“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 t
ake 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.)
Chapter 3
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.
“Ca
pital! 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!”
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 412
