March 1st

At this time, as he said for my personal guidance and for the benefit of the generations to come, the Tiger made a remark which I trust I shall bear in mind when, as I hope, my writing days—for the public, not for sealed archives—begin again. He indeed repeated it so often that it took on the shape of an injunction.

“Someday,” he said, “you will put down in writing what you saw at the war and during the course of the Conference and what you think you know about it all. Just as I will, without doubt, though many a time I have taken an oath not to do so, and then may the Powers that be (wherever they may be located, whether up aloft or down below) have mercy on our souls! Now out of pure friendship I am going to give you a tip which I fondly think is worth all the ‘C’ bonds the Germans are trying to fob off on us in lieu of real reparations payment. It is this, mon cher ami! Beware of documents! They are the pitfalls and ambuscades which the crafty jugglers of the day plant in the path of the unwary historian, to waylay, in fact, to mislead him. When you come to write, set down what you have seen with your own eyes and what you have heard with your own ears, and even if you pursue this discreet policy you may wander from the straight and narrow path.” Then with a sly wink he added: “All we old newspapermen know that this does happen. An unavoidable professional risk, I suppose.”

Here by innuendo M. Clemenceau was referring to what might be regarded as our first meeting and what came of it. Many years ago, in 1889 to be exact, with but a fringe of bushes intervening, in Count Dillon’s Neuilly garden I, and at least twenty other newspaper correspondents, had witnessed a sensational and, in its results, the most surprising duel of that day. The principals were Boulanger, the general of the Revolution and of the Revanche, and M. Floquet, the Premier of France, whose nearsightedness almost reached the point of total blindness. Clemenceau, acting as his friend’s second, advised the Prime Minister to assume a somewhat unusual posture of defense, but, as the sequel proved, it was justified by the event.

“You can’t fence,” insisted the Tiger, “and the general can, or at least he ought to. Extend your arm with your êpêe straight before you and the general, in a rage at having to cross swords with a decrepit pekin, may rush upon it.”

And that is what happened, and after the brave general had been carried away from the field of honor by the waiting stretchermen, M. Clemenceau had shocked us all with an outburst of gay and certainly most unrestrained laughter. Now he thought, as did so many, that the Boulanger bubble was pricked and that the people of France would never follow such an ineffective swordsman in the campaign across the Rhine which seemed imminent. But for once the Tiger was mistaken, and the popular faith in the Paladin of the Black Horse survived for at least another six months. In answer to his remonstrance at my account¹ of his unseemly behavior on this historic occasion, I said: “If you wish it, I will omit that episode from the definitive edition of my memoirs.”

After a moment’s reflection M. Clemenceau said: “I will not ask you to go as far as that. While, of course, I displayed all proper respect to the wounded warrior, as became a veteran duelist and a ‘correct’ one, still it is a gay story, and there are not many of them floating about in this dismal world today. You can tell it your own way. I’ll never contradict you. We old newspapermen must stand by one another if for no other reason than that no one else will.”