There was a gasp, and then a murmur, and another, spontaneous and prolonged, round of applause. The crowlike woman glanced around her, taken aback, then pulled out a notepad and began to scribble.

“Anything else?” Sophie asked.

There was silence from the press, and she said “Please enjoy yourselves,” and stepped delicately down into the crowd. They swallowed her up, and Montfort could not see her anymore.

As he watched, the first grand lady, in a ball gown of yellow satin, made her way to the counter. She was holding a large necklace of pink stones. Hugh thought he recognized it; it was a magnificent piece, tourmaline set with alexandrite, that rare stone that changes colour in the light and costs more than a fine diamond.

He didn’t think that necklace would go for much shy of three quarters of a million euros.

A Chanel-clad assistant, without any fanfare, spoke quietly to the lady and began wrapping it up; tissue paper and pink satin, tying up the ribbons, as a gentleman followed, carrying a bracelet, a cuff of hammered gold, set with cabochon rubies, a baroque piece; and then another lady, holding something too small for Montfort to make out. And as Hugh watched, he gained a perverse satisfaction from seeing the rush to the counters; these people, members of the most exclusive set in Paris, actually queuing up—they were too well-bred to jostle—to purchase gems, pieces that started at around fifteen thousand euros.

Every assistant in the place was occupied; it was a storm, a very monied, very polite, but insistent, storm. Montfort recognized it from its less-exalted parallels with his own collections. The dowagers did not shove each other out of the way, but the choice of pieces was shrinking, and with polite insistence they were manoeuvring to get to the open cases, to select a Massot piece from this evening—not to be left out.

Hugh did not think there would be any buyer’s remorse in the morning, either. He had fetched his own aigrette from the safe several times, just to look at it; the intricate workmanship and sheer beauty of it had never failed to please him; the expense, in retrospect, seemed quite immaterial.

He glanced out over the crowd. Sophie Massot was out of sight. She was at the centre of a knot of guests; all of them, he felt sure, must be congratulating her.

Montfort handed his empty champagne glass to a waiter and threaded his way towards her. Sophie saw him arriving; she murmured polite excuses to her admirers, and came over to him, smiling proudly, her pink diamonds sparkling.

“Well?” she said.

“Impressive. I don’t think it will change the result of the vote, but I concede you may have made it interesting.”

“From you, high praise indeed,” she said.

Montfort wanted to kiss her, quite badly. He contented himself with a slight bow.

“I must be going.”

“To adjust your bid, perhaps?” she said, boldly.