CHAPTER 16

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 fils – before I penetrated the main house, knocked and sat, looking very grumpy and feeling not unlike a travelling salesman, in the main hallway.

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.'

He stopped to make sure that I had enough to eat, then fussed and apologised for not having offered me anything to drink. The children were still playing in the garden, all bundled up against the cold, catching the weak morning sunshine. Their squeals of excitement came drifting through the closed windows.

'But how to go about it?' he went on eventually. 'If we fight the German Empire alone, we will be defeated again. We have no friends, except countries like Italy or Spain, which are of no use to us. The Habsburg Empire is tied to Germany, the Russians repel us, the English oppose us at every turn throughout the world. So some people begin to mutter that this is insoluble, that there is a better way than war to regain what we have lost. Forget Germany for a while, and make common cause against England. Befriend Russia, cripple England, then turn back to the problem of Germany.

'And a second group believes that this is all fantasy, the posturings of people who do not understand the slightest thing about the way the world works, who think that the clash of nations has not changed since the days of Napoleon. Such people say that France will not be strong when it triumphs, but that it will triumph when it is strong. And a nation grows strong in peace, when it can devote itself with one mind to accumulating capital and growing industries. As England has done.'

'Bankers, you mean?'

'The most despised of all. It was people like the Rothschilds who conjured the five billion francs out of thin air to pay off the Kaiser in the 1870s, and yet they are reviled as manipulative Jews, fattening themselves on the labours of others. The socialists ran around Paris shouting slogans; the politicians cowered in Bordeaux; the generals made excuses; and bankers went to work evicting the enemy with an efficiency the army could never imagine. Yet who is admired, who hated?

'It is not money that corrupts politics, but politics that corrupt money. All politicians have their price, and sooner or later they come with their hand out. Do you think that a Rothschild or a Reinach or a Baring can be corrupted? In terms of morality, a banker and a beggar are similar; money matters little to them. One has it, the other does not want it. Only those who want but do not have are liable to be corrupted. That is the vast majority of mankind and nearly all the politicians I have ever met.'

'And your point . . . ?'

'My point is that England's natural allies in France are, unfortunately, the most hated. Obviously, the collapse of the London credit market would be disastrous, for trade, for investment, for industry. All countries would be weakened, generations of capital accumulation would go for nought. Alas, there are many who do not see that a short-term triumph bought at the cost of long-term misery is no bargain. And any house in France which comes to the aid of its brothers in London would swiftly be condemned as an enemy. Particularly if it is Jewish.'

'So you will not help?'

'I must. Barings is foolish and arrogant, yet it must not fall, however much it deserves to do so. But assistance will only be possible if the Government puts itself behind this; it cannot be through the actions of banks alone.'

This was a long way out of my area of competence, and I had to work hard to keep a calm head about it.

'What would the price be?'

Netscher smiled. 'A high one.'

'But who are they? Are we dealing with Government policy, or not?'

'You assume governments are coherent. It is better to assume there are factions. And factions break up and recombine in different shapes. It is more a question of how to fragment the pieces and put them back together in a way better suited to your requirements. For example, if the financial interests in Paris were to approach the Bank of France and speak with one voice, say that it must come to the aid of the Bank of England, then our opinion would undoubtedly be heard. However, there are others who will argue for a more dramatic policy.'