The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
up in a silk night-gown with C.G. embroidered on it. God! I wish I was in your shoes. How many commoners have the chance to be royalty!”
“I’ll show you one who’s ready to resign his crown any time,” says I. The shivers were beginning to run up my spine.
“Nonsense. Give you two days, and you’ll be behaving as though you’d been born to the purple. Issuing royal decrees against virginity, probably. What time is it, de Gautet?”
“We should be moving.” I heard the strain in his voice.
“Heigh-ho,” says Rudi, stretching; he was as cool as though he was off for an evening stroll. “Come along, then.”
There was a slight altercation just before setting out when de Gautet, officiously helping me into my cloak, discovered my pistols in the pockets. I’d had them concealed in a pair of boots in my baggage at Schönhausen, and was determined that they were going with me. Rudi shook his head.
“Royalty don’t carry side-arms, except for ceremony.”
“I do,” says I. “Either they go with me, or I don’t go at all.”
“What good d’you suppose they’ll be, man?”
“None, I hope. But if the worst happens they’ll perhaps buy me a little elbow-room.”
De Gautet was in a sweat to be off, so in the end Rudi cursed and grinned and let me keep them. He knew I wouldn’t be fool enough to make a bolt for it now.
With de Gautet leading, Rudi and I behind, and two of the others in the rear, we struck out through the trees, plodding ankle-deep through the snow. It was still as death all round, and hellish dark, but de Gautet led on unerringly for perhaps quarter of an hour, when we came to a high stone wall running across our front. There was a wicket, and then we were skirting past a thicket of high bushes which, by their regular spacing, must be in the garden of some great estate. Even in the darkness I could make out the level sweep of lawn under the snow, and then ahead of us were the blazing lights of a huge mansion, surrounded by terraces, and hedged about by avenues of clipped bushes.
De Gautet strode noiselessly up one of these, with us hard on his heels. There were stone steps rising to a wing of the house that seemed to be in darkness, and then we were clustered round a small doorway under a great stone lintel, and Rudi was softly whistling (of all things) “Marlbroug s’en va-t’en guerre”. For a few seconds we waited, breathing hoarsely like schoolboys who have robbed an orchard, and then the door opened.
“Detchard?”
De Gautet went in, and we followed. There was a man in a frock-coat in the dimly-lit passage; he closed the door quickly behind us—the other two were still outside somewhere—and motioned us to silence. He was a tall, distinguished old file with a beaky nose and heavy lower lip; he had grey hair and a beard like a muffler round his jaw-line. He glanced keenly at me, muttered “Donner!”, and turned to Rudi.
“A complication. His highness has retired early. He is already in his apartments.”
Aha, thinks I, clever little Bismarck’s bandobast28 didn’t allow for this; oh, Jesus, we’re done for …
“No matter,” says Rudi easily. “He has three rooms; he can’t be in all of them at once.”
This was gibberish to me, but it seemed to reassure Detchard. Without another word he led us along the passage, up a stair, into a well-lighted and carpeted corridor, and round a corner to a large double-door. He paused, listening, cautiously turned the handle, and peered in. A moment later we were all inside.
Detchard stood for a moment, and I could hear my heart thumping like a paddle-wheel. The sound of voices came softly through an adjoining door from the next room.
“His highness is in his bed-chamber,” whispers Detchard.
Rudi nodded. “Strip,” says he to me, and de Gautet bundled up my gear as I tore it off. He knotted it all in my cloak—I had just sense enough to remember my pistols, and thrust them hurriedly under a cushion—and then I was standing there, mother-naked, while Detchard listened with his ear to the panels of the communicating door.
“Lucky little Duchess Irma,” murmurs Rudi, and I saw him grinning at me. “Let’s hope the real prince is as royally endowed.” He tipped me a mock salute, very debonair. “Bonne chance, your highness. Ready, de Gautet?”
Together they went to the communicating door, Rudi nodded, and in a moment they had opened it and slipped through, with Detchard behind them. There was a second in which the murmur of voices sounded louder, and then the door closed, and I was left, stark in a royal dressing-room in a German mansion, all alone and palpitating. For a moment there wasn’t a sound, and then something tumbled next door. Minutes passed, a door was shut somewhere, there was a muttering of voices in the corridor that sent me scampering behind the curtains, and then silence. Several minutes passed, and my teeth began to chatter with cold and apprehension. At last I peeped out, to see if there wasn’t a gown or something to wrap up in: there was plenty of furniture in the room, the main article being an enormous decorated commode—it struck me as my usual luck that whereas most royal successions lead to a throne, mine had got me nothing so far but a thunderbox—but devil a rag of clothing beyond a couple of towels. So I wrapped up in the curtain as well as I could, and waited fearfully.
Then the door opened, and Detchard’s voice said softly:
“Wo sind sie?”
I poked my head out. He was carrying a big silk dressing-gown, thank God, and I grabbed at it, shuddering.
“His highness has left the house,” says he. “Everything is in train. Is all well with you?”
“Oh, splendid—except that I’m almost frozen to death. Isn’t there a fire, in God’s name?”
“There is a stove in the bedroom,” says he, and ushered me through to a splendid apartment, thickly-carpeted, with a huge four-poster bed richly-curtained, and a fine stove with its doors thrown wide to warm the room. While I thawed out Detchard stood with his grey head cocked, considering me and toying with his seals.
“It is truly amazing,” says he, at last. “I did not believe it—but you are the same man. Wonderful!”
“Well, I hope the other one’s warmer than I am. Haven’t you any brandy?”
He poured me a glass, very carefully, and watched me gulp it down.
“You are nervous,” says he. “Naturally. However, you will have the night to accustom yourself to the—ah, novelty of your situation. His highness retired early, with a slight headache no doubt brought on by the fatigue of his journey, so you will be undisturbed. Your host, Count von Tarlenheim, has given particular instructions. You will meet him briefly tomorrow, by the way, before we set out for the border. An amiable dotard. His highness—or I should say, your highness—has been quite formal with him so far, so there will be no questions asked if you are no more forthcoming tomorrow than politeness demands.”
“Thank God for that,” says I. I wanted time to play myself in, so to speak, and the thought of chattering to a breakfast table was out of court altogether.
“The only people who have been close to you on the journey, apart from myself, are Dr Ostred, your physician, and young Josef, your valet. He has been in your service only a day, your old valet, Einar, having become indisposed shortly after we set out.”
“Convenient,” says I. “Will he live?”
“Of course. You are much concerned about him.” He turned, and I leaped violently as the door opened, and a little anxious-looking chap came in.
“Ah, Ostred,” says Detchard, and the little chap blinked, looked at me, at Detchard, and back at me again.
“I thought …” he stammered. “That is—your pardon, highness. I supposed … you had retired … that you would be in bed.” He looked helplessly to Detchard,