"And once is too often. The last time I was there, I looked down the
Wilhelmstrasse and it got up and threatened me. Barring the
possibilities of future avatars, I shall not promenade there again. But
I would give a red pippin, I would give two of them, to have been in
Potsdam on that night, that cloudless night, the night in July, when in
a room, gorgeous as only vulgarity could made it, there was sounded the
crack of doom."
Jones gestured and a waiter hurried to him. He motioned him away.
"You can picture it, Lennox, or, if not, who am I to refuse my aid? At
the doors were lackeys; at the gates were guards. Without and beyond, to
the four points of the compass, an unsuspecting world slept, toiled,
feasted, fasted, occupied with its soap-bubble hates and loves. But, in
that room, saurians, with titles as long as your arm, were contriving a
cataclysm that was to exceed the deluge. Since then, and though it be
but through the headlines, you and I stand witness to events that no
mortal ever saw before. That night, in that room they were concocted. By
comparison, what are the mythical exploits of Homer's warriors, the
fabulous achievements of Charlemagne's paladins, the fading memories of
Napoleon's campaigns? What are they all by comparison to a world in
flames? Hugo, with his usual sobriety, said that Napoleon inconvenienced
God. Napoleon wanted Europe. These gunmen want the earth. They won't get
it. Hell is their portion. But, while they were planning the
crib-cracking, I would give a red pippin to have been in their joint
that night. A little more trout?"