The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
may arise. The Crown Jewels of the Duchy of Strackenz would have kept me and a dozen like me in tremendous style for life, and they looked eminently portable. I decided to keep them in mind.
There was a final hallelujah and amen, and then we were out in the sunlight again with the crowd deafening us and the great bells of the Cathedral pealing overhead. There was an open State coach in which we rode side by side, with the Duchess’s bridesmaids facing us, and I played up to the mob and waved and beamed, while my bride stirred a languid hand in their direction. She did manage a smile or two, though, and even condescended to exchange a few civilities with me, which was a great advance. Never mind, thinks I, it’ll soon be ho for the hunting lodge and beddy-byes, and then we’ll bring the roses back to those pearly cheeks.
We drove slowly, so that the populace could get a good look at us, and their enthusiasm was so tremendous that the infantry lining the road had to link arms to hold them back. There were children waving flags and screaming, girls fluttering their handkerchiefs, fellows throwing their hats in the air, and old women sobbing and mopping at themselves. At one point the troops gave way, and the crowd clamoured right up to the coach, stretching over to touch us as though we were holy relics: if only they’d known they’d have scampered off far enough in case they caught Flashy’s Evil. The Duchess wasn’t too pleased at being adored so closely, and looked ahead pretty stiff, but I shook hands like a good ’un and they cheered me hoarse.
At this point there was an odd incident. Above the cheering I was aware of a voice shouting from the back of the crowd—no, not shouting, but declaiming. It was a strong, harsh trumpet of a voice, although its words were lost in the tumult, and its owner was a most odd-looking fellow who had scrambled up onto some kind of hand-cart and was haranguing the mob full blast. There were soldiers struggling through the press to get at him, and a knot of sturdy, sober-looking chaps round the cart as though to shield the orator, so I gathered he must be denouncing us, or threatening a breach of the peace.
He wasn’t a big chap, in height, but he was built like a bull across the shoulders, with a huge, shaggy head and a beard like a sweep’s broom. Even at that distance I could see the flashing eyes as he thundered out his message, thumping the air with his fist and laying it off like a Mississippi camp-meeting preacher full of virtue and forty-rod whisky. The people nearest him and his group were shouting threats at him, but he kept bawling away, and it looked to me as though an excellent brawl was in prospect; unfortunately, just as the soldiers reached him and were trying to haul him down, the coach moved out of vision, so I didn’t see how it came out.34
The Duchess had seen it, too, and we were no sooner at the palace than she summoned Schwerin to the ante-room where we were resting and pitched straight into him.
“Who was that agitator? How dared he raise his voice against me, and whose neglect allowed it to happen?” Her voice was perfectly level, but she was obviously in a furious bait, and the old minister fairly cowered before the slip of a girl. “Have he and his rabble been arrested?”
Schwerin wrung his hands. “Highness, that this should have happened! It is deplorable. I do not know who the man was, but I will ascertain. I believe he was one of the socialist orators—”
“Orator?” says the Duchess, in a tone that would have frozen brandy. “Revolutionary upstart! And on my wedding day!” She turned to me. “It is my shame, and my country’s, that this affront should have taken place in your highness’s presence, on this sacred occasion.”
Well, I didn’t mind. I was more interested in her cold rage at what she conceived an affront to her noble dignity; she had a fine, spoiled conceit of herself to be sure. I suggested that the man was probably drunk, and that he had done no harm anyway.
“Denmark must be fortunate in its security against such dangerous criminals,” says she. “In Strackenz we find it prudent to take sterner measures against these … these orators! Schwerin, I hold you responsible; let me hear presently that they have been arrested and punished.”
It would have sounded pompous from a bench of bishops; from a nineteen-year-old girl it was ridiculous, but I kept a straight face. I was learning fast about my little Irma; an imperious young piece. I found myself hoping that she would be thwarted of her vengeance on my big-headed revolutionary; whoever he was, he had looked the kind of likely lad who would sooner spar with the peelers than eat his dinner, and keep things lively all round.
When she had sent Schwerin packing, and her ladies had adjusted invisible flaws in her appearance, we proceeded with tremendous ceremony to the great ballroom, where the brilliant throng had already assembled for the reception. This is a bigger “do” than old Morrison gave for Elspeth and me in Paisley, thinks I, but I’ll wager they can’t drink more than those Scotch rascals did. The place was a blaze of splendid uniforms and gowns; orders, medals, and jewellery twinkled everywhere; aristocratic backs bent and a hundred skirts rustled in curtsies as we took our place on the dais for the guests to file by with their respectful congratulations. You never saw such a pack of noble toadies in your life, smirking their way past. They all fawned over the Duchess, of course, the square-heads clicking their heels and bowing stiffly, the dagoes bending double—for we had a fine selection from half the countries in Europe. After all, Duchess Irma was the cousin of our own Britannic Majesty—which made me a sort-of-cousin-in-law to her and Albert, I suppose—and everyone wanted to have a grovel to us. I was delighted to see, though, that the British Ambassador confined himself to a jerky little bow and a “Felicitations, ma’am, and much happiness to both your highnesses.” That’s the style, thinks I; good old England and damn all foreigners.
I just stood there, nodding my head up and down until my neck creaked, smiling and murmuring my thanks to each passing face—fat, thin, sweating, straining, smiling, adoring, they came in all sizes and expressions. And then Detchard’s voice behind me whispered “Hansen,” and I glanced sharply to see a fair-haired, long-jawed young fellow just straightening up from his bow to the Duchess. He turned to me, smiling expectantly, and in my sudden nervousness I took a step forward, grinning like a death’s head, I shouldn’t wonder, grabbed him by the hand, and cried:
“Erik, old friend, this is the most springing surprise of my happy day!” or something equally garbled; I know that I bungled the words hopelessly, but he just laughed and pumped my hand.
“Dear Carl—highness—I had to come to wish you joy.” He had that manly, sentimental look, misty-eyed yet smiling, which I personally can only manage in drink. “God bless you both!”
“God bless you, too, old friend,” says I, wringing hard at him, and then his smile faded, a puzzled look came into his eyes, and he stepped back.
God knows I’ve had my bad moments, but seldom such a qualm of sickening dread as I experienced then. I kept my aching grin, because I was so paralysed with panic that I couldn’t move a muscle, waiting for the denunciation which I was certain was on his lips.
For a second he stared, and then he made a sudden, nervous gesture of apology and smiled again.
“Pardon,” he said. “Your pardon, highness … Carl.” He moved quickly aside to let in the next guest, bowed again, and then moved off towards the buffets, where the other guests were assembling. There I saw him turn, staring back at me, and presently he rubbed his brow with his fingers, gave his head a quick shake as a man will who is putting some trifle out of his mind, and gave his attention to a waiter who was proffering champagne.
I knew I was crimson with the shock, and one knee was trembling violently, but I forced myself to smile steadily as the guest before me bobbed in a deep curtsey, and her escort swept me a bow. I saw the concern in their faces—when I turn red I’m a daunting sight—so I forced a laugh.
“Forgive me,” I told them. “I’m out of breath with saying ‘thank you’ to several hundred people.” They were delighted at being so familiarly addressed by royalty, and then the crisis was past and I had time to steady myself.
But it had been a horrible moment, and I must have gone through the rest of that reception like a man in a dream, for I can remember nothing more until I was back in my own room, alone with Detchard, Rudi and