Looking back, I guess Blowitz’s “treat” was a sight to see. The first of anything usually is, and the inauguration which took place in Paris that Sunday night was historic, in a Froggy sort of way. If I wasn’t unduly impressed, Blowitz himself was partly to blame; one evening of his company was always about my limit, and his enthusiasm for his “petit cadeau” was such that I was quite put off beforehand, and a day spent loafing in the hotel hadn’t raised my spirits. The small unease that had been in my mind on the Channel crossing had returned, as it always does when I ain’t quite sure what I’m being pushed into, or why, and when Blowitz collected me from the Chatham as dusk was falling, I was carrying a decided hump – all the greater ’cos common sense told me I’d no reason for it.
Blowitz was in a fine excitement, greeting me exuberantly, telling the cabby to make all haste to the Place de Strasbourg, and parrying my inquiries with a waggishness which set my teeth on edge: all would be revealed presently; yes, we had a small journey to our rendezvous with Princess Kralta, but everything was arranged, and I would be transported in more ways than one – this with a hysterical giggle as he bounced up and down on his seat, urging the driver to hurry. I fought down an urge to kick the little chatterbox out of the cab, and consoled myself with the thought that presently I’d be having my wicked way with that fine piece of blue-blooded batter; the vision of her imperious figurehead and strapping form had been in my mind all day, competing with my vague unease, and now that the reality was in prospect, I was becoming a mite impatient.
Shortly before seven we pulled up at the canopied entrance of the Gare de l’Est, Blowitz clamouring for porters and hurrying me into the concourse – so our “small journey” was to be by rail, which meant, I supposed, that Madame’s mansion lay in one of the fashionable districts outside the city.
The station seemed uncommon busy for a Sunday night. There was a great crowd milling under the electric lamps, but Blowitz bustled through like a tug before a liner, flourishing a token and announcing himself with his usual pomposity to a blue-coated minion who conducted us through a barrier to a less-crowded platform where knots of passengers and uniformed railway officials were waiting beside a train. All eyes were turned to it, and I have to say it looked uncommon smart and polished, gleaming blue and gold under the lights, but otherwise ordinary enough, the steam hissing up from beneath the engine with that pungent railway smell, the porters busy at the five long coaches, on one of which the curtains were drawn back to reveal the glowing pink interior of a dining salon – and yet there was an unwonted hush about the working porters, an excitement among the throng watching from the barrier, and an air of expectancy in the little groups on the platform. Blowitz stopped, clutching at my arm and staring at the train like a child in a toy shop.
“Ah, gaze upon it!” cries he. “Is it not the train of trains – the ultimate, l’apogée, le dernier cri of travel! Oh, my boy, who was the genius who said ‘Let the country build the railway, and the railway will build the country’? And not only a country – now a continent, a world!” He flourished a hand. “Behold that which will be called the monarch of the rails, as it prepares for its first journey!” He turned to beam up at me, his eyes glistening moistly. “Yes, this is my surprise, my treat, my petit cadeau to you, dearest of friends – to be one of the select band who will be the pioneers on this historic voyage! You and I, ’Arree, and a mere handful of others – we alone will share this experience, the envy of generations of travellers yet to come, the first to ride upon the magic carpet of the steel highway – l’Express Orient!”
The name meant nothing then, since this was only the inception of what I suppose is now the most famous train on earth – and to be honest, it still don’t mean that much. I’m a steamship man, myself; they don’t rattle or jolt, I don’t mind the occasional heave, and the feeling of being snug and safe appeals to my poltroon nature – once aboard, the world can’t get at you, and if danger threatens you can usually take to the boats or swim for it. Trains I regard as a necessary nuisance, but with Blowitz bouncing and pawing my sleeve I was bound to be civil.
“Well, much obliged, Blow,” says I. “Handsome of you. It looks a capital train, as trains go – but how far is it going, eh?” It didn’t look district line, exactly, but my question was ignored.
“Capital! As trains go!” squawks he, flinging up his hands. “Milles tornades! This you say of the supreme train de luxe! A veritable palace upon wheels, the reassertion of privilege in travel! Why, thanks to my good friend Nagelmacker, le haute monde may be carried to the ends of the continent in the luxury of the finest hotel, sleeping and waking in apartments of elegance and comfort, dining on the superb cuisine of a Burgundian chef, enjoying perfect service, splendid wines, everything of the best! And all this,” he concluded triumphantly, “for two thousand miles, from Paris to Constantinople, in a mere ninety hours, less than –”
“What’s that? You ain’t getting me to Constantinople!”
He crowed with laughter, taking my arm to urge me forward. “No, no, that is for me, not for you, cher ’Arree! I travel on, about my business, which will be to seek interviews with ministers and crowned heads en route, with a grand finale in Constantinople, where I hope to obtain audience of the Sultan himself. Oh, yes, Blowitz works, while you –” he glanced roguishly from me to the train “– journey only as far as Vienna, in the company of royalty more agreeable by far. Aha, that marches, eh? A day and a night in her charming company, and then – the city of the waltz, the Tokay, of music and romance, where you may dally together by the banks of the enchanted Danube –”
I managed to stem his Cook’s advertising at last. “You mean she’s on the train?”
He raised a finger, glancing round and dropping his voice. “Officially, no – the sleeping coach reserved for ladies will be unoccupied until Vienna. However,” he nodded towards one of the darkened coaches, “for such a distinguished passenger as Her Highness, accommodation has been found. And now, my immovable Englishman,” cries he grinning all over his fat cheeks, “you will tell me at last that you are glad you came to Paris, and that Blowitz’s little gift pleases you!”
Whatever I replied must have satisfied him, for he bore me off to meet the other passengers, all of whom seemed to know him, but in fact I wasn’t at all sure that I liked his “petit cadeau”. I’d come to France to skulk and fornicate in peace, not to travel; on the other hand, I’d never visited Vienna, which in those days was reckoned first among all the capitals of Europe for immoral high jinks, and a day and a night of luxurious seclusion with Her Highness should make for an amusing journey. The last railroad rattle I’d enjoyed had been the voluptuous Mrs Popplewell on the Baltimore line in ’59, and rare fun it had been – until she pitched me off the train, and I had to hightail it for dear life with the Kuklos in hot pursuit. Still, the Three Fates were unlikely to be operating in Austria – oh, the blazes with it, what was I fretting for?a So I exchanged courtesies with the others, of whom I remember only the celebrated Nagelmacker, boss of the line, who looked like a Sicilian bandit but was all courtesy, and a Something-or-other Effendi, a fat beard from the Turkish Embassy; there were various scribblers and a swarm of railway directors, Frog and Belgique mostly, making about two score all told.
And then there was a sudden bustle, and we were being herded aboard, with minions directing us to our compartments – I remember Blowitz and I were in Number 151, which seemed odd on such a small train – and whistles were blowing and guards shouting, and from our window we could see the mob at the barrier hurrahing and throwing up their hats, and officials on the platform were waving, and the carriage doors were closed, crash! crash! crash!, a last whistle shrilled – and then a strange silence fell over the Gare de l’Est, and I guess little Blowitz’s enthusiasm must have had its effect, for I remember feeling a strange excitement as the train quivered ever so little, the steam rushed hissing past our window, there was a faint clank of buffers, a gentle rumble of wheels beneath our feet, and we were gliding away smoothly and ever so slowly, the waving figures on the platform passing from sight in succession, and then we were out of the station and I was thinking, you’ve been in some odd vanguards, Flashy, from the Forty-Niners to the Light Brigade, and here’s another for you, and Blowitz snapped shut his hunter and shook my hand, gulping with emotion – gad, he was a sentimental little barrel.
“Sept heures et un, précisément,” says he reverently. “L’Express Orient parti!”
He was in a state of non-alcoholic intoxication if ever I saw one, exclaiming in delight over every convenience and decoration in our cabin, and inviting me to marvel at the fine upholstered furniture, the glossy panelling, the neatly-concealed little basin in a corner by the door, the array of lights and buttons, the hidden cupboards and drawers, the velvet curtains, and the rest. Every second word of his babble was “magnifique!” or “superbe!” or “merveilleux!” and once even “top-hole, I declare!”, and I couldn’t deny that it was. As it turned out, my first journey on the Orient Express was to be my last, but I remember it as the best-appointed train I ever struck, and delighted Blowitz by saying so.11
“You will find no more splendid accommodation in Vienna!” cries he. “Which reminds me, you should stay at the Golden Lamb on the Praterstrasse, rather than the Archduke Charles; give my name to Herr Hauptmann and you will receive every attention. And his table is all that could be desired – ah, mais écoutez! Even as I speak, le diner est servi! Allons, mettons-nous!”
That was another score for the Orient Express: we were hardly out of Paris before we had the nosebags on, and I have to concede that there was nothing wrong with the grub on offer in the opulent dining salon with its little pink shades and snowy cloths and silver and crystal and swift service. Blowitz almost burst into tears of gluttony at the sight of it, and stuffed himself to ecstasy, going into raptures at each arriving course, and reproaching me for my apparent lack of appetite; in fact I was sharp-set, but ate and drank in moderation, for my mind was on the ladies’ sleeping-coach where I supposed la Kralta would be dining in anonymous seclusion; you don’t want to be bloated when the charge is sounded. The food and wine had its effect, though; my blues had vanished, and I was beginning to enjoy the luxurious comfort. Presently, when Blowitz had engulfed his last marron glacé and staggered afoot, gasping blessings on the chef, we made our way to the little observation platform for a smoke before going our separate ways. He had given me the number of Madame’s voiture in the ladies’ car, and said with knowing chuckles that he imagined he would have No. 151 to himself for the night.
“You will hardly wish to join the excursion at Strasbourg, which we reach at five o’clock in the morning,” sniggers he. “Oh, yes, I shall take it – no rest for le pauvre Blowitz – and I confess I am still too excited to sleep anyway! Oh, my friend, what a journey! I can hardly believe it! Strasbourg, Vienna, Budapest, Bucharest … we glide through them all, the jewels of Europe, and at last the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn! I cannot prevail on you to make the whole journey? No, well, it may be best that you alight with Her Highness at Vienna – only Nagelmacker’s trusted few know of her presence, but it could hardly be secret after other ladies join us, and we wish no gossip, eh?” He tapped his booze-enriched nose. “My boy, I wish you joy of your adventure … ah, but one thing! In divulging our little secret, you will make no mention of La Caprice by name; that must remain confidential always. Now, to my arms!” He embraced me as closely as his pot-belly permitted. “We shall meet again before Vienna. A bientôt!”
He toddled off rejoicing to the salon, and I finished my cigar, watching the dark woods and fields flow past at thirty miles an hour. Then I made my leisurely way back through the salon, where Blowitz and the boys were plainly intent on making a night of it; from the laughter and jollity I guessed they’d be singing ere long. In our sleeping coach the attendants were making up the berths, one above t’other as on shipboard; whether Blowitz or Nagelmacker had warned them to look the other way, I don’t know, but none of ’em gave me so much as a glance as I passed through the communicating door to the ladies’ coach, closed it behind me, and found myself in the long empty corridor which ran past the doors of the untenanted compartments to the front baggage car.
It was quieter here, with only the rumble of wheels and the faint creak of coachwork. The number on the nearest door suggested that Madame’s cabin was at the far end, and I paused beneath the dim night-light over the attendant’s empty stool to consider my tactics. It was a novel situation, you see, even for as practised a ram as yours truly: how d’you set about a proud beauty who’s probably ready to ride in return for information, but whom you’ve never met? Question of etiquette, really, and I couldn’t recall a similar case. I might approach her à la cavalier, all courtly grace and Flash gallantry, giving her the chance to pretend (?) willing surrender, thus respecting the conventions and prolonging the fun; or I could stride in with “Evening, ma’am, fine weather, what? Strip away!” which had answered splendidly with little Duchess Irma … not that she was a total stranger; we’d met at our wedding. But recalling the haughty mien and fine proportions of Princess Kralta, I suspected that jollying her into action might be a bore, while on t’other hand she was too big to wrestle into submission in the confines of a sleeping berth … Quite a dilemma, and I was getting monstrous randy just thinking about it, so I decided to play the bowling as it came, strode down the swaying corridor, and knuckled the walnut.
“Wer ist es?” says a female voice, and not knowing the German for Roger the Lodger I said it was Flashman, ein Englander und ein Edelman, and a pal of Blowitz’s. At this there was a bustle within, murmured question and brisk reply, a sudden almighty clattering of crockery, a blistering rebuke in Mittel European, and finally out popped a pert little giggler of a lady’s maid bearing a tray of dinner dishes. As she emerged, a slim be-ringed hand reached from behind the door, deftly removing a bottle from the tray, the door closed, the maid shot me a smirk and scurried into the next cabin, and I was just interpreting these as excellent omens when the rebuking voice started to call “Herein!” but changed it to “Enter!”. I tooled in, and there she stood, Her Extremely Royal Highness the Princess Kralta as ever was, clad in regal dignity and a magnificent coat of sables which covered her to the floor.
I might have thought it an odd rig at that time of night if I’d had eyes for anything except the long pale equine face framed by unbound blonde hair flowing to her shoulders, the cold blue eyes looking disdainfully down her noble nose, the full haughty mouth, the white hand clasping the coat beneath her rather pointed chin while she extended the other imperiously, slim fingers drooping to be kissed – it was as though some highly superior Norse goddess was condescending to notice an unusually dirty worm of a mortal. I nuzzled dutifully, deciding that while she couldn’t compare for beauty to Montez or Elspeth or Yehonala or a dozen others, Blowitz had been right: she had “magnétisme” by the bucket, enough to inspire worship in him and his like – why, for a moment I felt awed myself … and that was enough to put me on guard, thinking ’ware this one, lad, she’s too good to be true, and likely false as a two-bob diamond for all her grand air and queenly poise; watch her like a hawk … but rejoice in the droop of the plump nether lip and the wanton way she lets you make a meal of her fingers – sure signs that with proper management she’ll romp like a demented stoat. (I can always spot ’em; it’s a gift.)
“Enchanted, highness,” says I, retaining her hand, and for a moment we weighed each other before she withdrew it to indicate the lower berth, which was made up as a bed. “You come unannounced, sir. I was about to retire. I had not expected you tonight.” She spoke perfect English with that soft Danube accent that is so attractive in men and women both.
“Your highness is gracious to expect me at all,” says Galahad Flashy. “If I am inopportune, my excuse is that having seen your picture I could not wait to view the reality.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? But as we left Paris more than two hours ago, I take it you have restrained your eagerness long enough to dine?” Smiling ever so cool, the smart bitch. Very good, my lass, brace yourself.
“Sparingly, your highness,” says I, “and with mounting impatience. Had I known how far your beauty outshines the image of the photographer, I’d have gone without dessert, possibly even without the poulet aux truffes. From the evidence of your dinner tray I gather you enjoyed them both, so you may judge the depth of my sincerity.” I moved a step closer, sighed deeply, and regarded her solemnly. “But what am I saying? The truth is that for one glance from those glorious eyes, one gleam of the golden cascade of your hair, I’d have made do with a cheese sandwich and a pint of stout.”
It took her flat aback, small wonder, and for an instant she stiffened and I received the freezing Queen Bess stare, and then to my astonishment her lips trembled into a smile, and then a chuckle, and suddenly she was laughing outright, bless her – I’d been right, she was human beneath the ice, and I warmed to her in that moment, and not only out of lust, although I wondered if a swift Flashman cross-buttock (tit in one hand, arse in t’other) mightn’t be in order, but decided to observe the niceties a little longer. Make ’em laugh and you’re halfway to bed anyway. She was regarding me now with an odd look, quarter amused, three parts wary.
“The poulet was passable; the crêpe chantilly …” She shrugged. “And I begin to see that M. Blowitz spoke no more than the truth when he said that Sir Harry Flashman was a quite unusual man. Très amusant, très beau, he told me … and très galant.” Now the cool smile on the fine horse face was haughty-coquettish as she looked me up and down. “Quite overpoweringly galant.”
“It’s these tiny compartments; chaps my size tend to loom, rather,” says I, happy to continue bantering now that I was sure of her, and curious to see how she’d play the game – after all, she was the one who wanted something. “Perhaps if your highness would deign to be seated …” I indicated the only chair, and she gave me a sidelong look and disposed herself gracefully, an elbow on the chair arm, a finger along her cheek, but still keeping the fur carefully about her.
“Yes … certainly unusual,” says she. “That is very well. I am unconventional myself. I think that we shall understand each other.” She smiled again, which strangely enough didn’t improve her looks, for while her teeth were like pearls, they protruded slightly – breeding, no doubt. “In spite of your tendency to talk charming nonsense. Golden cascades and sandwiches of cheese! Is that how you approach all your ladies?”
“Only if I’m sure it’ll be appreciated. But don’t misunderstand me, highness – it may be nonsense, but I meant every word of it.” I took a step forward and hunkered down in front of her, eyeing her with ardour. “You’re what we call an absolute stunner, you know. Aye … the most desirable woman I’ve seen since –”
“– since we left the Gare de l’Est?” says she coolly. “Even that is not true. My maid is prettier by far than I … as I am sure you noticed.”
“Pretty’s ten a penny, I said desirable. Anyway, she’s only a maid, not a princess … and she don’t want anything from me.”
She sat farther back in her chair, considering me as she toyed with her hair. “And I do,” says she. “In fact, Sir Harry, each of us wants something from the other, do we not?” She glanced at the bottle she’d taken from the tray, standing above the basin. “Shall we begin our … negotiation with a glass of wine?”
I rose to fill a couple of glasses, and when we’d sipped she set hers on the little stand by the window, crossed her legs beneath the coat, tossed back her golden mane, and looked me in the eye, no longer smiling, but not unfriendly either. I hunkered down again – believe it or not, it puts you at an advantage; women don’t care to have a great hairy man crouched at their feet, prepared to spring.
“Stefan Blowitz tells me that you hold a secret which I wish to know,” says she, “and that you are willing to –”
“Pardon, highness … a secret Prince Bismarck wants to know.”
“Very true.” She inclined her head. “By the way, I expect ‘highness’ from inferiors. To friends, I am Kralta.”
“Honoured, I’m sure – I’m Harry. So first, tell me – why should busy Otto, with the cares of the world on his back, want to know an old secret that ain’t worth a button?”
“I do not know,” says she simply. “He did not tell me. And he is not a man of whom one asks reasons.”
“Not even if one is on intimate terms with him?” She didn’t even blink, let alone blush. “Come now, Kralta, we both know Bismarck and his fine clockwork mind. He don’t ask damfool questions – and this one couldn’t be sillier – without an excellent reason. Can’t you even guess what it might be?”
She took a sip of wine. “You have said it yourself … Harry. His fine clockwork mind. He must know all. If he has another reason I do not know it.”
And wouldn’t tell if she did. Well, it made no odds now, as I contemplated the perfect buttermilk skin and silken tresses. It was time to get to the meat of the matter.
“Well, it don’t signify. But I beg your pardon – I interrupted. You were saying, about Blowitz …?”
“He said that if I asked you how the Berlin Treaty was obtained … you could tell me.”
“Absolutely. Happy to oblige.”
It surprised her. “Now?”
“Well, presently. Let’s say … in Vienna.”
“On your word of honour?”
“Cross my heart. Never fear, I’m an authority on honour.”
She hesitated. “And in the meantime?” I just grinned at her, wicked-Flashy-like, and she sat back in her chair, giving me a long look with a pout to her lower lip that set my mouth watering. “I see. There is a price.”
“Fair exchange, I’d call it,” says I, enjoying myself, and to avoid meeting my eye she turned her head aside, displaying the imperious brood-mare profile. Her voice was calm and quiet.
“You think it fair … to exact a price? To take advantage of a helpless woman? Perhaps you are one of those men – I suppose I must call them that – who enjoy forcing a woman to humiliate herself –”
“Aye, I’m a cruel swine, ain’t I just? And you’re about as helpless as the Prussian Army.”
“But I am expected to ask your terms, to plead, perhaps –”
“D’you need to ask them?”
She was still for a moment, and then she sighed, rose from her chair, still clasping the fur collar beneath her chin, and looked down at me with that cool superior smile.
“Not for a moment,” says she, and turning her back she shrugged the coat to the floor and stood there bare as a babe. I overbalanced and sat staring at the long shapely legs, the plump buttocks, the wasp waist, and the alabaster perfection of the smooth strong back, all revealed so unexpected. She stirred her rump, and as I reached out, clutching joyfully, she glanced complacently over her shoulder.
“A fair exchange, n’est-ce pas?”
And I have to own that it was. That sudden shedding of her clobber just when she’d been pretending that she’d have to be coaxed or ravished, is the kind of lecherous trick that wins my heart every time, and when we came to grips she behaved like the demented stoat aforesaid. Not as skilful as many, perhaps (though you must make allowances for the limited space in a sleeping berth), but a good bruising rough-rider, full of running, and as heartily selfish as royal fillies invariably are, intent on nothing but their own pleasure, which suits me admirably: there’s nothing like voracity in the fair sex, especially when she’s as strong as a bullock, which Kralta was. Not unlike that gigantic Chinese brigandess who half-killed me on the road to Nanking, but civilised, you understand, and willing to chat afterwards, in a frank, easy way which you’d not have expected from her lofty style and figurehead.
I guess I just like contrary women, and Kralta was one. Crooked as a Jesuit’s conscience, as I was to discover, but with a spirit and quality that made you feel it was almost a privilege to mount her – but then, I’ve remarked before that royal breeding tells, and no doubt I’m as impressionable as the next horny peasant. She was a born adventuress, too – aye, the very archetype of all those subtle sirens whom romantic writers love to imagine aboard the Orient Express. I’d barely disentangled myself from those muscular satin limbs, and she’d stopped gasping in what I think was Hungarian and recovered her breath, when she murmured:
“So … must the secret wait until Vienna?” Her long fingers stroked my stomach, careless-like. “Better there should be nothing between us, nem? Then we can enjoy our journey.” She flirted her lips across my chest. “Why not tell me now?”
“So that you can call the guard and have me slung out as soon as you’ve heard it? I’ve known women who wouldn’t think twice.”
“You think I am such a one … after …?” Her stroking hand slid downwards. “Do you not trust me, when I have trusted you … Harry?”
“Steady, girl! A little decorum, if you please … I’ll tell you, princess –”
“Kralta …”
“Aye, well, Kralta … I trust folk as far as I can throw ’em, which in your case,” I fondled a voluptuous handful, “ain’t far, thank God. No, Vienna’ll be soon enough. I ain’t a modest man, but I’m not fool enough to think that you’d continue to play pretty just for the sake of my manly charms … d’you know?”
“How little you know of women,” says she. “Or rather, how little you know of me.”
“I know you’re Bismarck’s mistress.” I couldn’t resist touching this condescending madam on a raw spot – but of course it wasn’t.
“Fat little Stefan has been gossiping, has he?” She sounded amused. “What did he tell you?”
“Oh, how the German Emperor persuaded you to gallop stout Otto into a cheerful frame of mind – which I’m bound to say you’re well equipped to do.” I gave her bottom a hearty squeeze. “I’ll bet he couples like a cannibal, does he?” Coarse stuff, you see, to put her in her place, but all it provoked was a dry chuckle.
“Poor Blowitz! Either he is a bad reporter, or he was trying to protect my reputation.” She eased herself up on an elbow and smiled at me bold-eyed. “In fact, His Majesty made no such suggestion; he merely poured out his fears to me, like the garrulous old woman that he is. It was I who suggested, delicately, since the Emperor is easily shocked, that I myself should … refresh Prince Bismarck.”
Delicacy being her forte, the brazen bitch. “God’s truth – d’you mean you wanted Bismarck? Talk about a glutton for punishment! What on earth possessed you?”
She gave a little dismissive shrug. “Amusement? Whim? What shall I call it? I am forty years old, immensely rich in my own right, titled and privileged, married to a dull nonentity … and bored beyond belief. It follows that I seek diversion, excitement, pleasure, and above all, novelty. When a new sensation offers, I pursue it … as you have discovered.” She teased her lips across mine. “That is what possessed me.”
“I’ll be damned! You didn’t tell that to the Emperor, I’ll be bound! What did he say?”
“Oh, men are such hypocrites! He pretended not to understand … but he did everything in his power to smooth my way to Schonhausen – secret arrangements, agents to conduct me, my husband sent off on a fool’s errand.” She gave a well-bred sneer. “A professional procurer could have done no more! And so … Bismarck was, as you say, ‘galloped’ into a good humour, the Emperor was pleased and grateful, and I,” says she, sitting up and stretching wantonly, poonts at the high port, “enjoyed the supreme gratification of having the most powerful man in the world panting for me in his shirt-tail.”
See why I said it was a privilege to mount her? There ain’t many women as shameless as I am – and by gum she was proud of it. Of course I was bound to ask how the most powerful man in the world had performed, and she shrugged, laughing.
“Oh, very active … for his age. And very Prussian, which is to say gross and greedy. An ageing bull, without refinement or subtlety.” She was one to talk. “As the French philosopher said, it was an interesting experience, but not one to be repeated. Now I,” her eyes narrowed and the ripe lower lip drooped as she reclined beside me again, her hands questing across my body, “am devoted to repetition, and so, I believe, are you … ah, but indeed you are! And since I did not decoy you from London only to find out silly secrets …” she slid a strapping thigh across my hips, gasped sharply in Hungarian, and began to plunge up and down “… oh, let us repeat ourselves, again, and again, and again …!”
So we did, as the Orient Express thundered on towards distant Strasbourg, myself rapturously content to lend support, so to speak, while royalty revelled in the joys of good hard work. God knows how Bismarck had stood it at his time of life, and I remember thinking that if one had wanted to assassinate him, Kralta could have given him a happier despatch than the old bastard deserved.12
a See Flashman and the Angel of the Lord, which recounts, inter alia, his adventures with the Kuklos, the forerunner of the infamous Ku Klux Klan, and its leaders, who styled themselves Atropos, Clotho, and Lachesis – the Three Fates of mythology.