There wasn’t much sign that they would do anything but chant, however; I didn’t know, then, that they were mostly there in the expectation of seeing her go, for apparently the word had gone round that she was leaving Munich that night. I was to be privileged to see that remarkable sight—and to share in it; I would have been better crawling out of Munich on my hands and knees, and all the way to the frontier, but I wasn’t to know that, either.
I had been there about half an hour, I suppose, and was getting weary of it, and starting to worry again about my valise, which I was gripping tightly under my coat. It didn’t look as though they were going to break in and drag her out, anyway, which was what I’d have liked, and I was wondering where to go next, when a great roar went up, and everyone began craning to see what was happening. A carriage had come from the back of the palace, and was drawn up at the front door; you could feel the excitement rising up from the mob like steam as they jostled for a better look.
I could see over their heads beyond the line of guardsmen to the front door; there were figures moving round the coach, and then a tremendous yell went up as the door opened. A few figures emerged, and then one alone; even at that distance it was obviously a woman, and the crowd began to hoot and roar all the louder.
“Pereat Lola! Pereat Lola!”
It was her, all right; as she came forward into the light that shone from the big lanterns on either side of the doorway I could recognise her quite easily. She was dressed as for travelling, with a fur beaver perched on her head, and her hands in a muff before her. She stood looking out, and the jeers and abuse swelled up to a continuous tumult; the line of guardsmen gave back ever so slightly as the folk in front shook their fists and menaced her through the railings.
There was a moment’s pause, and some consultation among the group round her on the steps; then there were cries of surprise from the street as the coach whipped up and wheeled down towards the gates, for Lola was still standing in the doorway.
“She’s not going!” someone sang out, and there was consternation as the gates opened and the coach rolled slowly forward. The crowd gave back before it, and it was able to move through the lane they made; the coachee was looking pretty scared, and keeping his whip to himself, but the mob weren’t interested in him. He drove a little way, and then stopped not twenty yards from where I was; the crowd, murmuring in bewilderment, couldn’t make out what it was all about. There was a man in the coach, but no one seemed to know who he was.
Lola was still standing on the steps of the house, but now she came down them and began to walk towards the gate, and in that moment the roar of the mob died away. There was a mutter of astonishment, and then that died, too, and in an almost eery silence she was walking steadily past the line of cuirassiers, towards the crowd waiting in the street.
For a minute I wondered if she was mad; she was making straight for the crowd who had been roaring threats and curses at her only a moment before. They’ll kill her, I thought, and felt the hairs prickling on the nape of my neck; there was something awful in the sight of that small, graceful figure, the hat perched jauntily on her black hair, the muff swinging in one hand, walking quite alone down to the open gates.
There she stopped, and looked slowly along the ranks of the mob, from side to side. They were still silent; there was a cough, a stifled laugh, an isolated voice here and there, but the mass of them made never a sound, watching her and wondering. She stood there a full half-minute, and then walked straight into the front rank.
They opened up before her, people jostling and treading on each other and cursing to move out of her way. She never faltered, but made straight ahead, and the lane to her coach opened up again, the people falling back on both sides to let her through. As she drew closer I could see her lovely face under the fur hat; she was smiling a little, but not looking to either side, as unconcerned as though she had been the hostess at a vicarage garden party moving among her guests. And for all their hostile eyes and grim faces, not one man-jack made a move against her, or breathed a word, as she went by.
Years later I heard a man who had been in that crowd—an embassy chap, I think he was—describing the scene to some others in a London club.
“It was the bravest thing, by gad, I ever saw in my life. There she was, this slip of a girl, walking like a queen—my stars, what a beauty she was, too! Straight into that mob she went, that had been howling for her life and would have torn her limb from limb if one of them had given the lead. She hardly noticed them, dammit; just smiled serenely, with her head high. She was quite unguarded, too, but on she walked, quite the thing, while those cabbage-eating swabs growled and glared—and did nothing. Oh, she had the measure of those fellows, all right. But to see her, so small and defenceless and brave! I tell you, I never was so proud to be an Englishman as in that moment; I wanted to rush forward to her side, to show her there was a countryman to walk with her through that damned, muttering pack of foreigners. Yes, by gad, I would have been happy—proud and happy—to come to her assistance, to be at her side.”
“Why didn’t you, then?” I asked him.
“Why not, sir? Because the crowd was too thick, damme. How could I have done?”
No doubt he was damned glad of the excuse, too; I wouldn’t have been at her side for twice the contents of my valise. The risk she ran was appalling, for it would probably have taken only one spark to set them rushing in on her—the way they had been baying for her only a few minutes before would have frozen any ordinary person’s blood. But not Lola; there was no cowing her; she was showing them, deliberately putting herself at their mercy, daring them to attack her—and she knew them better than they knew themselves, and they let her pass without a murmur.
It was pure idiot pride on her part, of course; typically Montez—and of a piece with what she had done, I heard, in the previous night’s disturbance, when they were throwing brickbats at her windows, and the crazy bitch came out on her balcony, dressed in her finest ball gown and littered with gems, and toasted them in champagne. The plain truth about her was that she didn’t care a damn—and they went in awe of her for it.42
She reached the coach and the chap inside hopped out and handed her in, but the coachee couldn’t whip up until the crowd began to disperse. They went quietly, almost hang-dog; it was the queerest thing you ever saw. And then the coach began to go forward, at a walk, and the coachee still didn’t whip up, even when the way was quite clear.
I tagged along a little way in the rear, marvelling at all this and not a little piqued to see her get off scot-free. Why, the brutes hadn’t even given her a rotten egg to remember them by, but that is like the Germans. Let anyone stand up to ’em and they shuffle and look at each other and touch their forelocks to him. An English crowd, now—they’d either have murdered her or carried her shoulder-high, cheering, but these square-heads didn’t have the bottom to do either.
The coach went slowly across the Karolinen Platz, where there was hardly any crowd at all, and into the street at the far side. I was still following on, to see if something was going to happen, but nothing did; no one seemed to be paying any attention to it now, as it rolled slowly up the street—and in that moment I was suddenly struck by a wonderful idea.
I had to get out of Munich—suppose I caught up with the coach and begged her to take me with her? She couldn’t still be holding a grudge against me, surely—not after what I’d suffered through her contrivance? She’d paid off any score she owed me over Lord Ranelagh, a dozen times over—if she didn’t know that, I could damned soon tell her. And she was no longer in any position to have me arrested, or locked up; dammit, anyway, we had been lovers, once; surely she wouldn’t cast me adrift?
If I’d had a moment to think, I dare say I wouldn’t have done it, but it was a decision taken on the edge of an instant. Here was a chance to get out of Munich, and Germany too, probably, before the traps got after me—and in a moment I was running after the coach, gripping my valise, and calling out to i
t to stop. Possibly it was just my natural instinct: when in danger, get behind a woman’s skirts.
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 we would not talk about it, but we got no warmer than that. However, when it came time to set out on the day after, I found she had gone to the trouble of getting me a clean shirt from th
e master of the house, and she was quite charming as we got into the coach, and even called me Harry.
Come, thinks I, this is better and better; at this rate I’ll be mounting her again in no time. So I set myself to be as pleasant as I know, and we talked away quite the thing (but not about the past few months). It got better still during the morning; she began to laugh again, and even to rally me in her old Irish style—and when Lola did that, turning on you the full glory of those brilliant eyes—well, unless you were blind or made of wood you were curling round her little finger in no time at all.
I must say I was a little puzzled by this change of mood towards me at first—but, after all, I said to myself, she was always an unpredictable piece—melting one minute, raging the next, cold and proud, or gay and captivating, a queen and a little girl all in one. I must also say again that she had uncanny powers of charming men, far beyond the simple spell of her beauty, and by afternoon we were back on our old best terms again, and her big eyes were taking on that wanton, languorous look that had used to set me twitching and thinking lewdly of beds and sofas.
Altogether, by afternoon it was understood that she would not part company with me as she had intended; we would catch the train together, with Papon, of course, and travel on south. She had still not decided where to go, but she talked gaily of plans for what she might do in Italy, or France, or whatever place might take her fancy. Wherever it was, she would rebuild her fortune, and perhaps even find another kingdom to play with.
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