“K.”
“Anything serious?” asked Deane, watching my face.
I held my breath, and managed to recover my self-possession.
“No,” I answered, “nothing of any grave importance. I sit here to deal with a strange variety of public business, ranging from despatches from home down to vice-consul’s worries.”
“We are not at war yet,” he laughed, “and we trust to you diplomatists to keep us out of it.”
I smiled, rather sadly I think. Little did my friend dream how near we actually were to hostilities with France. But in the school of diplomacy the first lesson taught is that of absolute secrecy; hence I told him nothing. To be patient, to preserve silence, to be able to give to an untruth the exact appearance of the truth, and to act a lie so as to deceive those with the most acute intelligence on earth, are qualifications absolutely necessary—together, of course, with the stipulated private income of four hundred a year—for the success of the rising diplomatist.
“We are trying to keep England out of war,” I said. “Indeed, that is the principal object of our existence. Were it not for the efforts of Lord Barmouth, we should have been at war with the Republic long ago. Why, scarcely a week passes but the political situation changes, and we find ourselves, just as the French also find themselves, sitting on the edge of the proverbial volcano. Then, by careful adjustment and marvellous tact and finesse, matters are arranged, and once more the ships of State sail together again into smooth waters. Only ourselves, in this Embassy, are really alive to the heavy responsibilities resting on the shoulders of our trusted Chief. Many a sleepless night he passes in his own room opposite, I can assure you.”
“And yet he is always merry and good-humoured, as though he hadn’t a single care in the world.”
“Ah, that is owing to his long training as a diplomatist. He shows no outward sign of anxiety, for that would betray weakness or vacillation of policy. An ambassador’s face should never be an index to his thoughts.”
He tossed his cigar-end away and rose, asking: “Where are you feeding to-night? Can you dine with me at Ledoyen’s—or at the Café de Paris, if you prefer it?”