The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
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