"Why didn't you, then?" I asked him.
"Why not, sir? Because the crowd was too thick, damme. How could I have done?"
No doubt he was damned glad of the excuse, too; I wouldn't have been at her side, for twice the contents of my valise. The risk she ran was appalling, for it would probably have taken only one spark to set them rushing in on her—the way they had been baying for her only a few minutes before would have frozen any ordinary person's blood. But not Lola; there was no cowing her; she was showing them, deliberately putting herself at their mercy, daring them to attack her—and she knew them better than they knew themselves, and they let her pass without a murmur.
It was pure idiot pride on her part, of course; typically Montez—and of a piece with what she had done, I heard, in the previous night's disturbance, when they were throwing brickbats at her windows, and the crazy bitch came out on her balcony, dressed in her finest ball gown and littered with gems, and toasted them in champagne. The plain truth about her was that she didn't care a damn—and they went in awe of her for it.[42]
She reached the coach and the chap inside hopped out and handed her in, but the coachee couldn't whip up until the crowd began to disperse. They went quietly, almost hang-dog; it was the queerest thing you ever saw. And then the coach began to go forward, at a walk, and the coachee still didn't whip up, even when the way was quite clear.
I tagged along a little way in the rear, marvelling at all this and not a little piqued to see her get off scot-free. Why, the brutes hadn't even given her a rotten egg to remember them by, but that is like the Germans. Let anyone stand up to 'em and they shuffle and look at each other and touch their forelocks to him. An English crowd, now—they'd either have murdered her or carried her shoulder-high, cheering, but these square-heads didn't have the bottom to do either.
The coach went slowly across the Karolinen Platz, where there was hardly any crowd at all, and into the street at the far side. I was still following on, to see if something was going to happen, but nothing did; no one seemed to be paying any attention to it now, as it rolled slowly up the street—and in that moment I was suddenly struck by a wonderful idea.
I had to get out of Munich—suppose I caught up with the coach and begged her to take me with her? She couldn't still be holding a grudge against me, surely—not after what I'd suffered through her contrivance? She'd paid off any score she owed me over Lord Ranelagh, a dozen times over—if she didn't know that, I could damned soon tell her. And she was no longer in any position to have me arrested, or locked up; dammit, anyway, we had been lovers, once; surely she wouldn't cast me adrift?
If I'd had a moment to think, I dare say I wouldn't have done it, but it was decision taken on the edge of an instant. Here was a chance to get out of Munich, and Germany too, probably, before the traps got after me-and in a moment I was running after the coach, gripping my valise, and calling out to it to stop. Possibly it was just my natural instinct: when in danger, get behind a woman's skirts.
The coachee heard me, and of course at once whipped up, thinking, I suppose, that some particularly bloodthirsty hooligan in the mob had changed his mind, and was bent on mischief. The coach rumbled forward, and I ran roaring in its wake, cursing at the driver to rein in, and trying to make him understand.
"Halt, dammit!" I shouted. "Lola! It's me—Harry Flashman! Hold on, can't you?"
But he just went faster than ever, and I had to run like billy-o, splashing through the puddles and bellowing. Luckily he couldn't go too fast over the cobbles, and I hove alongside, just about blown, and swung myself onto the side step.
"Lola!" I roared, "Look—it's me!" and she called out to the coachee to pull up. I opened the door and tumbled in.
The chap with her, her little servant, was ready to leap at me, but I pushed him off. She was staring at me as though I were a ghost.
"In heaven's name!" she exclaimed. "You!—what are you doing here? And what the devil have you done to your head?"
"Oh, my God, Lola!" says I, "I've had the very deuce of a time! Lola, you must help me! I've no money, d'you see, and that damned Otto Bismarck is after me! Look—you ask about my head? He and his ruffians tried to murder me! They did—several times! Look here." And I showed her the bandage sticking out of my left cuff.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, and I looked in vain for that womanly concern in her splendid eyes. "Where have you come from?"
"Up in the north," says I. "Strackenz—my God, I've had a terrible time. I'm desperate, Lola—no money, not a damned farthing, and I must get out of Germany, you see? It's life or death for me. I've been at my wit's end, and I was coming to you because I knew you'd help—"
"You were, were you?" says she.
"—and I saw you back there, with those villains menacing you—my God! you were magnificent, my darling! I've never seen such splendid spirit, and I've been in some tight spots, as you know. Lola—please, dear Lola, I've been through hell—and it was partly because of you. You won't fail me now, will you? Oh, my darling, say you won't."
I must say it was pretty good, on the spur of the moment; the distraught, pleading line seemed the best to follow, and I must have looked pretty wild—and yet harmless. She looked at me, stony-faced, and my spirits sank.
"Get out of my coach," says she, very cold. "Why should I help you?"
"Why—after what I've suffered? Look, they slashed me with sabres, those damned friends of yours—Bismarck and that swine Rudi! I've escaped by a miracle, and they're still after me—they'll kill me if they find me, don't you understand?"
"You're raving," says she, sitting there cold and beautiful. "I don't know what you're talking about; it has nothing to do with me."
"You can't be so heartless," says I. "Please, Lola, all I ask is to be allowed to leave Munich with you—or if you'll lend me some money, I'll go alone. But you can't refuse me now—I'm punished for whatever you had against me, aren't I? Good God, I wouldn't cast you adrift—you know that! We're both English, my darling, after all… ."
I have an idea that I went down on my knees—it's all the harder to tip a grovelling creature out of a coach, after all, and she bit her lip and swore and looked both ways in distraction. Her little servant settled it for the time being.
"Let him stay, madame; it is not wise to linger here. We should hurry on to Herr Laibinger's house without delay."
She still hesitated, but he was insistent, and I raised the roof with my entreaties, so eventually she snapped to the coachee to drive on. I was loud in my gratitude, and would have described the events leading up to my present situation at some length, but she shut me up pretty sharp.
"I have some concerns of my own to occupy me," says she. "Where you have been or what devilment you've been doing you may keep to yourself."
"But Lola—if I could only explain—"
"The devil take your explanation!" snaps she, and her Irish was as thick as Paddy's head. "I've no wish to hear it."
So I sat back meekly, with my valise between my feet, and she sat there opposite me, thoughtful and angry. I recognised the mood—it was one step short of her piss-pot flinging tantrum— perhaps that mad walk through the crowd had shaken her, after all, or she was simply fretting about tomorrow. I tried one placatory remark:
"I'm most awfully sorry, Lola—about what has happened, I mean. They seem to have treated you shamefully—"
But she paid no attention, though, so I shut up. It came back to me, all of a sudden, how it was in a coach I had first met her, years ago—and I had been a fugitive then, and she had rescued me. If necessary I might remind her of it, but not now. But thinking of it, I made comparisons; yes, even in my present desperation, I could appreciate that she was as lovely now as she had been then—if I made up to her, carefully, who knew but she might relent her present coldness (that Ranelagh business must have bitten deep). She might even let me accompany her all the way out of Germany—the prospect of another tumble or two presented themselves to my ever-ready imag
ination, and very delightful thoughts they were.
"Stop leering like that!" she shot at me suddenly.
"I beg your pardon, Lola, I—"
"If I help you—and I say 'if'—you'll behave yourself with suitable humility." She considered me. "Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere, darling, out of Munich—out of Germany, if possible. Oh, Lola, darling—"
"I'll take you out of Munich, then, tomorrow. After that you can fend for yourself—and it's more than you deserve."
Well, that was something. I'm still, even now, at a loss to know why she was so hard on me that night—I do believe it was not so much dislike of me as that she was distraught at falling from power and having to leave Bavaria in disgrace. And yet, it may have been that she had still not forgiven me for having her hooted off the London stage. At any rate, it seemed that her kindness to me when I first came to Munich had been all a sham to lull me into easy prey for Rudi. Oh, well, let her dislike me as long as she gave me a lift. It was better here than tramping round Munich, starting at every shadow.
We stayed that night at a house in the suburbs, and I was graciously permitted to share a garret with her servant, Papon, who snored like a horse and had fleas. At least, I got fleas, so they must have been his. In the morning word came that the station was closed, as a result of the recent disorders, and we had to wait a day, while Lola fretted and I sat in my attic and nursed my valise. Next day the trains were still uncertain, and Lola vowed she wouldn't stay another night in Munich, which pleased me considerably. The sooner we were off, the better. So she decided that we should drive out of town a day's journey and catch a train at some village station or other—I've forgotten the name now. All these arrangements, of course, were made without any reference to me; Lola determined everything with the people of the house, while poor old Flashy lurked humbly in the background, out of sight, and expecting to be asked to clean the master's boots at any minute.
However, in the wasted day that we spent waiting, Lola did speak to me, and was even civil. She didn't inquire about what had happened to me in the time since she had helped to have me shanghaied out of Munich by Rudi, and when I took advantage of the thaw in her manner to try to tell her, she wouldn't have it.
"There is no profit in harking back," says she. "Whatever has happened, we shall let bygones by bygones." I was quite bucked up at this, and tried to tell her how grateful I was, and how deeply I realised how unworthy I was of her kindness, etc., and she did give me a rather quizzical smile, and said we would not talk about it, but we got no warmer than that. However, when it came to set out on the day after, I found she had gone to the trouble of getting me a clean shirt from the master of the house, and she was quite charming as we got into the coach, and even called me Harry.
Come, thinks I, this is better and better; at this rate I'll be mounting her again in no time. So I set myself to be as pleasant as I know, and we talked away quite the thing (but not about the past few months). It got better still during the morning; she began to laugh again, and even to rally me in her old Irish style—and when Lola did that, turning on you the full glory of those brilliant eyes—well, unless you were blind or made of wood you were curling round her little finger in no time at all.
I must say I was a little puzzled by this change of mood towards me at first—but, after all, I said to myself, she was always an unpredictable piece—melting one minute, raging the next, cold and proud, or gay and captivating, a queen and a little girl all in one. I must also say again that she had uncanny powers of charming men, far beyond the simple spell of her beauty, and by afternoon we were back on our old best terms again, and her big eyes were taking on that wanton, languorous look that had used to set me twitching and thinking lewdly of beds and sofas.
Altogether, by afternoon it was understood that she would not part company with me as she had intended; we would catch the train together, with Papon, of course, and travel on south. She had still not decided where to go, but she talked gaily of plans for what she might do in Italy, or France, or whatever place might take her fancy. Wherever it was, she would rebuild her fortune, and perhaps even find another kingdom to play with.
"Who cares a snap for Germany?" says she. "Why, we have the whole world before us—the courts, the cities, the theatres, the fun!" She was infectious in her gaiety, and Papon and I grinned like idiots. "I want to live before I die!" She said that more than once; another of her mottoes, I suppose.
So we talked and joked as the coach rattled along, and she sang little Spanish songs—gay, catchy ditties—and coaxed me to sing, too. I gave them "Garryowen", which she liked, being Irish, and "The British Grenadiers", at which she and Papon laughed immoderately. I was in good spirits; it was gradually dawning on me at last that I was going to get away high, wide, and handsome, jewels and all, and I was warm at the thought that all the time the brilliant, lovely Lola never suspected what she was helping me to escape with.
At our village we discovered there was a train south next day, so we put up at the local inn, a decent little place called Der Senfbusch—the Mustard-Pot—I remember Lola laughing over the name. We had a capital dinner, and I must have drunk a fair quantity, for I have only vague memories of the evening, and of going to bed with Lola in a great creaking four-poster which swayed and squealed when we got down to business—she giggled so much at the row we made that I was almost put off my stroke. Then we had a night-cap, and my last memory of her before she blew out the candle is of those great eyes and smiling red lips and the black hair tumbling down over my face as she kissed me.
"Your poor head," says she, stroking my bristling skull. "I do hope it grows curly again—and those lovely whiskers, too. You'll wear them again for me, won't you, Harry?"
Then we went to sleep, and when I woke I was alone in the bed, with the sun streaming bright in at the window, and a most devilish headache to keep me company. I ploughed out, but there was no sign of her; I called for Papon, but no reply. The landlord must have heard me, for he came up the stairs to see what I wanted.
"Madame—where is she?" says I, rubbing my eyes.
"Madame?" He seemed puzzled. "Why—she has gone, sir. With her servant. They went to the station above three hours ago."
I gaped at him, dumbfounded.
"What the devil d'ye mean—gone? We were travelling together, man—she can't have gone without me?"
"I assure you, sir, she has gone." He fumbled beneath his apron. "She left this for your excellency, to be given to you when you woke." And the lout held out a letter, smirking.
I took it from him; sure enough, there was Lola's hand on the cover. And then an awful thought struck me—I sped back into my room, blundering over a chair, and tearing open the cupboard door with a mounting fear in my throat. Sure enough—my valise was gone.
I couldn't believe it for a moment. I hunted under the bed, behind the curtains, everywhere in the room, but of course it was not to be seen. I was shaking with rage, mouthing filthy curses to myself, and then I flung down on the bed, beating at it with my fists. The thieving slut had robbed me—God, and after what I had been through for that swag! I called her every foul name I could think of, futile, helpless curses—for it didn't take an instant's thought to see that there was nothing I could do. I couldn't lay an accusation of theft for stuff I had lifted myself; I couldn't pursue, because I hadn't the means. I had lost it—everything, to a lovely, loving, tender harlot who had charmed me into carelessness—aye, and drugged me, too, by the state of my tongue and stomach— and left me stranded while she went off with my fortune.
I sat there raging, and then I remembered the letter, crumpled in my fist, and tore it open. God! It even had her coat-of-arms on the sheet. I cleared my eyes and read:
My dear Harry,
My need is greater than thine. I cannot begin to guess where you came by such a treasure trove, but I know it must have been dishonestly, so I do not shrink from removing it. After all, you have a rich wife and family to keep you, an
d I am alone in the world.
You will find a little money in your coat pocket; it should get you out of Germany if you are careful.
Try not to think too hardly of me; after all, you would have played me false when it suited you. I trust we shall not meet again—and yet I say it with some regret, dear worthless, handsome Harry. You may not believe it, but there will always be a place for you in the heart of
Rosanna.
P.S. Courage! And shuffle the cards.
I sat there, speechless, goggling at it. So help me God, if I could have come at her in that moment, I would have snapped her neck in cold blood, for a lying, canting, thieving, seducing, hypocritical, smooth-tongued, two-faced slut. To think that only yesterday I had been laughing up my sleeve about how she was helping me on my way home with a fortune unsuspected, while she was going to have to go back to regular whoring to earn a living! And now she was away, beyond hope of recovery, and my britches arse was hanging out again, and she would live in the lap of luxury somewhere on my hard-gotten booty. When I thought of the torture and risk I had gone through for that priceless haul, I raved aloud.
Well, it was no wonder I was put out then. Now, after so many years, it doesn't seem to matter much. I have that letter still; it is old and worn and yellow—like me. She never became like that; she died as lovely as she had always been, far away in America— having lived before she died. I suppose I'm maudlin, but I don't think particularly hard of her now—she was in the game for the same things as the rest of us—she got more of them, that's all. I'd rather think of her as the finest romp that ever pressed a pillow— the most beautiful I ever knew, anyway. And I still wear my whiskers. One doesn't forget Lola Montez, ever. Conniving bitch.
Of course, when you're old and fairly well pickled in drink you can forgive most things past, and reserve your spite for the neighbours who keep you awake at night and children who get under your feet. In youth it's different, and my fury that morning was frightful. I rampaged about that room, and hurled the furniture about, and when the landlord came to protest I knocked him down and kicked him. There was a tremendous outcry then, the constable was summoned, and it was a damned near thing that I wasn't hauled before a magistrate and jailed.
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