The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  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 humili
ate 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.