The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
that German upstart without a tooth in his head. As it was, when the boozing was at its height, and the uproar was deafening, I chanced by where Bismarck was still sitting, sipping delicately at his glass. He turned and caught my eye, frowned, and said:
“Still I cannot place you, Captain. It is most intriguing; but it will come back, no doubt. However, I trust you were not disappointed with your evening’s entertainment.”
“It might have been better,” says I, grinning at him.
“Even so, you contrived very well. I have you to thank for these,” and he touched his lips and reddened nose. “One day I shall hold you to your promise, and show you the schlager play. I look forward to that; we shall see how much credit you obtain from my country’s sport.”
“More than you’ve got from mine, I hope,” says I, laughing.
“Let us hope so,” says he. “But I doubt it.”
“Go to the devil,” says I.
He turned away, chuckling to himself. “After you, I think.”
One of the difficulties of writing your memoirs is that they don’t run smooth, like a novel or play, from one act to the next. I’ve described how I met Rosanna James and Otto, but beyond a paragraph in The Times announcing her divorce from Captain James towards the end of the year, I didn’t hear of her again for months. As for Bismarck, it was a few years before I ran into him again, and then it was too soon.
So in the first place I must skip over a few months to my second meeting with Rosanna, which was brought about because I have a long memory and a great zeal in paying off old scores. She had put herself on the debit side of Flashy’s ledger, and when the chance came to pay her out I seized on it.
It was the following summer, while I was still in London, officially waiting for Uncle Bindley at the Horse Guards to find me an appointment, and in fact just lounging about the town and leading the gay life. It wasn’t quite so gay as it had been, for while I was still something of an idol in military circles, my gloss was beginning to wear a bit thin with the public. Yesterday’s hero is soon forgotten, and while Elspeth and I had no lack of invitations during the season, it seemed to me that I wasn’t quite so warmly fêted as I had been. I wasn’t invariably the centre of attraction any longer; some chaps even seemed to get testy if I mentioned Afghanistan, and at one assembly I heard a fellow say that he personally knew every damned stone of Piper’s Fort by now, and could have conducted sightseers over the ruins.
That’s by the way, but it was one of the reasons that I began to find life boring me in the months that followed, and I was all the readier for mischief when the chance came.
I forget exactly what took me to one of the Haymarket theatres on an afternoon in May—there was an actress, or an acrobat she may have been, whom I was pushing about just then, so it may have been her. In any event, I was standing in the wings with some of the Gents and Mooners,15 during a rehearsal, when I noticed a female practising dance-steps on the other side of the stage. It was her shape that caught my eye, for she was in the tight fleshings that ballet-dancers wear, and I was admiring her legs when she turned in profile and to my astonishment I recognised Rosanna.
She was wearing her hair in a new way, parted in the centre, and held behind her head in a kerchief, but there was no mistaking the face or the figure.
“Splendid piece, ain’t she?” says one of the Mooners. “They say Lumley”—he was the manager—“pays her a fortune. ’Pon my soul, I would myself, what?”
Oho, I thought to myself, what’s this? I asked the Mooner, offhand, who she might be.
“Why, she’s his new danseuse, don’t you know,” says he. “It seems that opera hasn’t been bringing in the tin lately, so Lumley imported her specially to dance between the acts. Thinks she’ll make a great hit, and with those legs I’ll be bound she will. See here.” And he pushed a printed bill into my hand. It read:
HER MAJESTY’S THEATRE
Special Attraction
Mr Benjamin Lumley begs to announce that between the acts of the Opera, Donna Lola Montez, of the Teatro Real, Seville, will have the honour to make her first appearance in England in the Original Spanish dance, El Oleano.
“Ain’t she a delight, though?” says the Mooner. “Gad, look at ’em bouncing when she struts!”
“That’s Donna Lola Montez, is it?” says I. “When does she perform, d’ye know?”
“Opens next week,” says he. “There’ll be a crowd and a half, shouldn’t wonder. Oh, Lovely Lola!”
Well, I’d never heard of Lola Montez, but I saw there was something here that needed going into. I made a few discreet inquiries, and it seemed that half the town was talking about her already, for Lumley was making a great to-do about his beautiful new attraction., The critics were slavering in advance about “the belle Andalusian”, and predicting a tremendous success, but nobody had any notion that she wasn’t a genuine Spanish artiste at all. But I was in no doubt about her; I’d been close enough to Rosanna James to be sure.
At first I was just amused, but then it occurred to me that here was a heaven-sent opportunity to have my own back on her. If she was exposed, denounced for what she really was, that would put paid to her making a hit. It would also teach her not to throw piss-pots at me. But how to do it best? I pondered, and in five minutes I had it pat.
I remembered, from the conversations we had had during our passionate week, her mention of Lord Ranelagh, who was one of the leading boys about town just then. She was forever chattering about her admirers, and he was one she had turned down; snubbed him dead, in fact. I knew him only to see, for he was a very top-flight Corinthian, and didn’t take much heed even of heroes if they weren’t out of the top drawer (and I wasn’t). But all I’d heard suggested that he was a first-class swine, and just the man for me.
I hunted him out at his club, slid inside when the porter wasn’t looking, and found him in the smoke-room. He was lying on a couch, puffing a cigar with his hat over his brows; I spoke right out.
“Lord Ranelagh,” says I. “How are you? I’m Flashman.”
He cocked an eye lazily under the brim of his hat, damned haughty.
“I’m certain I haven’t had the honour,” says he. “Good day to you.”
“No, no, you remember me,” says I. “Harry Flashman, you know.”
He pushed his hat right back, and looked at me as if I was a toad.
“Oh,” says he at length, with a sneer, “The Afghan warrior. Well, what is it?”
“I took the liberty of calling on your lordship,” says I, “because I chanced to come across a mutual acquaintance.”
“I cannot conceive that we have any,” drawls he, “unless you happen to be related to one of my grooms.”
I laughed merrily at this, although I felt like kicking his noble backside for him. But I needed him, you see, so I had to toad-eat him.
“Not bad, not bad,” says I. “But this happens to be a lady. I’m sure she would be of interest to you.”
“Are you a pimp, by any chance? If so—”
“No, my lord, I’m not,” says I. “But I thought you might be diverted to hear of Mrs James—Mrs Elizabeth Rosanna James.”
He frowned, and blew ash off his ridiculous beard, which covered half his shirt-front.
“What of her, and what the devil has she to do with you?”
“Why, nothing, my lord,” says I. “But she happens to be