Flashman papers omnibus, p.425
Flashman Papers Omnibus, page 425
What with this and that, she’d gone clean out of my mind. “She’s Bismarck’s mistress, or was. Why, what’s happened to her?”
“Nothing. What you’ve just said explains why. The Ischl police questioned her after the lodge fracas, of course. Known companion of the missing Starnberg. No arrest, though.” He gave an amused snort. “From what I’ve seen of the lady, I’d as soon try to collar the Queen. Very hoch und wohl-geboren. Anyway, whatever she told ’em, it brought a couple o’ bigwigs post-haste from Berlin yesterday, and I was summoned by the governor and presented to the lady as though she were the Tsar of Russia’s aunt. Care to guess what she wanted? News of you.” Even poker-faced Hutton couldn’t keep the curiosity out of his eyes. “I told her you were indisposed – and she started up, white as paper. ‘Not injured?’ cries she. I told her you were on the mend. ‘Thank God!’ says she, and sat down again. Desired me to convey her wishes for your recovery, and trusts you’ll call upon her in Vienna, when convenient.” He gave the ceiling a jaundiced glance. “Grand Hotel, 9 Karnthner King.”
Drawing his own conclusions, no doubt. Well, honi soit to you, Hutton. I felt better already, for there’s no finer tonic than the news that a splendid piece of rattle is turning white as paper and thanking God that you’re on the mend. “We have Vienna”, by gum – she’d truly meant it, the little darling.
“Hutton,” says I, “how long before I’m on my feet?”
“Few days, the doctor says. Once the stitches are out. We can take it, then,” says he, “that the lady was not a Holnup accomplice of Starnberg’s?”
“Well, Berlin don’t seem to think so! Nor the Austrians.” I considered. “No … I’d say she’s a genuine Bismarck agent, and Starnberg hoodwinked her as he did the rest of us, the clever little bastard. If she’d been a Holnup she’d have been out of Ischl long before the traps caught up with her, wouldn’t she?”
The truth was I didn’t care a rap, and didn’t want to know – not when I thought of that voluptuous torso and long white limbs and the golden mane spilling over her shoulders, all waiting in Vienna. What the devil, you don’t bed ’em for their politics, do you?
He didn’t argue, but asked a few more questions about her which I answered with a discretion that didn’t fool him for a moment. I suspect the great long rat was jealous – and not only where Kralta was concerned, for he reverted to Caprice again, with a warmth which I thought quite unbecoming in a Treasury hatchet-man, the lecherous old goat.
“Never seen her like,” he repeated, and sighed. “Dear delight to look upon, cold steel within. Mind you, she has her soft side. You should ha’ seen her chivvying us up to the mine to bring you down. Fairly shrilling at us to make haste, swore you were dying by inches and we’d be too late. And when she stitched you up she was blubbing. Muttering in French. Quite a taking she was in.” He sounded almost piqued.
“Well, you know what women are, ministering angels and all that,” says I, pretty smug.
“Aye,” says he, pretty dry, and added apropos of nothing that I could see: “She told Delzons she killed Starnberg in self-defence.”
I remarked that when a chap was trying to cut your head off, it was a legitimate excuse.
“To be sure. We fished him out o’ that pool, you know. Three wounds. One clean through the pump, a cut on his left wrist, and the third through his right arm. Odd, that.”
“What’s odd about it?”
“You don’t truss a man’s sword-arm after you’ve killed him. I’d say he was already disarmed when she did him in.”
I gave him my best country-bumpkin gape. “Now I don’t follow. He’s dead and good riddance, ain’t he? Well, then, self-defence’ll do, I’d say. Does it matter?”
“Not a jot,” says he, and rose to depart. “But seeing how she mooned over you later, it struck me she might have been paying him out. On your account.” He turned towards the door. “You must ha’ known her pretty well in Berlin. About as well as you know that Princess Kralta.”
“Hutton,” says I, “you’re a nosey old gossip.”
“Gossip – never. Nosey? That’s my trade, colonel.”
Well, I’m used to the mixture of huff and perplexity and envious admiration that my success with the fair sex arouses in my fellow man. Seen it in all sorts, from the saintly Albert looking peeved when her fluttering majesty pinned the Afghan medal on my coat, to Bully Dawson, my Rugby fag-master, in a furious bait after I’d thoughtlessly boasted of my juvenile triumph with Lady Geraldine aforesaid. (“What, a high-steppin’ filly like her, dotin’ on you, damned little squirt that you are!”) Most gratifying – and doubly so in Hutton’s case. So dear little Caprice had wept over me, had she? Capital news, for if the old fondness still lingered, why shouldn’t we resume our idyll of the Jager Strasse, once I was up and doing? Stay, though … what about Kralta, panting in Vienna? A ticklish choice, and I was torn. On one hand, there was an exciting variety about Caprice’s boudoir behaviour, the merry concubine performing for the fun of it; on t’other, my horsey charmer was wildly passionate and spoony about me – and there was more of her. Much to be said on both sides …
In the meantime, Caprice was on hand, and when Hutton gave me the office next day that she purposed to visit me in the evening, I struggled into my shirt and trowsers, cursing my stitches, shaved with care, gave my face furniture a touch of pomade, practised expressions of suffering nobly borne before the mirror while lustfully recalling the soap bubbles of Berlin … and paused to wonder, I confess, how it would be, meeting her again.
You see, I don’t care to be under obligation to a woman for anything – except money, of course – and this one had saved my life at mighty risk to herself. Furthermore, the harmless jolly little banger of five years ago had emerged as a skilled and ruthless killing lady. On both counts she had the whip hand, so to speak, if she chose to use it – and show me the woman that won’t. Well, Caprice didn’t; being a clever actress and manager of men, she took what might have been an awkward reunion in her sprightly stride, bowling in without so much as a knock, full of sass and nonsense … and ’twas as though five years ago was only yesterday.
“I have not forgiven you!” cries she, dropping her cape and reticule on the table. “Not a word of farewell, not so much as a billet d’adieu when you abandon me in Berlin! Oh, c’est parfait, ça! Well, M. Jansen-Flashman, what have you to say?” She tossed her head, twinkling severely, and I could have eaten her alive on the spot. “I am waiting, m’sieur!”
“My dear, I’ve been waiting five years,” says I, playing up, “just for the adorable sight of you – and here you are, lovelier than ever!” She made that honking noise of derision that is so vulgarly French, but I wasn’t flattering. The pretty girl had become a beauty, the pert gamin face had refined and strengthened, the classroom fringe had given way to the latest upswept style crowned with curls, darker than I remembered – but the cupid’s bow lips were as impudent and the blue eyes as mischievous as ever. She was still la petite Caprice, if not so little: an inch or two taller and fuller in her tight-bodiced crimson satin that clung like a skin from bare shoulders to wasp waist and then descended to her feet in the fashionable rippling pleats of the time – it hadn’t occurred to me that female politicals might dress like evening fashion-plates even when they were in the field, so to speak, and I sat lewdly agog.
“I know that look!” says she. “And I am still waiting.”
“But, darling, I couldn’t say goodbye – it was Blowitz’s fault, you see; he had me on the train to Cologne before I knew it, and –”
“Ah, so Blowitz is to blame! Fat little Stefan overpowered you and carried you off, eh? Some excuse, that!” She advanced with that mincing sway that had never failed to have me clutching for the goods. “Well, it does not serve, milord! I am displeased, and come only to punish you for your neglect, your discourtoisie.” She struck a pose. “Behold, I wear my most becoming gown – Worth, s’il vous plait! – I dress my hair à la mode, I devote care to my complexion, a little powder here, a little rouge there, I choose my most costly perfume (mmm-h!), I put round my neck the velvet ribbon tralala which so aroused the disgusting Shuvalov – you remember? – I make my person attrayante altogether … how do you say …? ravissante, très séduisante –”
“Alluring, bigod, scrumptious –”
“And then …” she bent forward to flaunt ’em and stepped away “… then, I place myself at a distance, out of reach.” She perched on the table edge, crossing her legs with a flurry of lace petticoat and silk ankles. “And because you are invalide you must sit helpless like le pauvre M. Tana … non, M. Tanton … ah, peste! Comment s’appelle-t-il?”
“Tantalus, you mad little goose!”
“Précisément … Tantaloose. Oui, you are condemned to sit like him, unable to reach out and devour that which you most desire … très succulent, non?” And the minx stretched voluptuously, pursed her lips, and blew me a kiss. “Oh, hélas, méchant … if only you were not wounded, eh?”
“Now, that ain’t fair! Teasing an old man – and a sick one, too! Here, tell you what – let’s kiss and make up, and if you’ll forgive me for leaving you flat in Berlin … why, I’ll forgive you for saving my life, what?”
It had to be said, sooner or later, and when better than straight away, in the midst of chaff? The laughter died in her eyes, but only for an instant, and she was smiling again, shaking her immaculately curled head.
“We will not talk of that,” says she, and before I could open my mouth to protest: “We will not talk of it at all. Between good friends, there is no need.”
“No need? My dear girl, there’s every need –”
“No, chéri.” She raised a hand, and while she smiled still, her voice was firm and calm. “If you please … non-non, un moment, let me … oh, how to say it? Those two in the caverne, they were not you and I. They were two others … two agents secrets, who did what they must do … their devoir, their duty. You see?”
What I saw was that this was a Caprice I hadn’t known before. Charming and merry as ever, even more beautiful – it made me slaver just to look at her – but with a quiet strength you’d never suspect until she softened her voice and spoke plain and direct, gentle as Gibraltar.
“Let us not speak of it then. It is past, you see, and so are they … but we are here!” In an instant she was sparkling again, slipping down from the table, fluttering her hands and laughing. “And it has been so long a time since Berlin, and I was so désolée to be left without a word – oh, and enraged, you would not believe! You remember the things I said of Shuvalov, that night of the bath?” She began to giggle. “Well, I said not quite as bad of you – but almost. Is there a word in English for angry and sad together? But that is past also!” She knelt quickly by my chair (in a Worth dress, too). “And here we are, I say! Have you missed me, chéri?”
As I’ve said before, damned if I understand women. But if she wanted to forget the horror of that ghastly mine, thank God and hurrah! No doubt she had her reasons, and since gratitude ain’t my long suit anyway, and her bright eyes and laughing lips and pouting tits were pleading in unison, I didn’t protest.
“Missed you, darling? Damnably – and a sight more than you missed a creaky old codger like me, I’ll lay –”
“It is not true! Why, when you abandoned me in Berlin, I was inconsolable, désolée – all day! And what is this codgeur, and creaky? Oh, but your English, it is ridiculous!”
“As to the other matter that we ain’t to talk about … well, I’ll just say a ridiculous English thank’ee –”
“And no more!” she commanded. “Or I shall not … what did you call it? Kiss and make up?” She gave a languorous wink and put on her husky voice. “Are you … strong enough?”
“Try me,” says I, reaching for her, but she rose quickly and made a great business of having me put my hands palm down on my chair arms, whereupon she laid her own hands over mine, leaning down firmly to keep ’em pinned, while I feasted my eyes on those superb poonts quivering fragrantly under my very nose, and wondered if my stitches would stand the strain of the capital act performed in situ. Then the wanton baggage brought that soft smiling mouth slowly against mine, teasing gently with her tongue, but swiftly withdrawing when I broke free, panting, and tried to seize her bodily, reckless of the darting pain in my flank.
“Non-non!” cries she. “Be still, foolish! You will injure your wound! No, desist, idiot!” She slapped my hand away from her satin bottom. “It is not possible –”
“Don’t tell me what’s not possible! Heavens, d’you think I’ve never been pinked before? T’ain’t but a hole in the gut, I can hardly see the dam’ thing –”
“Do not tell me what cannot be seen! I have seen it!” For a moment she sounded truly angry, eyes flashing as though on the edge of tears – and then as quickly it had gone, and she was playing the reproachful nursemaid with affected groans and rolling eyes and scathing Gallic rebukes which I accepted like a randy but frustrated lamb, promising to keep my hands to myself, honest injun.
“You behave? Word of honour?” says she, not trusting me an inch.
“I’ll prove it,” says I. “Give us another kiss, and you’ll see.”
“Va-t-en, menteur!” scoffs she, so I sat on my hands and she consented warily. I knew it was all I was fit for, and made the most of those sweet lips for the few seconds she permitted before she broke away, gratifyingly pink and breathless.
“Bon” says she, and drew some papers from her reticule. “Then I may safely sit by you while you read to me from the present I have brought for you. I coaxed them from an English tourist in the town, pretending an interest in your culture Anglaise. His wife, I think, was not amused.” She sat on my chair arm, allowing me to put a hand round her waist, and laid the papers in my lap. “What do you say … ‘for old times’ sake’, non?”
“Oh, my God!” says I. They were copies of Punch. “You cruel little monster! Reminding me of the last time, when you know I’m in no state to explain ‘hankey-pankey’ to you!”
“Attention!” She rapped my wrist. “I know all about that, but I do not know what is amusing about M. Gladstone dancing in the dress of a sailor, or your policemen being given whistles to blow – ah, yes, or why your sacré M. Paunch has such malice against us in France, with his bad jokes about Madagascar and La Chine and M. de Lesseps, and oh! such fun about Frenchmen playing your blooded cricket –”
“Bloody, dearest, not blooded. And t’ain’t ladylike to –”
“Ah, yes, and here – further insult!” She stabbed an indignant fingernail at the page. “France is drawn as an ugly old paysanne with fat ankles and abominable clothes – but who is this divine being, so beautiful and elegant of shape in her fine drapery? What does she represent, ha? The Manchester Ship Canal! Quelle absurdité!”
“Oh, come, France is mostly a peach in our cartoons. And we’ve always made fun of you, ever since Crécy and Joan of Arc and whatnot – but you do the same to us, don’t you?”
“Sans blague! An example, then?”
“Well, look at Phileas Fogg, a prize muff if ever there was one! That man Verne is never done sniping at us … aye, those two British officers in that twaddling book about a comet hitting the earth, what a pair of muttonheaded by-joves they are! Pompous, ill-tempered caricatures, all whiskers and haw-haw and crying ‘Balderdash!’”
“And that is not true?” says she, all innocence.
“Course it’s not! Stuff and nonsense! Nothing like us!” At which she began to giggle and flicked my whiskers in a marked manner. I could only growl and point out that at least I wasn’t in the habit of crying “Balderdash!” or “Haw-haw!”21
So we passed a pleasant hour, soon discarding Punch and talking about anything and everything except the past few days. I told her about Egypt and Zululand, and she talked of the places she had visited in the course of her work – Rome and Athens and Constantinople and Cairo – but never a word of the work itself. Fashions, food, customs, society doings, men (whom she seemed to find comic, mostly), shops, hotels, and journeys: we compared notes about them all, and even found acquaintances in common, like Liprandi, to whom I’d surrendered, rather informally, at Balaclava, and whom she’d waltzed with at St Petersburg, and the big Sudanese with tribal cuts on his face who kept the Cigale café in Alex – and Blowitz, naturally, was an amusing topic.
I wasn’t sorry, though, when supper-time came. Tête-à-tête is all very jolly, but when you know dam’ well your voluptuous vis-à-vis is a cul-de-sac, and she sits on your chair-arm with her udders in your ear and a bare shoulder begging to be nibbled and her perfume conjuring erotic notions, and you daren’t stir a lecherous finger for fear of bursting the needlework in your navel and suffering the indignity of having her remove your blood-sodden britches and upbraid you for a foresworn satyr, none of which will do a thing for your future amorous relations … well, it’s trying, I can tell you. Le pauvre M. Tantaloose didn’t know what frustration was. Ne’er mind, thinks I, we’ll make up for this in Paris presently. Kralta’ll keep.
It was quite like old times to sit across the table from her in candlelight, tucking into the cold ham and fruit and Bernkastler, she chattering gaily and I sitting easy and admiring the highlights on the dark curls, and the perfect ivory curves of chin and neck and shoulder. I could have imagined we were back in the Jager Strasse, except for a brief moment when she peeled a plum and presented it to me, laughing, on a fork … and I thought of those dainty fingers with their polished nails coiled round a sabre hilt, and of the hidden strength of the slender white arm – but when I looked, the smiling lips and merry eyes were those of the Caprice I knew so well, exclaiming “Oh-la, gauche!” when I dropped the fork, and a moment later rising and gleaming at me over the rim of her glass as she proposed a toast to our reunion.
“I’ve a better toast than that,” says I, halting round the table and nuzzling her neck. “To our next meeting, when this dam’ scratch of mine has healed.” She clinked glasses, but said nothing. I asked when she was going back to Paris.
