If there were any lingering insecurities still within her, she did not show them in the slightest. Nor did she let slip even a hint of the immense strain she was under because of her diaries. She was magnificent, carefree, delightful. Every single man in the room – Stone had rented one of the private dining suites – fell under her power within seconds without her having to do anything at all except breathe. She was charming, intelligent, witty, serious as required. Never coquettish – that would have been inappropriate – but always warm and thoughtful in manner. She even managed to restrain her distaste for the other women there; to them she was polite, and it only came through once that she regarded their presence as a waste of space. Why would anyone need more than one woman in the room, when she was that woman? She made the dinner party, which was vibrant, glittering as a result, instead of the rather dull dinner of businessmen it would otherwise have been. Stone was not a natural host and I could not see what the point of the occasion was as far as he was concerned. He provided a setting in which Elizabeth could shine, and she took the opportunity to do so, performing the role without a fault or false step.
I found myself sitting at the end of the table, between the wife of a banker, and a senior stockbroker from Petiet, Kramstein, then one of the better-bottomed undertakings at the Bourse. The one was amusing, the other useful. Madame Kollwitz was immunised from any possibility of jealousy or envy by the fact that she was stout, about fifty-five years old and had never been beautiful. This allowed her abundant good humour and perception to come to the fore.
'And you have to talk to me, when you would rather be in orbit around the sun,' she said with a twinkle in her eye once we had disposed of the usual preliminaries.
'Certainly not . . .' I began robustly.
'Oh, of course you do, who would not? She is very lovely and by all accounts quite sweet. Is that not the case?'
'I believe she is very pleasant.'
'A woman whom all men love. A terrible fate for any young girl, I think. Still, I'm sure she can look after herself. Tell me, how truly besotted is Mr Stone with her, do you know?'
'I didn't realise . . .'
'You are most unobservant for a journalist,' she commented. 'She has been with him to the opera twice in the past fortnight, and it is reliably reported that both of them detest the opera. Each goes to please the other. Do you think someone should tell them that they are inflicting mutual torture for no good reason?'
'I do not intend to.'
'No. Still, it would be a prize, would it not? Another insult to France from our enemy, to have our most glittering jewel carried off?'
'I don't think . . .'
'Oh, look at him!' she said scornfully, brushing my doubts aside. 'If you make allowances for the fact that he has not the slightest idea how to woo or seduce a woman, look at the way he is talking to her. Admittedly, he may be telling her all about profit ratios on machine-gun manufacture, but look at the way his head turns towards her, look at his eyes! And look how easily she deals with it as well; not rejecting, but not encouraging, either. Poor man. It could cost him a pretty penny before all is over.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Have you never wondered where all these diamonds come from, dear boy?'
'No,' I said, with, I hope, a credible tone of surprise in my voice. 'I assumed she was rich.'
She looked at me pityingly.
'Well, um . . .'
Fortunately, my attention was taken over by the stockbroker on my right, whose conversation was less fascinating but more useful. We established our mutual credentials, with me stressing my current labours writing on developments in French banking, the evolution of the capital markets, the poor state of the French Bourse in comparison to vibrancy of the London stock market. He was surprised that a journalist should be so interested in such things.
'For example,' I said, 'French banks have never taken up the opportunities of empire. I would have thought the possibility of loans to your colonies would have stimulated immense activity in the capital markets, yet I see very little.'
Monsieur Steinberg nodded. 'We are risk averse here,' he said. 'There have been too many disasters for people to trust the credit markets. And it is all a question of trust. Not, at the moment, something our colleagues in London have to worry about. The banks in London succeed in the most outrageous operations because people think they will succeed. They have a century's worth of trust to call on. But they do abuse that trust sometimes; it will rebound on them, and maybe sooner than they think.'
'Really? Why is that?'
'Well,' he said, leaning forward just a little, 'there are strange stories going around, you know. About Barings.'
'Dear me. What are they up to now?'
'A good question. I hear Barings may be having surprising difficulty getting takers for an Argentinian loan it is floating.'
