The trouble with a reputation like mine is that you’re bound to live up to it. It’s damnably unfair. Take General Binks or Colonel Snooks, true-blue military muttonheads, brave as bedamned, athirst for glory, doing their dutiful asinine bit in half a dozen campaigns, but never truly catching the public eye, and at last selling out and retiring from obscurity to Cheltenham with a couple of wounds and barely enough to pay the club subscription, foot the memsahib’s whist bill, send Adolphus to a crammer ’cos the Wellington fees are beyond them, and afford a drunken loafer to neglect the garden of Ramilles or Quatre Bras or whatever they choose to call their infernal villas. That’s Snooks and Binks; profitable labour to the grave, and no one notices.
And then take Flashy, born poltroon and wastrel, pitchforked against his will into the self-same expeditions and battles, scared out of his wits but surviving by shirking, turning tail, pretence, betrayal, and hiding behind better men – and emerging at the end o’ the day, by blind luck and astonishing footwork, with a V.C., knighthood, a string of foreign decorations as long as Riley’s crime sheet, a bloody fortune in the bank, and a name and fame for derring-do that’s the talk of the Empire. Well now, Flash old son, says you, that’s compensation surely, for all the horrors unmanfully endured – and don’t forget that along the road you’ve had enough assorted trollop to fill Chelsea Barracks, with an annexe at Aldershot. And Elspeth, the most undeserved benefit of all.
Furthermore, you’ve walked with the great ones of the earth, enjoy the admiring acquaintance of your gracious Queen and half a dozen other royalties and presidents, to say nothing of ministers and other prominent rabble, and are blessed (this is the best of it) with grandlings and great-grandlings too numerous to count … so what the devil have you to complain of? Heavens, man, Binks and Snooks would give their right arms (supposing they haven’t already left ’em in the Punjab or Zululand or China, from which you escaped with a pretty whole skin) for one-fiftieth of your glory and loot. And you’ve never been found out … a few leery looks here and there, but no lasting blemishes, much. So chubbarao,a Flashy, and count yourself lucky.
Well, I do; damned lucky. But there’s been a price to pay, and I don’t mean in terror and agony and suffering. Not at all. My cavil is that having bought it cruel hard, I wasn’t left to enjoy it in peace, like Binks and Snooks. They could run up to Town to get their hair cut and drop in at the club at a moment of national crisis, and no one paid them any heed, much less expected ’em to race round to Horse Guards applying to be let loose against the Ashantis or the Dervishes or whatever other blood-drinking heathen were cayoodling round the imperial outposts. Retired, gone to grass, out of reckoning absolutely, that was Colonel Snooks and General Binks.
Ah, but Flashy was a different bag of biltong altogether. Let some daft fakir start a rising in a godforsaken corner you never heard of, or the British lion’s tail be tweaked anywhere between Shanghai and Sudan, and some journalistic busybody would be sure to recall that ’twas in that very neck of the woods that the gallant Flashy, Hector of Afghanistan, defender of Piper’s Fort, leader of the Light Brigade, won his spurs or saved the day or committed some equally spectacular folly (with his guts dissolving and praying for the chance to flee or surrender, if only they knew it). “The hour demands the man, and who better to uphold Britannia’s honour in her present need than the valiant veteran of Lucknow and Balaclava …” and so forth. They were never rash enough to suggest I should have command, but seemed to have in mind some auxiliary post of Slaughterer-General, as befitting my desperate reputation.
Not that the ha’penny press matters – but the United Service and Pall Mall do, with their raised eyebrows and faintly critical astonishment. “Ah, Flashman, lamentable business in Egypt, what? Goin’ with Wolseley, I dare say … No? You surprise me.” Dash it, you can see them thinking, man of his reputation, prime of life, don’t he know his duty, good God? If I’d had the belly of Binks or Snooks’s gout (both of ’em younger than I) I’d not be thought of, but when you’ve a lancer figure and barely a touch of grey in your whiskers and the renown of Bayard, you’re expected to be clamouring for service. And when your sovereign lady regards you pop-eyed over the tea-cups with a bland “I expect, dear Sir Harry, that you will be accompanying Sir Garnet to Egypt,” you can hardly remind her that you’re past sixty and disinclined, especially when the idiot you married in an evil hour is assuring Her Majesty that you’re champing at the bit. (Wanted me away, I suspect, so that she could cuckold me in comfort.) All round it’s a case of “No show without Flashy”, and before you can say God-help-us you’re in the desert listening to “Cock o’ the North” and trying to look as though you’re itching to come to grips with twice your weight in angry niggers.
It is, I repeat, damnably unfair, and by the autumn of ’83 I’d had enough of it. In the five years since Otto’s Congress I’d been well in the public eye, chiefly because of my supposed heroics in South Africa in ’79 – a place I’d have shunned like the plague but for Elspeth’s insatiable fondness for money, as if old Morrison’s million wasn’t enough without bothering her empty head over her cousin’s supposed mine (but I’ll record that disgusting episode another day). Then in ’82 there had been the Egyptian garboil I mentioned a moment ago; Joe Wolseley had asked for me point-blank, and with the press applauding and the Queen approving and Elspeth bursting into tears as I rogered her farewell, what the blazes could I do but fall in?
In the event it wasn’t the worst campaign I’ve seen, not by a mile; at least it was short. We only went in with great reluctance (when did Gladstone ever show anything else?) to help the Khedive quell his rebellious army, who were slaughtering Christians and vowing to drive all foreigners from the country – bad news for our Suez Canal investors (44 per cent, what?) and our lifeline to India. Joe brought ’em to heel smartly enough at Tel-el-Kebir, where the kilties massacred everything in sight, and my only bad scare was when I found myself perforce charging with the Tin Bellies at Kassassin, but by gallantly turning aside to help Baker Russell when his horse was shot, and so arriving when the golliwog infantry were already taking to their heels, I missed the worst of it, cursing my bad luck and Baker for holding me up. A good glare and loud roar, sabre in hand, work wonders; Joe said I’d been an inspiration to the Household riders, and wanted me to stay on at Cairo, but I muttered that he didn’t need me now that peace was breaking out, and his staff wallopers grinned at each other and said wasn’t that old Flashy, just?9
I was mighty glad to be home by Christmas of ’82, I can tell you, for while Egypt was quiet enough by then, I could guess it was liable to be hot enough presently, and not just with the sun. After we’d brought the Khedive’s troops back to their allegiance, the idea was that we’d withdraw, but that was all my eye (we’re there yet, have you noticed?), for down south, in the Sudan, the war drums were already beating, with the maniac Mahdi stirring up the Fuzzy-Wuzzies in a great jihad to conquer the world, with Egypt first on the list. Hell of a place the Sudan, all rock and sand and thorn and the most monstrous savages in creation; Charley Gordon, my China acquaintance, had governed it in the 70s, and spent most of his time poring over the Scriptures and chasing slavers before retiring to Palestine to watch rocks and contemplate the Infinite. Mad as a cut snake, he was, but the Sudan had gone to pot entirely after he left, and was now going to need attention – from guess who? From the Khedive’s army, led by soldiers of the Queen, that was who, whether Gladstone liked it or not, and I was shot if I was going to be one of ’em.
So I came home, along of Joe and Bimbashi Stewart and others, having served my turn – but would you believe it, in ’83 when that immortal ass Hicks was given command of the Khedive’s army, half of whom had been our enemies a few months earlier, and told to deal with the Sudan, there were those at Horse Guards with the brazen cheek to suggest that I should go out again, to serve on his staff? Since he was my junior, I was able to scotch that flat, but when word came in September that he’d gone off Mahdi-hunting at last, blowed if one of the gutter rags didn’t come out with a leaderette regretting “that the task has fallen to an officer of comparative inexperience, while such distinguished soldiers as Lord Wolseley, Major-General Gordon, and Sir Harry Flashman, men thoroughly familiar with the country and the enemy, remain at home or unemployed.”
It was the mention of Gordon’s name, more than my own, that brought the sweat out on my brow, for while no one in his senses would suggest that I should replace Hicks, there was a strong shave in the clubs that Cracked Charley would be recalled and given the job, and I knew that if he was, Flashy would be the first he’d want to enlist.10 China had given him the misguided notion that I was the devil’s own fire-eater, and just the chap to have on hand when Fuzzy charged the square. Well, soldiering under Joe Wolseley had been bad enough, but at least he was sane. Gordon? I’d as soon go to war with the town drunk. The man wasn’t safe – sticking forks in people and scattering tracts from railway carriages and accosting perfect strangers to see if they’d met Jesus lately, I ask you! No, a holiday abroad was indicated, before the Mad Sapper came recruiting.
And I’d just reached that conclusion when Blowitz’s letter, bearing that fateful second photograph, landed on the breakfast table. It couldn’t have come more pat. This is what he wrote, with more underlinings and points of admiration than Elspeth at her worst – not Times style at all:
Dearest Friend!
I write to you by Royal Command – what do you think of that!! It is true – a PRINCESS, no less! And such a Princess, plus belle et elegant, whose most Ardent Desire is to meet the gallant and renowned Sir H.F. – for reasons which I shall explain when we meet.
Come to Paris no later than October the fourth, my dear Harry. I promise you will be enchanted and oblige your best of friends and loyal comrade in destiny
Stefan O-B.
P.S. Recalling your interest in photography! I enclose a portrait of Her Royal Highness. A bientôt!
Well, wasn’t this the ticket? Elspeth was in Scotland enduring her sisters, and here was the ideal billet where I could lurk incog. while Gordon beat the bushes – and enjoy some good carnal amusement, to judge from the photograph. Not that Her Highness was an outstanding beauty, but her picture grew on me as I studied it. It showed a tall, imposing female standing proud in a splendid gown of state, a coronet on her piled blonde hair, one gloved hand resting on the arm of a throne, the other holding a plumed fan, the sash of a jewelled order over her bare shoulders, and enough bijouterie disposed about her stately person to start a bazaar. She was in profile, surveying the distance with a chilling contempt which sat perfectly on a rather horsy face with a curved high-bridged nose. Minor Mittel European royalty to the life, with the same stench-in-the-nostrils look as my darling little Irma of Strackenz, but nowhere near as pretty. Striking, though, and there were promising signs: she’d be about forty and properly saddle-broken, with the full mouth and drooping lower lip which betoken a hearty appetite, and a remarkable wasp waist between a fine full rump and upper works which would have made Miss Marie Lloyd look positively elfin. I could imagine stripping her down and watching her arrogance diminish with each departing garment. And she had an Ardent Desire to meet the gallant Sir H.F. I reached for Bradshaw.
Reading the letter again later, it struck me that there was something familiar about it; an echo of the past which I couldn’t place – until a couple of days later, the afternoon of October the third to be precise, when I was ensconced in my smoker on the Continental Mail Express, and suddenly I knew what I’d been reminded of: that doom-laden summons that had taken me to Lola Montez in Munich, oh, so long ago. There was the same slightly eccentric wording (though Blowitz’s English was a cut above that of Lola’s Chancellor – what had his name been? Aye, Lauengram) and the purport was uncannily similar: an invitation from an exotic titled woman of mystery, for reasons unstated, with a strong hint of fleshly pleasures in prospect … and what besides? In Lola’s case there had been a nightmare of terror, intrigue, imposture, and deadly danger from which I’d barely escaped with my life – oh, but that had been a Bismarck plot in the bad old days; this was jolly little Blowitz, and a doubtless spoiled and jaded piece of aristocracy in search of novelty and excitement … but how had she heard of me (Blowitz cracking me up, to be sure) and why was I worth fetching across the Channel? Odd, that – and for no reason I remembered Rudi Starnberg’s voice across the years: “She brought me all the way from Hungary”, and found myself shivering. And why no later than October the fourth?
Aye, odd … but not fishy, surely? It’s the curse of a white liver that it has you starting at shadows, imagining perils where none exist. On t’other hand, it’s been a useful storm signal over the years, and it was still at work ever so little when we pulled into the Gare du Nord.
At the sight of Blowitz on the platform, my cares dissolved. He was a trifle plumper in the cheek, a shade greyer in the whisker, but still the same joyful little bonhomme, rolling forward waving his cane with glad cries, fairly leaping up to embrace me and dam’ near butting me under the chin, chattering nineteen to the dozen as he led me out to a fiacre, and not letting me get a word in until we were seated at the self-same table in Voisin’s, when he had to leave off to attend to the maître. I couldn’t help grinning at him across the table, he looked so confounded cheery.
“Well, it’s famous to see you again, old Blow,” says I, when he’d ordered and filled our glasses. “Here’s to you, and to this mysterious lady. Now – who is she … and what does she want?”
He drank and wiped his whiskers, business-like. “The Princess Kralta. But of blood the most ancient in Europe, descended from Stefan Bathory, Arnulf of Carinthia, Barbarossa … name whom you will, she is de la royauté la plus royale – and landless, as the best monarchs are. But rich, to judge from the state she keeps – oh, and received everywhere, on terms with the highest. She is befriended of the German Emperor, for example, and –” he shot me a quizzy look “– of our old acquaintance Prince Bismarck. No-no-no,” he added hastily, “her intimacy with him is of a … how shall I say? … of an unconventional kind.”
“I’ve met some of his unconventional intimates, and I didn’t take to ’em a bit. If she’s one of his –”
“She is not one of anyone’s! I mention Bismarck only because when I first met the Princess she brought me a friendly message from him. C’est vrai, absolument! Can you guess what it was? That he bears me no ill will for my activities at the Congress of Berlin!” He shook his head, chuckling. “Can you believe it, eh?”
“No – and neither will you if you’ve any sense. That bastard never forgave or forgot in his life. Very well, ne’er mind him – what more about this Princess? Is she married?” It’s always best to know beforehand.
“There is a husband.” He shrugged. “But he does not figure.”
“Uh-huh … so, what does she want with me?”
He gave a little snort of laughter. “What do women ever want with you? Ah, but there is something else also.” He leaned forward to whisper, looking droll. “She wishes to know a secret … a secret that she believes only you can tell her.”
He sat back as the food arrived, with a cautioning gesture in case I made some indiscreet outcry, I suppose. Since I knew the little blighter’s delight in mysterious hints I just waded into the grub.
“You do not ask what it is?” he grumbled. “Ah, but of course – le flegme Britannique! Never mind, you will raise a brow when you hear, I promise!”
And I did, for I never heard an unlikelier tale in my life – all of it true, for I saw it confirmed in the little blighter’s memoirs a few years ago, and why should he lie to posterity? But even at the time I believed it because, being a crook myself, I can spot a straight tongue, and Blowitz had one.
He’d met the Princess Kralta at a diplomatic dinner, and plainly fallen head over heels – as he often did, in his harmless romantic way – and she had equally plainly given him every encouragement. “You have seen her likeness, but believe me, it tells you nothing! How to describe her … her magnétisme, the light of charm in those great blue eyes, the little toss of her silky blonde hair as she smiles, revealing the brilliancy of her small teeth – you found her portrait forbidding, non? My friend, when you see those queenly features melt into the tenderest of expressions, the animation of her darting glances, the melodious quality of her voice … ah, mais ravissante –”
“Whoa, steady lad, mind the cutlery. Liked her, did you?”
“My friend, I was enchanted!” He sighed like a ruptured poodle. “I confess it, I who have encountered the charms of the loveliest women in Europe, that the Princess Kralta wove a spell about me. And it is not only her person that allures, her exquisite elegance, her divinity of shape and movement –”
“Aye, she’s well titted out, I noticed.”
“– but the beauty of her nature, her frank friendliness and ease of deportment, the candour of her confidences …”
He babbled through the next two courses, but don’t suppose that I despised his raptures – there are women like that, and as often as not they’re not the ones of perfect feature. Angie Burdett-Coutts was no radiant looker, but she’d have caused a riot in the College of Cardinals simply by walking by, whereas the Empress of Austria, of whom more presently, was perfection of face and figure and quite as exciting as a plate of mashed turnip. I’d seen enough of la Kralta in her picture to believe that she might well have the magic, February face or no.
She’d gone out of her way to captivate Blowitz over a period of months, doing him little kindnesses, making friends with his wife, and trusting him with her most intimate confidences – which is the surest way a woman has of getting a man under her dainty thumb. Once or twice she spoke of the Berlin Congress, and Bismarck’s curiosity as to how Blowitz had got his “scoop” – it had irritated Otto that he couldn’t fathom that, and he’d told her he was determined to find out some day.
“Indeed, my friend,” says Blowitz to me as he plunged into his dessert, “she confessed to me that she had promised the Prince she would use all her womanly wiles to wring the secret from me. I admired her honesty in admitting as much, but assured her that I never, under any persuasion, betray my sources. She laughed, and told me playfully that she would continue to try to beguile the truth from me.”
“And did she succeed?”
“No – but I was content that she should try. One does nothing to discourage the attention of a lady of such fascination. I am not vain of my attractions,” sighs he, glancing ruefully at the balding little tub with ghastly whiskers reflected in the long glass on Voisin’s wall, “and I know when I am being … how would you say? … worked upon. I enjoy it, and my affection and regard for the lady are not diminished. Rather they increase as she continues to confide in me with a candour which suggests that her friendship and interest in me are true, and not merely assumed. Listen, and judge for yourself.”
And he launched into a piece of scandal which I’d have said no woman in her right mind would have confided to a journalist – not if she valued her reputation, as presumably this Kralta female did. Yet she’d confessed it, says Blowitz, to convince him how deeply she trusted him.
This was her story: she’d been staying at some fashionable spa where the German Emperor, an amiable dotard with whom, as Blowitz had said, she was on friendly terms, had sent for her in great agitation. Would she do him a favour – a service to the state and to the peace of the world? At your service, Majesty, says loyal Kralta. The Emperor had then confessed that he was damnably worried about Bismarck: the Chancellor was in a distracted state, nervous, irritable, complaining about everyone, suspicious that the Great Powers were plotting mischief against Germany, moody, obstinate, and off his oats entirely. Even now he was alone on his estate, sunk in the brooding dumps, and unless something was done he’d go to pieces altogether; international complications, possibly even war, would follow.
What Otto needed to set him to rights, said the Emperor, was an amusement, something to divert him from vexatious affairs of state – and Princess Kralta was just the girl to provide it. She must visit Bismarck’s estate in perfect secrecy, taking only her maid and enough clothing for a week’s stay; anonymous agents would drive her to the station, put her in a reserved compartment, meet her, arrange delivery of her luggage, and take care of all expenses. Her husband would have been got out of the way before her departure: the Emperor would send him to Berlin on a mission which would keep him there until after Kralta had returned to the spa. No word of her visit must be spoken; the Emperor’s part must never be mentioned.
Blowitz paused. “She agreed, without hesitation.”
“Hold on there!” says I. “Are you telling me that the German Emperor, the All-Highest Kaiser of the Fatherland, pimped for Otto Bismarck? Get away with you!”
“I am telling you,” says Blowitz primly, “precisely what the Princess told me. No more, no less, c’est tout.”
“Well, dammit, what she’s saying is that she was sent – where, Schonhausen? – to grind Otto into a good humour!”
“I do not know ‘grind’. And she did not mention Schonhausen. May I continue?”
“Oh, pray do! I’m all attention!”
“She goes to Bismarck. He asks ‘Did the Emperor send you?’ She says he did not, and that she has come to see how such a great man will receive ‘a giddy little person who ventures into the lion’s solitude’ – those were her very words to me. The Chancellor laughs, hopes it will not be a short visit, and then,” says Blowitz, poker-faced, “assists her to unpack her ‘frills and furbelows’ – her own words again – expressing gay amusement as he does so.” He shrugged and sat back, helping himself to brandy.
“Well, come on, man! What else did she tell you?”
“Only that at the end of her visit the Chancellor saw her to her landau saying: ‘I have been delighted to forget the affairs of the world for a time.’ The Princess returns to her watering-place, her husband is summoned back from Berlin, and the Emperor thanks her joyfully for saving the peace of Europe.” Blowitz swilled and sniffed his brandy. “And that, my boy, is all the lady’s tale.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! That’s one you wouldn’t send to The Times! D’you believe her?”
“Without doubt. What woman would invent such a story? Also, I know when I am being deceived.”
I didn’t disbelieve it myself – although the Emperor’s part took a little swallowing. And yet … if he truly believed that a week’s rogering with a royal flashtail would put Otto in trim and keep the ship of state on a smooth course, why not? Bismarck would be all for it – he’d been the town bull around Schonhausen in his young days, and would be just as randy in his sixties. Well, it was an interesting piece of gossip, and confirmed that the haughty Princess Kralta was partial to mutton – come to think of it, Blowitz had a gift for encountering females who were patriotic riders, hadn’t he just? And of introducing ’em to me, bless him. Well, well. I returned to the point – which had suddenly become clear to me.
“Well, Blow, I’m grateful to you for rehearsing the lady’s character for me,” says I. “Very instructive, possibly useful. Of course,” I went on carelessly, “the secret which she believes she can learn only from me is the one that Bismarck’s dying to know – how you got the Berlin Treaty in advance. That’s it, ain’t it?”
For once he was taken flat aback. His blue eyes popped, his jaw dropped, and then he burst out laughing.
“Oh, but you should have been a journalist!” cries he. “And I hoped to amaze you with my dénouement! How did you guess?”
“Come, now, what other secret do I have that she could want to know? But if you’re willing to let her have it, why not tell her yourself?” I nearly added that he could have charged her a delightful price for it (as I fully intended to, given the chance), but I knew that wasn’t his style. Odd fish, Blowitz; ready and willing to put me in the way of fleshly delights, as he’d shown in the past, but strict Chapel himself. He regarded me seriously.
“I shall tell you,” says he slowly. “The Princess’s confession to me of her visit to Prince Bismarck moved me deeply. En fait, she was saying to me: ‘Here is my trust, ma confiance, my honour as a woman; I place it in your hands, Blowitz.’ Oh, my dear ’Arree, quel geste! What trust, what proof of devoted affection!” So help me, he was starting to pipe his eye. “From such a woman, so worldly, so intelligent, so sensible, it could not fail to awaken in me emotions of gratitude and obligation. It gave her the right to demand from me an equal proof of my friendship, my trust in her. You, my friend, will see that, I know.”
Well, I didn’t, in fact, but I ain’t a besotted Bohemian. He sighed, long and solemn, like an old horse farting.
“When she renews her request that I divulge my secret, I feel I can no longer refuse. It means much to her, since it will enable her to gratify Prince Bismarck, and it can bring no harm to me. I resolve, then, to tell her.”
He took another gulp of brandy, leaned towards me, and became dramatic, as though he were telling a ghost story in whispers.
“We are in her salon, seated upon a sofa that stands against a great mirror covering the wall behind us. The salon is dim, the curtains drawn, the only light comes from a candelabrum on the table before us. As I prepare to speak, I see one of the candles flicker. I am astonished. All doors and windows are closed, so whence comes this draught? I move myself on the sofa – and a zephyr from the direction of the mirror fans my cheek. What can it mean, I ask myself. And then – I know!”
You never saw such desperate bad acting – hands raised, eyes and mouth agog, worse than Irving hearing the bells. Then he glared like a mad marmoset, one finger out-thrust.
“I realise I am the victim of treachery, which I hate above all else in the world! I closely scrutinise the mirror! What do I see but that a gap has opened in the glass! So! One stands behind the mirror, a witness to take down what I say! I rise, pointing to the flickering flame, then to the cloven mirror, just as the Princess puts out a hand to remove the candlestick. I address her in a voice which I vainly strive to render calm. ‘Too late, madame!’ I cry. ‘I have understood!’ She touches an electric button, a door opens, a butler enters, and without a word the Princess indicates to me the way to the door. I bow. I withdraw. I leave the house.”
He dried up there abruptly, looking expectant, so I said that after such a thrilling tale I was surprised that five masked chaps with stilettoes hadn’t leaped on him in the hall. He said stiffly that they hadn’t, and the mortification he felt at her duplicity had been keener than any stab wounds. I said that I gathered he was still on terms with the lady, though, and he blew out his cheeks in resignation.
“Que voulez-vous? Am I one to bear a grudge against a beautiful woman? True, our relationship cooled for a time – until a few weeks ago, in effect, when she begged me to visit her, and pleaded that the importance she had attached to learning my secret had made it imperative that she have a witness. Her contrition was expressed with such charm and sincerity that I forgave her at once, and she then confessed that she had a favour to ask of me. I had once told her, had I not, that among my friends I numbered the celebrated Sir Harry Flashman? I replied that you were my best of friends, and she sighed – oh, such a sigh! – and cried out ‘Ah, that hero! What I would give to meet him!’ I assured her that it could be arranged – and then,” he twinkled mischievously, “it occurred to me that here was an opportunity to repay you, cher ’Arree, for your great service to me in Berlin. ‘It happens,’ I told her, ‘that Sir Harry also possesses the secret of the Congress treaty. No doubt he could be persuaded to divulge it to one so charming as yourself.’ My friend, she was overjoyed, and urged me to effect an introduction without delay.” He beamed at me, stroking his whiskers. “You see my thought – while I do not doubt your ability to captivate a lady who already holds you in the warmest regard, it will do no harm if you are also in a position to answer a question to which she attaches such importance. It will amuse you to be … persuaded, non?”
I studied the innocent-cunning face, wondering. “Subtle little devil, ain’t you, Blow? Why are you so obliging? You know how I’ll make her pay for the secret – are you using me as a penance for her sins, by any chance?”
“My dear friend! Ah, but that is unkind! When I have no thought but to amuse you! Oh, perhaps I am also taking my little revenge on la Grande Princesse by making her a suppliant to one less foolishly sympathetic than Blowitz. But who knows,” he tittered, “it may end by amusing her also!”
“If you mean that she’ll find me a welcome change from Otto Bismarck, I’m flattered,” says I, and asked when I’d meet the lady. He became mysterious again, saying it would be for tomorrow night, but wouldn’t tell me where. “Be patient, my friend. I wish your rendezvous to be a surprise, what you call a treat – my petit cadeau to you. Believe me, it will be a most novel meeting-place – oh, but romantic! You will be delighted, I promise, and I will have made you a trifling repayment towards the debt I owe you for Berlin.”
So I humoured him, and agreed to be at my hotel, the Chatham, the following evening, with my valise all packed. His mention of Berlin had reminded me of Caprice, but he had not seen her in two years. “After the Congress I heard of her in Rome and Vienna, but nothing since, and I do not inquire, since I suppose her work is of a secret nature still. Ah, but she had the true gift of intrigue, la petite Caprice! Decidedly she must marry an ambassador of promise; then her talents will have full play, eh?”
a Be quiet! (Hind.)