1 William Pitt the Younger (1759–1806) succeeded his father as prime minister at age twenty-four; he took an interest in Continental politics when revolutionary armies conquered the Low Countries in 1796. Under his direction, the British subsidized the anti-French coalitions until 1801, when he resigned over Anglo-Irish politics. His successor sought conciliation with France, but Bonaparte's relentless ambitions renewed the Anglo-French conflict and brought Pitt back to power in 1804. He died in office in 1806, just after Napoleon's massive victory over the Allies at Austerlitz.
The Red and the Black
"They have the Duke of Wellington,"2 said a military-looking man, assuming a stance of high importance. "Please: silence, gentlemen," exclaimed the chairman. "If we keep on arguing, there'll be no point to bringing in Monsieur Sorel." "We are aware that the gentleman has many ideas," said the duke, irritated; he stared at the interrupter, a former Napoleonic general.3 Julien could tell that these words referred to something personal and deeply offensive. Everyone smiled; the turncoat general appeared outraged beyond belief. "There is no longer a Pitt, gentlemen," the speaker said again, with the discouraged air of a man desperate to lead his listeners to reason. "Were there a new Pitt in England, it would not be possible to hoax a nation, a second time, by the same methods—" "And that is why a conquering general, a Bonaparte, is forever impossible in France," cried the military interrupter. This time, neither the chairman nor the duke dared show their anger, although Julien thought he could see in their glances that they certainly wished to. They lowered their eyes, and the duke satisfied himself by sighing so loudly that he was heard by everyone. But the speaker had grown annoyed. "You're pressuring me to be done," he said angrily, and putting completely aside his smiling politeness, and the measured language that Julien had thought was an expression of his character: "You're pressuring me to be done, you're ignoring all the efforts I've been making to keep from offending anyone's ears, no matter how long they may be. So, gentlemen, I will be brief. "And I will tell you in blunt language: England no longer has a penny for the good cause. Pitt himself could return, and even with his genius he couldn't manage to hoax the small landowners of England, because they know that even the short Waterloo campaign, all by itself, cost them a billion francs. Since what you want is blunt talk," the speaker added, growing more and more excited, "let me tell you: Help yourselves —because England hasn't got a guinea to give you, and when England won't pay, then Austria, Russia, Prussia, who only have courage, but have no money, can do nothing against France, beyond a campaign or two. "You may expect that the young soldiers mustered by Jacobinism will be beaten in the first campaign, and perhaps in the second, but by the third—though I may seem, to your prejudiced eyes, too much like a revolutionary—in the third campaign you'll have the soldiers of 1794, who were no longer the peasant conscripts of 1792."4 At this point, the interruptions came from three or four voices, speaking at the same time. "Sir," said the chairman to Julien, "go into the next room and make a fair copy of the beginning of your notes, as you have so far written them." Julien left, to his great regret. The speaker had just launched into probabilities that Julien had long been accustomed to ponder. "They're afraid I'll make fun of them," he thought. When he was called back, Monsieur de La Mole was saying, with a seriousness that seemed to Julien, who knew him so well, decidedly sarcastic: