Stone's Fall

He was, fortunately, about as serious a journalist as I was, but had been in Paris for nearly twenty years by this stage. He had written a book review in the Spectator in the early seventies and, as he had shown a willingness to live abroad, had been offered the job as Paris correspondent of The Times on this basis alone. His reports were few and far between, and always couched in such vague language that it was often impossible to ascertain what, exactly, was the subject. For Barclay, the importance of an event varied in direct proportion to the importance of the person who had given him the information, for he was a most fearful snob, and could work himself into a lather of excitement over an invitation to a prestigious salon, or di

He was delighted to see me, and not in the slightest perturbed either that no one had asked his opinion about my coming, or by my utter lack of experience. 'Very few people in England have any interest in what goes on outside the Empire,' he said cheerfully, 'as long as it does not affect them. For the most part you can write anything you wish, and for all important events a straight translation from a reputable Paris paper will do excellently well. I wouldn't bother ru

I told him that he was welcome to keep all the book reviews. 'I thought,' I said tentatively, 'I might write some stories about the Bourse.'

He frowned. 'If you wish, go ahead. I wouldn't find it very interesting myself. But it takes all sorts, of course.'

'I was given a few names,' I added. 'It would be rude not to call on them.'

'Good heavens, yes. Go ahead. Please don't think I intend to direct you in any way. As long as you write one story every fortnight, more or less, everyone will be delighted with you.'

'I'll do my best,' I said.

'I did one yesterday, in fact,' he said. 'So we're in the clear for a while. If you do the next one . . .'

I said I thought I could manage to write something in a fortnight, and he leaned back in his chair, beaming at me. 'Splendid. That's that taken care of. Now, where are you living?'

In fact, I was in a hotel and ending up staying there for the next year; it was the cheapest option, as I did not want the expense of a household, and it was perfectly adequate. Domesticity has never been one of my great desires in life and certainly was not then; a comfortable bed and decent food are my sole requirements, and the Hôtel des Phares – in reality, a few rooms above a bar, with an obliging landlord whose wife was happy to do my laundry and cook some food – provided both.

I will pass over my daily life, as much of it was of little interest and consisted mainly in laying down those webs of information and making those acquaintances which journalists and other seekers of information require. How this is done is fairly obvious, and consists primarily in making oneself as personable and harmless as possible, in creating a void which others seek to fill through conversation. From such gossip come hints and clues which lead, sometimes, to other things. I made my acquaintance widely for I found the French both charming and welcoming, quite unlike their reputation. I cultivated the traders of the Bourse, the playwrights of the Latin Quarter, and the politicians and diplomats and soldiers who scattered themselves at random across the city. They all, I believe, considered me somewhat dull and without any opinions of my own; it was not my role to have any.

And in August I went to Biarritz, where the new rich of the Republic went to mingle with old names and titles and keep themselves properly distant from the People, a group they admired in principle, but did not actually want to have anything to do with on a social level. It was a glorious sight to watch, for a brief while, a testament both to the wealth of the rich, and the capacity of the French to amuse themselves. All of French society that mattered squeezed itself into a stretch of coastline bordered by the Hôtel du Palais to the north, and the Hôtel Métropole to the south, these two separated by a mile or so of glorious beach, and many dozen villas of exuberant and fanciful design. The town was at the peak of its prosperity then; Queen Victoria herself had come to visit the year before, the Prince of Wales showed up every year. Princess Natalie of Romania lived in exile in a handsome villa up the road; the first Russian grand dukes were putting in an appearance. The English had colonised the entire region from Pau to the Pyrenees to the coast, apparently forgetting that Aquitaine was no longer theirs.

For weeks on end, all day and all night, there was an endless round of entertainment for the well co

The poor Princess was a drab and dreary woman, alas. A perfectly sweet temper and a kindly soul, but she had only her tragic situation and title to recommend her to the very demanding French, who expect their women to be beautiful, intelligent, elegant, charming and fascinating at all times and in all circumstances. The Princess was thoughtful, plain, serious and not given to smiling for fear of showing her bad teeth. But she was a princess, so was bound to command the respect of these devoted egalitarians.

Her reign as the most important woman in Biarritz was as insecure as her claim to the throne of Romania had been; pretenders constantly appeared to challenge her. None was more dangerous than the Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala, a woman of exceptional allure who was making her first trip to Biarritz that year, and who had made the town, collectively, lose its head in excitement. French society – far more than English – was remarkably good at producing such people, or at adopting them. They formed a focus for men, let other women know what they should be wearing, created gossip to fill up di

To be the object of fascination is a very considerable accomplishment; it requires impeccable ma