I had never even considered that, but it was easy enough to dismiss it. 'You know the Ambassador?'
Stone nodded.
'Do I need to say more then?'
He smiled. 'Not the most effective of men, I agree. Nonetheless, I think you should keep him informed.'
'I think I will go and see Netscher,' I said. 'It's not as if I will be divulging anything which isn't going to be common knowledge in a day or so. Besides, he might well know all about it. If he can be persuaded to help in some way . . .'
Stone stood. 'It is worth a try, I suppose. As you say, it can't do much harm now. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a dinner appointment.'
'Oh, I do beg your pardon!' I said. 'I have taken up too much of your time.'
'On the contrary; it has been most interesting. Ah . . .'
'Yes?'
'Well, you may need to contact me in the next few days. Should I not be here, then you might call at the Countess's house.'
He said it quite calmly, but I could quite plainly sense the awkwardness underlying his words. Stone was not a sophisticated man of the world; he was perfectly incapable of passing off such a statement in a matter-of-fact manner, however hard he tried.
Why do French bankers insist on living so far away? The richest had migrated out of Paris entirely, and congregated upriver in St-Germain-en-Laye, miles away. There they had their pocket châteaux, the huge grounds, the children, and the servants, all the space they needed, apart from the further estates they kept in the country, the vineyards in Bordeaux or in Burgundy. So much easier if they had congregated in the French equivalent of Mayfair or Belgravia, as English bankers did.
When I got up the next morning, after only a couple of hours' sleep, and took the tram to St-Germain, I had neither appointment nor guarantee of finding Netscher at home. I wasn't even certain I'd be able to get through the main gate to the house. But I managed, although I had to climb over a fence and wade through brambles to overcome the gate problem, then brave barking dogs, a virtual schoolroom of screaming children, three maids and a nanny – all belonging to Netscher
Netscher, however, was a gentleman; my unorthodox arrival and slightly weary appearance did not upset him one jot, even though it was Saturday. Instead, he had me shown into his office, disappeared to make his apologies to his family. Then he returned, announcing that he had asked for breakfast to be brought.
'You do not look like someone who is capable of surviving an encounter with my grandchildren,' he said with a smile.
'That is kind. And I apologise for my arrival. But I believe it is important. Do you remember the conversation we had a while back at the Countess von Futak's salon?'
'About—?'
'About the vulnerability of the City of London.'
'Ah, yes. I remember it well. You seemed quite sceptical, I recall.'
'Are you aware of what is happening? About to happen, I should say.'
'I have heard that Barings may experience difficulties in finding subscribers to an Argentinian loan it has been proposing. Is that what you mean?'
'Yes. And you realise the consequences?'
He nodded.
'Is that what you were referring to at the salon?'
He looked at me carefully, clearly weighing what to say next. That was enough, of course, but not enough to continue the conversation.
'It certainly fits the picture I laid out.'
'I am hardly divulging a great secret if I say that the Bank of England will be hard put to meet the demands that are likely to be placed on it in the coming week or so. And that the refusals and the withdrawing of bullion are too neatly bound together to be anything other than a concerted operation.'
'That had occurred to me also.'
'The Bank will need assistance. For its friends to rally around in time of need.'
'Ah,' he said, 'but however well considered the Bank may be by its peers, I think you can say that England is not well looked upon in general. That is a constant in French thinking, whatever the Government, as I have no doubt you are aware. It has friends, of course but, alas, those friends have few friends themselves.'
'Meaning what, exactly?'
'Well, you see, my dear sir, France is stricken. It wants revenge, but as yet has no clear notion of how to take that. It was defeated in 1870, and not just defeated but humiliated. It lost some of its most valuable provinces to Germany. It had to pay to make the invader go away. Five billion francs to pay for the cost of the Germans invading our country and stealing our land. Is it surprising that there is one thought only, in the mind of the people? Have you been to the Place de la Concorde? Seen the statues of the great cities of France? The statue of Strasbourg is permanently wreathed in black; flowers are put there daily, as on a grave. Revenge, my dear sir. We want revenge.'
