Emperor. These wounds might heal suddenly if German bugles sounded. It is a land that in the past has done things.
Officer. In the past, your Imperial Majesty, but in the past alone lies Britain's greatness.
Emperor. Yes, that's the German truth. Britain has grown dull and sluggish; a belly of a land, she lies overfed; no dreams within her such as keep powers alive – and timid, too – without red blood in her, but in its stead a thick, yellowish fluid. The most she'll play for is her own safety. Pretend to grant her that and she'll seek her soft bed again. Britain's part in the world's making is done. "I was," her epitaph.
Chancellor. How well you know her, Sire! All she needs is some small excuse for saying, "I acted in the best interests of my money-bags." That excuse I've found for her. I have promised in your name a secret compact with her, that if she stands aloof the parts of France we do not at present need we will not at present take.
Emperor. A secret bargain over the head of France, her friend! Surely an infamous proposal.
Chancellor. The British Government will not think so. Trust me to know them, Sire. Your signature?
Emperor (gleaming). I can fling a million men within the week across the border by way of Alsace and Lorraine.
Officer (with a frown). There are a hundred gates to open that way.
Emperor. My guns shall open them.
Officer (with meaning). You can think of no easier road, Sire?
Emperor. I think of it night and day.
Officer. One further north – through Belgium?
Emperor. If I could dare! But no, that road is barred.
Officer (misunderstanding). On the contrary, Sire – Emperor. Barred by a fortress no gun of mine may bear against – by honor, by my plighted word.
Officer. Yet, Sire – Emperor (after hesitating). No, no! I will not so stain my name.
Chancellor. I am with you, Sire, but I fear it will not be so with France. She has grown cynical. She will find the road through Belgium.
Emperor. You seek to tempt me. She also signed the treaty.
Chancellor. Your Imperial Majesty judges others by yourself. I have private ground for fearing that in the greed for a first advantage France will call the treaty but a scrap of paper.
Emperor. I think your private ground may be your own private newspaper.
Chancellor. She will say that necessity knows no law, or some such dastard words.
Emperor. Belgium is no craven. She will fight the betrayer.
Chancellor. France will hack her way through her.
Emperor. My Chancellor, that is a hideous phrase.