Keep one’s cool. Consider that the events making the front-page headlines are nothing but froth, and focus only on the real waves—deeper, more powerful, yet less visible at the outset. Counter cries with calm, tumult with silence, and rational logic with herd behavior and raw emotion.

The franc crisis is dreadful—governments fall one after another, the pound sterling soars just like the public debt, and the mood in parliament is overheated—but there is no use in alarming the Head of State. We know that financiers, bankers, and other international investors are, above all, waiting for a strong signal showing that our country is once again led by a firm hand, one that will no longer let the currency and spending drift beyond what revenues allow.

That firm hand—only one remains: it belongs to Raymond Poincaré.

But if it appears too early, before all other hypotheses have been tried, it will lack sufficient strength. And so, we attempt to hand power to Herriot, Briand, or Caillaux.

The latter is even trying the old trick of the Roman emperor turned dictator, demanding « full powers. » This makes little sense in our parliamentary republic, but we must let him try, and then fail. « Froth, » I tell you.

To maintain my own calm, to continue surrounding President Doumergue with sensible advice, I have a recipe, a remedy, a discreet trick: my two cats. Two females named Maïa and Luna. One entirely black, the other white with a few black patches, like a pattern from a Rorschach test. They adore being stroked; they purr with pleasure and do nothing all day but sleep, eat, and rub against members of the family and the housemaid.

Their purring soothes me, their tenderness disarms me, and they ward off negative thoughts through their sense of what truly matters. And indeed, in the end, is there anything more important than sleep, food, and the affection of loved ones? My kitties do not judge; they care nothing for titles or honors, and complex reasoning remains entirely beyond their reach. And yet, I assure you, they lack for nothing. A charming little belly, the swaying of which is clearly visible when they run toward their bowls, shows that the household feeds them well!

I would gladly offer cats to these wild parliamentarians, these feverish journalists, and these panicked bankers.

Until we bring out the big dog—our national Poincaré—the one who will know how to growl without ever needing to bite, and who will restore calm during this memorable summer of 1926.