Читать книгу The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 45

I’ve noticed that in novels, when the hero has to move any distance at all, he leaps on to a mettlesome steed which carries him at breakneck speed over incredible distances—without ever casting a shoe, or going lame, or simply running out of wind and strength. On my flight from Strackenz, admittedly, my beast bore up remarkably well, despite the fact that I rode him hard until we were over the border and into Prussia. After that I went easier, for I’d no wish to have him founder under me before I’d put some distance between myself and possible pursuit. But thirty miles, with my weight to carry, is asking a lot of any animal, and by afternoon I was looking for a place to lie up until he was fit for the road again.

We found one, in an old barn miles from anywhere, and I rubbed him down and got him some fodder, before using up some of my store of cold food for myself. I took a tack to the south next day, for it seemed to me on reflection that the wider I could pass from Berlin, the better. I know my luck—I was going to have to go closer to Schönhausen than was comfortable, and it would have been just like it if I’d run into dear Otto on the way. (As it happened, I needn’t have worried; there was plenty to occupy him in Berlin just then.) But I had planned out my line of march: acting on the assumption that the safest route was through the heart of Germany to Munich, where I could choose whether to go on to Switzerland, Italy, or even France, I had decided to make first of all for Magdeburg, where I could take to the railway. After that it should be plain sailing to Munich, but in the meantime I would ride by easy stages, keeping to the country and out of sight so far as possible—my baggage wouldn’t stand examination, if I ran across any of the great tribe of officials who are always swarming in Germany, looking for other folk’s business to meddle in.

In fact, I was being more cautious than was necessary. There was no telegraph in those days to overtake the fugitive,⁴¹ and even if there had been, and the Strackenzians had been silly enough to use it, no one in Germany would have had much time for me. While I was sneaking from one Prussian hedge to another with my bag of loot, Europe was beginning to erupt in the greatest convulsion she had known since Napoleon died. The great revolts, of which I had heard a murmur from Rudi, were about to burst on an astonished world: they had begun in Italy, where the excitable spaghettis were in a ferment; soon Metternich would be scuttling from Vienna; the French had proclaimed yet another republic; Berlin would see the barricades up within a month, and Lola’s old leaping-partner, Ludwig, would shortly be bound for the knacker’s yard. I knew nothing of all these things, of course, and I take some pride in the fact that while thrones were toppling and governments melting away overnight, I was heading for home with a set of crown jewels. There’s a moral there, I think, if I could only work out what it was.

Possibly it doesn’t apply only to me, either. You will recall that while the continent was falling apart, old England went her way without revolutions or disturbances beyond a few workers’ agitations. We like to think we are above that sort of thing, of course; the Englishman, however miserably off he is, supposes that he’s a free man, poor fool, and pities the unhappy foreigners raging against their rulers. And his rulers, of course, trade on that feeling, and keep him underfoot while assuring him that Britons never shall be slaves. Mark you, our populace may be wiser than it knows, for so far as I can see revolutions never benefited the ordinary folk one bit; they have to work just as hard and starve just as thin as ever. All the good they may get from rebellion is perhaps a bit of loot and rape at the time—and our English peasantry doesn’t seem to go in for that sort of thing at home, possibly because they’re mostly married men with responsibilities.

Anyway, the point I’m making is that I’ve no doubt the revolts of ’48 did England a bit of good—by keeping out of them and making money. And that, as you’ve gathered, was the intention of H. Flashman, Esq., also.

However, things never go as you intend, even in European revolutions. My third night on the road I came down with a raging fever—fiery throat, belly pumping, and my head throbbing like a steam engine. I suppose it was sure to happen, after being immersed in icy water twice in one night, taking a wound, and being three parts drowned—to say nothing of the nervous damage I had suffered into the bargain. I had just enough strength to stumble out of the copse where I’d been lying up, and by sheer good luck came on a hut not far away. I pounded on the door, and the old folk let me in, and all I remember is their scared faces and myself staggering to a truckle bed, kicking my precious valise underneath, and then collapsing. I was there for the best part of a week, so near as I know, and if they were brave enough to peep into my bag while I was unconscious—which I doubt—they were too frightened to do anything about it.

They were simple, decent peasants, and as I discovered when I was well enough to sit up, went in some awe of me. Of course they could guess from my cut that I wasn’t any common hobbledehoy; they hovered round me, and I suppose the old woman did a fair job of nursing me, and all told I counted myself lucky to have come upon them. They fed me as well as they could, which was damned badly, but the old chap managed to look after my horse, so that eventually I was able to take the road again in some sort of order, though still a trifle shaky.

I gave them a nicely-calculated payment for their trouble—too little or too much might have had them gossiping—and set out southward again. I was within ride of Magdeburg, but having lost so much time by my sickness I was in a nervous sweat in case a hue and cry should have run ahead of me. However, no one paid me any heed on the road, and I came to Magdeburg safely, abandoned my horse (if I knew anything it would soon find an owner, but I didn’t dare try to sell it), and took a train southward.

There was a shock for me at the station, though. Magdeburg had been one of the earliest cities in Germany to have the railway, but even so the sum of thalers they took for my fare left me barely enough to keep myself in food during the journey. I cursed myself for not trying to realise something on my horse, but it was too late now, so I was carried south with a fortune in jewels in my valise and hardly the price of a shave in my pocket.

Needless to say, this shortage of blunt worried me a good deal. I could get to Munich, but how the devil was I to travel on from there? Every moment I was in Germany increased the chances of my coming adrift somehow. I wasn’t worried about being in Bavaria, for I was persuaded that Rudi’s threats of criminal charges in Munich had been all trumped-up stuff to frighten me, and there was no danger on that score. And I was a long way from Strackenz, in the last place that Sapten—or Bismarck—would have looked for me. But that damned valise full of booty was an infernal anxiety; if anyone got a whiff of its contents I was scuppered.

So I gnawed my nails the whole way—God knows I was hungry enough—and finally reached Munich in a rare state of jumps, my belly as hollow as a coffin, and my problem still unsolved.

As soon as I stepped from the station, clutching my bag and huddling in my cloak, I felt the hairs rising on my neck. There was something in the air, and I’ve sensed it too often to be mistaken. I had felt it in Kabul, the night before the Residency fell; I was to know it again at Lucknow, and half a dozen other places—the hushed quiet that hangs over a place that is waiting for a blow to fall. You sense it in a siege, or before the approach of a conquering army; folk hurry by with soft footsteps, and talk in low voices, and there is an emptiness about the streets. The life and bustle die, and the whole world seems to be listening, but no one knows what for. Munich was expectant and fearful, waiting for the whirlwind that was to rise within itself.

It was a dim, chilly evening, with only a little wind, but shops and houses were shuttered as against an impending storm. I found a little beer shop, and spent the last of my coppers on a stein and a piece of sausage. As I munched and drank I glanced over a newspaper that someone had left on the table; there had been student rioting, apparently over the closure of the university, and troops had been called out. There had been some sharp clashes, several people had been wounded, property had been destroyed, and the houses of prominent people had been virtually besieged.

The paper, as I recall, didn’t think much of all this, but it seemed to be on the students’ side, which was odd. There were a few hints of criticism of King Ludwig, which was odder still, journalists being what they are, and knowing which side their bread is buttered—at all events, they didn’t see a quick end to the general discontent, unless the authorities “heeded the voice of popular alarm and purged the state of those poisons which had for all too long eaten into the very heart of the nation”—whatever that meant.

All in all, it looked as though Munich was going to be a warm town, and no place for me, and I was just finishing my sausage and speculating on how the devil to get away, when a tremendous commotion broke out down the street, there was a crash of breaking glass, and the voice of popular alarm was raised with a vengeance. Everyone in the shop jumped to his feet, and the little landlord began roaring for his assistants to get the shutters up and bar the door; there was a rising chorus of cheering out in the dark, the thunder of a rushing crowd, the shop window was shattered, and almost before I had time to get under the table with my bag there was a battle royal in progress in the street.

Amidst the din of shouts and cheers and cracking timber, to say nothing of the babble in the shop itself, I grabbed my bag and was making for the back entrance, but a stout old chap with grey whiskers seized hold of me, bellowing to make himself heard.

“Don’t go out!” he roared. “Here we are safe! They will cut you to pieces out there!”

Well, he knew what he was talking about, as I realised when the sound of the struggle had passed by, and we took a cautious peep out. The street looked as though a storm had swept through it; there wasn’t a whole window or shutter left, half a dozen bodies, dead or unconscious, were lying on the road, and the pavement was a litter of brickbats, clubs, and broken glass. A hundred yards down the street a handcart was being thrown on to an improvised bonfire; there were perhaps a score of fellows dancing round it, and then suddenly there were cries of alarm and they broke and ran. Round the corner behind came a solid mob of youths, rushing in pursuit with their vanguard carrying a banner and howling their heads off; some carried torches and I had a glimpse of red caps as they bore down, chanting “Allemania! Allemania!”

More than that I didn’t see, for we all ducked back inside again, and then they had stormed past like a charge of heavy cavalry, the sound of their chanting dying into the distance, and the occasional smashing of glass and crash of missiles grew fainter and fainter.

The old chap with whiskers was swearing fearfully beside me.

“Allemania! Scum! Young hounds of hell! Why don’t the soldiers sabre them down? Why are they not crushed without mercy?”

I remarked that crushing them was probably easier said than done, from what I’d seen, and asked who they were. He turned pop-eyes on me.

“Where have you been, sir? The Allemania? I thought everyone knew they were the hired mob of that she-devil Montez, who is sent to trouble the world, and Munich in particular!” And he called her several unpleasant names.

“Ah, she won’t trouble it much longer, though,” says another one, a thin cove in a stove-pipe hat and mittens. “Her time is almost run.”

“God be thanked for it!” cries the old chap. “The air of Munich will be sweeter without her and her filthy bordello perfumes.” And he and the thin cove fell to miscalling her with a will.

Now, as you can guess, I pricked up my ears at this, for it sounded like excellent news. If the good Muncheners were kicking Lola out at last, they would get three cheers and a tiger from me. She had been in my mind, of course, ever since I’d decided to make for Munich, although I’d determined to keep well clear of her and the Barerstrasse. But if she had fallen from favour I was agog to hear all about it; I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather listen to. I pressed the stout old fellow for details, and he supplied them.

“The king has given way at last,” says he. “He has thrown her out—the one good thing to come out of all this civil unrest that is sweeping the country. Herr Gott! the times we live in!” He looked me up and down. “But you, then, are a stranger to Munich, sir?”

I said I was, and he advised me to continue to be one. “This is no place for honest folk these days,” says he. “Continue your journey, I say, and thank God that wherever you come from has not been ruined by the rule of a dotard and his slut.”

“Unless,” says the thin chap, grinning, “you care to linger for an hour or two and watch Munich exorcising its demon. They stoned her house last night, and the night before; I hear the crowds are in the Barerstrasse this evening again; perhaps they’ll sack the place.”

Well, this was splendid altogether. Lola, who had dragged me into the horror of Schönhausen and Jotunberg at Bismarck’s prompting, was being hounded out of Munich by the mob, while I, the poor dupe and puppet, would be strolling out with my pockets lined with tin. She was losing everything—and I was gaining a fortune. It isn’t often justice is so poetic.

True, I still had to solve my immediate problem of getting out of Munich without funds. I daren’t try to pop any of my swag, and short of waylaying someone in an alley—and I hadn’t the game for that—I could see no immediate way of raising the wind. But it was a great consolation to know that Lola’s troubles were infinitely more pressing—by the sound of it she’d be lucky to get through the night alive. Would they sack her palace? The thought of being on hand to gloat from a safe distance was a famous one—if it was safe, of course.

“What about her Allemania?” I asked. “Won’t they defend her?”

“Not they,” says the thin man, sneering. “You’ll find few of them near the Barerstrasse tonight—they riot down here, where they conceive themselves safe, but they’ll risk no encounter with the folk who are crying ‘Pereat Lola’ at her gates. No,” says he, rubbing his mittens, “our Queen of Harlots will find she has few friends left when the mob flush her out.”

Well, that settled it; I wasn’t going to miss the chance of seeing the deceitful trollop ridden out of town on a rail—supposing the Germans had picked up that fine old Yankee custom. I could spare an hour or two for that, so off we set, the thin chap and I, for the Barerstrasse.

A mob is a frightening thing, even when it is a fairly orderly German one, and you happen to be part of it. As we came to the Barerstrasse, across the Karolinen Platz, we found ourselves part of a general movement; in ones and twos, and in bigger groups, folk were moving towards the street where Lola’s bijou palace stood; long before we reached it we heard the rising murmur of thousands of voices, swelling into a sullen roar as we came close to the fringes of the mob itself. The Barerstrasse was packed by an enormous crowd, the front ranks pressing up against the railings. I lost the thin chap somewhere in the press, but being tall, and finding a step on the opposite side to stand on, I could look out across the sea of heads to the line of cuirassiers drawn up inside the palace railings—she still had her guard, apparently—and see the lighted windows towards which the crowd were directing a steady stream of catcalls and their favourite chant of “Pereat Lola! Pereat Lola!” Splendid stuff; I wondered if she was quite such a proud and haughty madame now, with this pack baying for her blood.

There wasn’t much sign that they would do anything but chant, however; I didn’t know, then, that they were mostly there in the expectation of seeing her go, for apparently the word had gone round that she was leaving Munich that night. I was to be privileged to see that remarkable sight—and to share in it; I would have been better crawling out of Munich on my hands and knees, and all the way to the frontier, but I wasn’t to know that, either.

I had been there about half an hour, I suppose, and was getting weary of it, and starting to worry again about my valise, which I was gripping tightly under my coat. It didn’t look as though they were going to break in and drag her out, anyway, which was what I’d have liked, and I was wondering where to go next, when a great roar went up, and everyone began craning to see what was happening. A carriage had come from the back of the palace, and was drawn up at the front door; you could feel the excitement rising up from the mob like steam as they jostled for a better look.

I could see over their heads beyond the line of guardsmen to the front door; there were figures moving round the coach, and then a tremendous yell went up as the door opened. A few figures emerged, and then one alone; even at that distance it was obviously a woman, and the crowd began to hoot and roar all the louder.

“Pereat Lola! Pereat Lola!”

It was her, all right; as she came forward into the light that shone from the big lanterns on either side of the doorway I could recognise her quite easily. She was dressed as for travelling, with a fur beaver perched on her head, and her hands in a muff before her. She stood looking out, and the jeers and abuse swelled up to a continuous tumult; the line of guardsmen gave back ever so slightly as the folk in front shook their fists and menaced her through the railings.

There was a moment’s pause, and some consultation among the group round her on the steps; then there were cries of surprise from the street as the coach whipped up and wheeled down towards the gates, for Lola was still standing in the doorway.

“She’s not going!” someone sang out, and there was consternation as the gates opened and the coach rolled slowly forward. The crowd gave back before it, and it was able to move through the lane they made; the coachee was looking pretty scared, and keeping his whip to himself, but the mob weren’t interested in him. He drove a little way, and then stopped not twenty yards from where I was; the crowd, murmuring in bewilderment, couldn’t make out what it was all about. There was a man in the coach, but no one seemed to know who he was.

Lola was still standing on the steps of the house, but now she came down them and began to walk towards the gate, and in that moment the roar of the mob died away. There was a mutter of astonishment, and then that died, too, and in an almost eery silence she was walking steadily past the line of cuirassiers, towards the crowd waiting in the street.

For a minute I wondered if she was mad; she was making straight for the crowd who had been roaring threats and curses at her only a moment before. They’ll kill her, I thought, and felt the hairs prickling on the nape of my neck; there was something awful in the sight of that small, graceful figure, the hat perched jauntily on her black hair, the muff swinging in one hand, walking quite alone down to the open gates.

There she stopped, and looked slowly along the ranks of the mob, from side to side. They were still silent; there was a cough, a stifled laugh, an isolated voice here and there, but the mass of them made never a sound, watching her and wondering. She stood there a full half-minute, and then walked straight into the front rank.

They opened up before her, people jostling and treading on each other and cursing to move out of her way. She never faltered, but made straight ahead, and the lane to her coach opened up again, the people falling back on both sides to let her through. As she drew closer I could see her lovely face under the fur hat; she was smiling a little, but not looking to either side, as unconcerned as though she had been the hostess at a vicarage garden party moving among her guests. And for all their hostile eyes and grim faces, not one man-jack made a move against her, or breathed a word, as she went by.

Years later I heard a man who had been in that crowd—an embassy chap, I think he was—describing the scene to some others in a London club.

“It was the bravest thing, by gad, I ever saw in my life. There she was, this slip of a girl, walking like a queen—my stars, what a beauty she was, too! Straight into that mob she went, that had been howling for her life and would have torn her limb from limb if one of them had given the lead. She hardly noticed them, dammit; just smiled serenely, with her head high. She was quite unguarded, too, but on she walked, quite the thing, while those cabbage-eating swabs growled and glared—and did nothing. Oh, she had the measure of those fellows, all right. But to see her, so small and defenceless and brave! I tell you, I never was so proud to be an Englishman as in that moment; I wanted to rush forward to her side, to show her there was a countryman to walk with her through that damned, muttering pack of foreigners. Yes, by gad, I would have been happy—proud and happy—to come to her assistance, to be at her side.”

“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 a 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 imagination, 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 be 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 time 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, and 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.

In the end, there was nothing for it but to pack up what little I had and make back for Munich. I had a little cash now, thanks to Lola—God, that was the crowning insult—so that at long last I was able to make for home, weary and angry and full of venom. I left Germany poorer than I came in—although of course there was still £250 of Lola’s (or Bismarck’s) money in the bank at home. I had two sabre cuts and a gash on my arm, a decent grasp of the German language, and several white hairs, I imagine, after what I’d been through. Oh, that was another thing, of course—I had a scalp that looked like a hog’s back for bristles, although it grew right in time. And to make my temper even worse, by the time I reached the Channel I heard news that Lola was in Switzerland, fornicating with Viscount Peel, the old prime minister’s son—no doubt he was well peeled, too, by the time she had finished with him.

I’ve only once been back to Germany. Indeed, I don’t include it even among the garrulous reminiscences that have made me the curse of half the clubs in London—those that’ll have me. Only once did I tell the tale, and that was privately some years ago, to young Hawkins, the lawyer—I must have been well foxed, or he was damned persuasive—and he has used it for the stuff of one of his romances, which sells very well, I’m told.

He made it into a heroic tale, of course, but whether he believed it or not when I told it, I’ve no idea; probably not. It’s a good deal stranger than fiction, and yet not so strange, because such resemblances as mine and Carl Gustaf’s do happen. Why, I can think of another case, connected with this very story, and I saw it when the Duchess Irma came to London in the old Queen’s diamond year—they were related, as I’ve said. It’s the only time I’ve seen Irma since—I kept well in the background, of course, but I had a good look at her, and even at seventy she was a damned handsome piece, and set me itching back over the years. She was a widow then, Carl Gustaf having died of a chill on the lungs back in the ’60’s, but she had her son with her; he was a chap in his forties, I should say, and the point is that he was the living spit of Rudi von Starnberg—well, that can only have been coincidence, of course. It gave me quite a turn, though, and for a moment I was glancing nervously round for a quick retreat.

Rudi I last heard of with the Germans when they marched on Paris; there was a rumour of his death, so he’s probably been stoking Lucifer’s fires these thirty years and good luck to him. Unlike Mr Rassendyll I did not exercise myself daily in arms in expectation of trying another round with him: one was enough to convince me that with fellows like young Rudi the best weapon you can have is a long pair of legs and a good start.

Bismarck—well, all the world knows about him. I suppose he was one of the greatest statesmen of the age, a shaper of destiny and all the rest of it. He got to his feet for me, though, when I looked down my nose at him—I like to think back on that. And it is queer to consider that but for me, the course of history in Europe might have been very different—though who’s to know? Bismarck, Lola, Rudi, Irma, and I—the threads come together, and then run very wide, and are all gathered together again, and go into the dark in the end. You see, I can be philosophical—I’m still here.⁴³

I wasn’t feeling so philosophical, though, when I journeyed back from Munich to London, and arrived home at last, soaked and shivering with weariness and our damned March weather. I seem to have come home to that front door so many times—covered with glory once or twice, and other times limping along with my boots letting in. This was one of the unhappier homecomings, and it wasn’t improved by the fact that when I was let into the hall, my dear father-in-law, old Morrison, was just coming downstairs. That was almost the last straw—my bloody Scotch relatives were still on the premises when I had hoped that they might have gone back to their gloomy sewer in Renfrew. The only bright spot I had been able to see was that I would be able to celebrate my return in bed with Elspeth, and here was this curmudgeon welcoming me in true Celtic style.

“Huh!” says he; “it’s you. You’re hame.” And he muttered something about another mouth to feed.

I gripped my temper as I gave my coat to Oswald, bade him good afternoon, and asked if Elspeth was at home.

“Oh, aye,” says he, looking me over sourly. “She’ll be glad tae see ye, nae doot. Ye’re thinner,” he added, with some satisfaction. “I take it Germany didnae agree wi’ ye—if that’s where ye’ve been.”

“Yes, it’s where I’ve been,” says I. “Where’s Elspeth?”

“Oh, in the drawin’-room—takin’ tea wi’ her friends, I suppose. We have all the fashionable habits in this hoose—includin’ your ain faither’s intemperance.”

“He’s well again?” I asked, and Oswald informed me that he was upstairs, lying down.

“His accustomed position,” says old Morrison. “Weel, ye’d better go up, sir, and be reunited wi’ the wife ye’ll have been yearning for. If ye make haste ye’ll be in time for tea, from her fine new silver service—aye, a’ the luxuries o’ the Saltmarket.” And to the sound of his whining I ran upstairs and into the drawing-room, feeling that tightness in my chest that I always felt when I was coming back again to Elspeth.

She gave a little cry at the sight of me, and rose, smiling, from behind the tray from which she had been dispensing tea to the females who were sitting about, all bonnets and gentility. She looked radiantly stupid, as ever, with her blonde hair done a different way, in ringlets that framed her cheeks.

“Oh, Harry!” She came forward, and stopped. “Why—Harry! Whatever have you done to your head?”

I should have expected that, of course, and kept my hat on, or worn a wig, or anything to prevent the repetition of that dam-fool question. Oh, well, I was home again, and in one piece, and Elspeth was holding out her hands and smiling and asking:

“What did you bring me from Germany, Harry?”

(The end of the second packet of The Flashman Papers)