The Shadow of Great Britain

388: Chapter 229 Golf and Press Censorship (6K2)_2 388: Chapter 229 Golf and Press Censorship (6K2)_2 Lionel saw through his intention to whack the ball high and far in one fell swoop and said with a smile, “Arthur, this isn’t cricket; you need to keep your club lower.

Though if you really want to have a go at it, I could arrange a game.

Are you free next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday?”

Arthur pondered for a moment, “That’s hard to say.

Lionel, as you know, Parliament might dissolve, and anything urgent could come up.

I wouldn’t want to make plans and then stand you up.”

“Then let’s wait until you’re more available,” Lionel replied.

With that, Lionel waved over the caddie, gesturing for him to bring over the bag of clubs.

He pulled out a club and tossed it to Arthur, “Try this, a walnut wood club from America; it’s much handier than the one you’re holding.

All the best wood in Britain is taken by the Royal Navy for shipbuilding, only the second-rate stuff is left for making golf clubs.”

Arthur took the club and swung it twice, the movement creating a whooshing sound, “It does seem much better than the one I had.”

Leaning in, Lionel said with a smile, “You know, in Blackheath, they usually play by ‘St Andrews rules’.

Is Mr.

Talleyrand familiar with them?”

“Whatever rules don’t matter.

Mr.

Talleyrand is a beginner, just like me.

Just let him win a bit; he came out of the Foreign Office with his nose out of joint today, not in the best of moods.

He was brooding over taking my money the whole carriage ride.”

Lionel, hearing this, lightly tapped Arthur on the shoulder and laughed, “What are you saying, Arthur?

I wouldn’t let Mr.

Talleyrand win.

If I lose, it will be purely because of his natural talent.

An outstanding diplomat who moves with great skill across Europe surely having a bit of a knack for golf isn’t strange, is it?”

Arthur pursed his lips and pulled an apple out of his pocket, taking a bite, “No wonder Rothschild’s business is doing so well.

There sure is a reason for everything!”

Taken aback by the sudden appearance of the apple, Lionel asked, “Where did you get that apple from?”

Arthur nodded toward the green ahead, “Isn’t there an orchard nearby?

Just picked it.

Do you want to try?

There’s another one in my pocket, much fresher than what you’d find at the Newton specialty store on Jermyn Street.”

“This…” Lionel said, torn between amusement and disbelief, “How about you save it for Mr.

Talleyrand instead?

He ran into some acquaintances at the entrance of the course, it might take him a while to get here.”

Agares, perched on an acacia tree and munching on an apple, overheard this and spat out a piece of apple peel, “Ignorant little Jew, what’s the big deal about a couple of rotten apples?

When I was feasting on golden apples, your ancestors hadn’t even crossed the Red Sea yet!”

But obviously, Lionel was oblivious to the devil’s foul speech and, with Talleyrand being absent, it was a good opportunity to discuss something with Arthur.

After dismissing the caddie, Lionel began, “Actually, I met Mr.

Talleyrand years ago, but he probably doesn’t remember it.”

“Oh?

Is that so?”

Remembering something, Arthur said, “I almost forgot, isn’t your family’s business in Paris handled by your uncle, James Rothschild?”

With a smile, Lionel replied, “That’s right.

I was studying in Paris at that time, and Uncle James thought to show me the world.

He took me to Tuileries Palace to meet Charles X, the one who took over the house you had in Regency Crescent, to discuss the issuance of French national debt, and just brought me along.”

“I was quite young then, not daring to speak a word, just following my uncle as he introduced me to the grandees of the French court—Prince Polignac, Prince Condé, and Lafayette.

In the midst of introductions, I suddenly saw an old cripple leave the court.

Once he was far away, I learned from others that he was the famed Talleyrand.”

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur asked, “Really?

What did they have to say about him?”

Scratching his chin, Lionel mused, “They said a lot.

For example, Mr.

Talleyrand is considered a Voltairean figure, witty and humorous, always able to spout a few phrases worth quoting for a long time, attracting audiences willing to pay just to hear him.

As for the bad, it’s nothing but the usual clichés, like: The misfortune of France is that it gave birth to someone like Talleyrand, who lacks even the most basic moral fiber.

More unfortunate is that France’s gains at the Congress of Vienna were secured by such a man.”

Wrapping the apple core in a handkerchief and stuffing it into his pocket, Arthur said, “If that’s the opinion across France, then it seems rather unfair.

My knowledge of Mr.

Talleyrand isn’t profound, but I think the reason he dismisses morals is precisely because he was born in France.

During his time, France had only one true morality—the king’s likes and dislikes.

No matter how many bad things you did, as long as the king smiled upon you, you were a man of virtue.

If the king kicked you into the Bastille, no matter how many good deeds you had done, you were undoubtedly a hypocrite.

Therefore, Mr.

Talleyrand doesn’t care how others see him, not just that, but he also doesn’t bother to hide his faults.

Not only him, but even the head of security at the Paris Police Prefecture, Mr.

Victor, thinks the same.

They call this approach ‘active silence.’