The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
indicated to me that we should sit down. We did so, both rather stiff, and while the noble assembly pretended not to notice, we began to get acquainted. It was formality carried to nonsense, of course, and if I didn’t have a clear memory of our opening exchanges I wouldn’t believe them.
Duchess Irma: I trust your highness’s journey has not been tedious.
Flashy: Indeed, no, although I confess I have counted every moment in my impatience to be here.
Duchess: Your highness is very gracious. We of Strackenz can only hope that you are not too disappointed in us—we are very small and provincial here.
Flashy (very gallant): No one could be disappointed who was welcomed by so beautiful and noble a hostess.
Duchess: Oh. (Pause). Was the weather cold on your journey?
Flashy: At times. Occasionally it was quite warm. Nowhere so warm, however, as I find it here. (This with a flashing smile.)
Duchess: You are too hot? I shall order the windows opened.
Flashy: Christ, no. That is … I mean, the warmth of your welcome … and the people in the streets, cheering …
Duchess: Ah, the people. They are rather noisy.
Well, I don’t give up easy, but I confess I was fairly stumped here. Usually, with young women, I get along all too well. Formal chit-chat isn’t my style—a little gallantry, a few jocularities to see if she will or she won’t, a pinch on the buttocks, and off we go. Either that, or off I go. But I couldn’t make anything of the Duchess Irma; she kept her head tilted high and looked past me, so composed and regal that I began to wonder, was she perhaps terrified out of her wits? But before I could take soundings on that, she rose, and I found myself escorting her into the antechamber, where great tables were laid out with silver plate and crystal, and a most scrumptious spread was served by flunkies while a little orchestra struck up in the gallery overhead. I was sharp-set, and while one of the Duchess’s ladies looked after her, I laid into the ham and cold fowls, and chatted affably to the nobs and their ladies, who were making the most of the grub themselves, as the Germans always do.
This kind of function normally bores me out of mind, and beyond the fact that the food was unusually excellent, and that the Duchess seemed intent on not being left alone with me for more than a moment at a time, I haven’t any sharp recollection of it. I remember turning once, in that gay company with its buzz of well-bred conversation, and catching her eyes fixed on me; she looked quickly away, and I thought, my God, I’m marrying that woman tomorrow. My heart took a skip at the thought; she was unutterably lovely. And then it took a lurch as I remembered the appalling risk that I ran every moment I was in Strackenz, and wondered what the penalty might be for marrying the heir to the throne under false pretences. Death, certainly. I tried to smile politely at the eager, sycophantic faces around me, and to listen to their incredible inanities of small-talk, while my mind raced away looking for a way out, even although I knew it didn’t exist.
I probably drank a little more than I should have done—although I was pretty careful—but at any rate the desperate feeling passed. The good will of the Strackenzians towards me was so evident, and so fulsomely expressed, that I suppose it overcame me and banished my fears. I found I could even talk to the Duchess without embarrassment, although it was obvious to me, if not to anyone else, that she didn’t like me; she remained haughty and distant—but then, she seemed to be the same to everyone, and they swallowed it and sucked up to her.
Afterwards old Schwerin and a couple of his ministerial colleagues—I forget their names—took me aside and discussed the next day’s ceremony. They were fairly vague, as I remember, and gassed a good deal about the political advantage of the match, and the popular satisfaction, and how it would have a good and stabilising effect.
“Her grace is very young, of course,” says old Schwerin. “Very young.” He gave me rather a sad smile. “Your highness is not so very much older, but your education, at a great court, and your upbringing have perhaps prepared you better for what lies before you both.” (You little know, old son, thinks I.) “It is a great responsibility for you, but you will bear it honourably.”
I murmured noble nothings, and he went on:
“It is much to ask of two young folk—I often feel that such marriages of state would be the better of—ah—longer preparation. Perhaps I am a sentimentalist,” says he, with a senile smirk, “but it has always seemed to me that a courtship would not be out of place, even between royal personages. Love, after all, does not come in a day.”
It depends what you mean by love, thinks I, and one of the others says to Schwerin:
“You have a great heart, Adolf.”
“I hope I have. I hope so. And your highness, I know, has a great heart also. It will know how to understand our—our little Irma. She is very much like a daughter to us, you see”—he was going pink about the eyes by this time—“and although she seems so serene and proud beyond her years, she is still very much a child.”
Well, I could agree with him that she was an unusually arrogant little bitch for her age, but I kept a princely silence. He looked almost pleading.
“Your highness,” he said at last, “will be kind to our treasure.”
Strange, my own father-in-law had struck something of the same note before I married Elspeth; it’s a polite way of suggesting that you don’t make too much of a beast of yourself on the honeymoon. I assumed a look of manly understanding.
“Sirs,” says I. “What can I say, except that I trust I shall always bear myself to your duchess as I would to the daughter of my oldest and dearest friend.”
That cheered them up no end, and presently the reception began to draw to a close, and the noble guests imperceptibly melted away; Schwerin beamed paternally on the Duchess and myself, and hinted that as the next day was going to be an exhausting one, we should take all the rest we could beforehand. It was still only early afternoon, but I was dog-tired with the novelty and excitement of the morning, and so we said our formal goodbyes to each other. I made mine as pleasant as I could, and the Duchess Irma received it with an inclination of her head and gave me her hand to kiss. It was like talking to a walking statue.
Then Detchard, who had been hovering off my port quarter for several hours, closed in and with attendant flunkies escorted me to the suite reserved for me in the west wing of the palace. They would have made a great fuss of me, but he shooed them away, and what I thought rather odd, he also dismissed Josef, who was waiting to unbutton me and remove my boots. However, I realised he wished us to be private, and when we passed through into my main salon I understood why, for Rudi Starnberg and de Gautet were waiting for us.
The sight of them damped my spirits; it was a reminder of what I was here for, with my custodians dogging me all the time. From being the prince I was become play-actor Flashy again.
Rudi sauntered across and without so much as by-your-leave took hold of my wrist and felt my pulse.
“You’re a cool hand,” says he. “I watched you down below, and on my oath, you looked a most condescending tyrant. How does it feel to play the prince?”
I hadn’t been used to this kind of talk in the past few hours, and found myself resenting it. I damned his impudence and asked where the blazes he had been all day—for he and de Gautet had been supposed to meet me with the others at the frontier.
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Regal airs, eh? Well, highness, we’ve been busy about affairs of state if you please. Your affairs, your state. You might show a little appreciation to your loyal servants.” He grinned insolently. “But of course, the gratitude of princes is proverbial.”
“Then don’t presume on it—even with temporary royalty,” I growled. “You can both go to the devil. I want to rest.”
De Gautet considered me. “A little drunk perhaps?”
“Damn you, get out!”
“I do believe the infection