. And here's your old friend Zaharoff!”
The father opened one paper, and asked: “Did you get this little story?” He pointed to an account of a state ceremony which had taken place on the previous day — Zaharoff had been promoted to commander of the Legion of Honor. A strange bit of irony, that it should have happened the day that Jaurès was shot! “I don't hold any brief for Socialist tub-thumpers,” said Robbie; “but he was perhaps honest, as you heard Pastier say. They shoot him, and they give one of their highest honors to an old Levantine trader who would sell the whole country tomorrow for a hundred million francs.”
Practically all the Americans in Paris sympathized with France, because they believed that France had wanted peace, and because it was a republic. But Robbie wouldn't leave it at that. What counted nowadays was business, and the oil, steel, and munitions men of France wanted what all the others wanted. “Is it peace when you lend billions of francs to Russia, and force them to spend the money for arms to fight Germany?”
“I suppose you're right,” the boy had to admit.
“Put yourself in the place of the German people — your friend Kurt, and his family, and millions like them. They look to their eastern border —”
“A dark cloud of barbarism, the Graf Stubendorf called it,” Lanny remembered suddenly.
“Russian diplomacy has one purpose — to get Constantinople, and that means to keep Germany from getting it. Russia is called a steam roller, and it's built to roll westward; the French paid for it, and taught the Russians how to run it. Of course the Germans will fight like hell to stop it.”
“Who do you think's going to win, Robbie?” Purely as a sporting proposition, it got a boy keyed up.