The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Ulysses S. Grant never called for help in his life, but just then I seemed to catch a glimpse, within the masterful commander and veteran statesman, of the thin-skinned Scotch yokel from the Ohio tanyard uneasily adrift in an old so-superior world which he’d have liked to despise but couldn’t help feeling in awe of. No doubt Windsor and Buck House had been ordeal enough, and now the prospect of standing tongue-tied before the French President and a parcel of courtly supercilious Frogs had unmanned him to the point where he was prepared to regard me as a friendly face. Of course I agreed straight off, in my best toady-manly style; I’d never have dared say no to Grant at any time, and I wouldn’t have missed watching him and Macmahon in a state of mutual bewilderment for all the tea in China.

  So there I was, a few weeks later, in a gilded salon of the Elysée, when Grant, wearing his most amiable expression, which would have frightened Geronimo, was presented to the great Marshal, a grizzled old hero with a leery look and eyebrows which matched his moustache for luxuriance – a sort of Grant with garlic, he was. They glowered at each other, and bowed, and glowered some more before shaking hands, with Sam plainly ready to leap away at the first hint of an embrace, after which silence fell, and I was just wondering if I should tell Macmahon that Grant was stricken speechless by the warmth of his welcome when Madame Macmahon, God bless her, inquired in English if we’d had a good crossing.

  She was still a charmer at sixty, and Sam was so captivated in relief that he absolutely talked to her, which left old Macmahon standing like a blank file. Blowitz, who as usual was to the fore among the attendant dignitaries and crawlers, came promptly to the rescue, introducing me to the Marshal as an old companion-in-arms, sort of, both of us having served in Crimea. This seemed to cheer the old fellow up: ah, I was that Flashman of Balaclava, was I? And I’d done time in the Legion Étrangère also, had I? Why, he was an old Algeria hand himself; we both had sand in our boots, n’est-ce pas, ho-ho! Well, this was formidable, to meet, in an English soldier of all people, a vieille moustache who had woken to the cry of “Au jus!” and marched to the sausage music.2 Blowitz said that wasn’t the half of it: le Colonel Flashman had been a distinguished ally of France in China; Montauban would never have got to Pekin without me. Macmahon was astonished; he’d had no notion. Well, there weren’t many of us left; decidedly we must become better acquainted.

  The usual humbug, though gratifying, but pregnant of great effects, as the lady novelists put it. For early in the following May, long after Grant had gone home (having snarled his way round Europe and charmed the Italians by remarking that Venice would be a fine city if it were drained), and I was pursuing my placid way in London, I was dumfounded by a letter from the French Ambassador informing me that the President of the Republic, in recognition of my occasional services to France, wished to confer on me the Legion of Honour.

  Well, bless the dear little snail-eaters, thinks I, for while I’ve collected a fair bit of undeserved tinware in my time, you can’t have too much of it, you know. I didn’t suspect it, but this was Blowitz at work, taking advantage of my meeting with old Macmahon to serve ends of his own. The little snake had discovered a use for me, and decided to put me in his debt – didn’t know Flash too well, did he? At all events, he’d dropped in Macmahon’s ear the suggestion that I was ripe for a Frog decoration, and Macmahon was all for it, apparently, so back to Paris I went in my best togs, had the order (fourth or fifth class, I forget which) hung round my unworthy neck, received the Marshal’s whiskery embrace, and was borne off to Voisin’s by Blowitz to celebrate – and be reminded that I owed my latest glorification to him, and our shared “destiny”.

  “What joy compares itself to advancing the fortunes of an old friend to whom one is linked by fate?” beams he, tucking his napkin under his several chins and diving into his soup. “For in serving him, do I not serve myself?”

  “That’s my modest old Blow,” says I. “What d’ye want?”

  “Ah, sceptique! Did I speak of obligation, then? It is true, I hope to interest you in a small affair of mine – oh, but an affair after your own heart, I think, and to our mutual advantage. But first, let us do honour to the table – champagne, my boy!”

  So I waited while he gorged his way through half a dozen overblown courses – why the French must clart decent grub with glutinous sauces beats me – and when the waiters had cleared and we were at the brandy and cigars he sighed with repletion, patted his guts, and fished a mounted picture from his pocket.

  “It is a most amusing intrigue, this,” says he, and presented it with a flourish. “Voila!”

  I’m rather a connoisseur of photography, and there was a quality about the present specimen which took my attention at once. It may have been the opulence of the setting, or the delicacy of the hand-colouring, or the careful composition which had placed two gigantic blackamoors with loincloths and scimitars among the potted palms, or the playful inclusion of the parakeet and tiny monkey on either side of the oriental couch on which lounged a lovely odalisque clad only in gold turban and ankle-fetters, her slender body arched to promote jutting young bumpers which plainly needed no support, her lips parted in a sneer which promised unimaginable depravities. A caption read “La Petite Caprice”; well, it was a change from Frou-Frou … I tore my eyes away from the potted palms, a mite puzzled. As I’ve said, Blowitz had put me in the way of Society gallops, but never a professional.

  “Très appétissante, non?” says he.

  I tossed it back to him. “Which convent is she advertising?”

  He clucked indignantly. “She is not what you suppose! This is a theatrical picture, made when she was employed at the Folies – from necessity, let me tell you, to finance her studies – serious studies! Such pictures are de rigueur for a Folies comedienne.”

  “Well, I could see she hated posing for it –”

  “Would it surprise you,” says he severely, “to learn that she is a trained criminologist, speaks fluently four languages, rides, fences and shoots, and is a valued member of the département secret of the Ministry of the Interior, at present in our Berlin Embassy … where I was influential in placing her? Ah, you stare! Do I interest you, my friend?”

  “She might, if she was on hand. But since she ain’t, and posing for lewd pictures belies her stainless purity –”

  “Did I say that? No, no, my boy. She is no demi-mondaine, la belle Caprice, but she is … a woman of the world, let us say. That is why she is in Berlin.”

  “And what’s she to do with this small affair after my own heart to our mutual advantage?”

  He sat back, lacing his tubby fingers across his pot. “As I recall, you were at one time intimate with the German Chancellor, Prince Bismarck, but that you hold him in no affection –”

  I choked on my brandy. “Thank’ee for the dinner and the Legion of Honour, old Blow,” says I, preparing to rise. “I don’t know where you’re leading, but if it’s to do with him, I can tell you that I wouldn’t go near the square-headed bastard with the whole Household Brigade –”

  “But, my friend, be calm, I beg! Resume the seat, if you please! It is not necessary that you … go near his highness! No such thing … he figures only, how shall I say – at a distance?”

  “That’s too bloody close!” I assured him, but he protested that I must hear him out; our destinies were linked, he insisted, and he would not dream of a proposal distasteful to me, death of his life – quite the reverse, indeed. So I sat down, and put myself right with a brandy; mention of Bismarck always unmans me, but the fact was I was curious, not least about the delectable Mamselle Caprice.

  “Eh bien,” says Blowitz, and leaned forward, plainly bursting to unfold his mystery. “You are aware that in a few weeks’ time a great conference is to take place at Berlin, of all the Powers, to amend this ridiculous Treaty of San Stefano made by Russia and Turkey?” I must have looked blank, for he blew out his cheeks. “At least you know they have recently been at war in the Balkans?”

>   “Absolutely,” says I. “There was talk of us having a second Crimea with the moujiks, but I gather that’s blown over. As for … San Stefano, did you say? Greek to me, old son.”

  He shook his head in despair. “You have heard of the Big Bulgaria, surely?”

  “Not even of the little ’un.”

  He seemed ready to weep. “Or the Sanjak of Novi Bazar?”

  “Watch your tongue, if you please. We’re in a public place.”

  “Incroyable!” He threw up his hands. “And it is an educated Englishman, this, widely travelled and of a military reputation! Europe may hang on the brink of catastrophe, and you …” He smote his fat forehead. “My dear ’Arree, will you tell me, then, what events of news you have remarked of late?”

  “Well, let’s see … our income tax went up tuppence … baccy and dog licences, too … some woman or other has sailed round the world in a yacht …” He was going pink, so just to give him his money’s worth I added: “Elspeth’s bought one of these phonographs that are all the rage … oh, aye, and Gilbert and Sullivan have a new piece, and dam’ good, too; the jolliest tunes. ‘I am an Englishman, be-hold me!’ … as you were just saying –”3

  “Enough!” He breathed heavily. “I see I must undertake your political education sur-le-champ. Gilbert and Sullivan, mon dieu!”

  And since he did, and I’ll lay odds that you, dear reader, know no more about Big Bulgaria and t’other thing than I did, I’ll set it out as briefly as can be. It’s a hellish bore, like all diplomaticking, but you’d best hear about it – and then you can hold your own with the wiseacres at the club or tea-table.

  First off, the Balkans … you have to understand that they’re full of people who’d much rather massacre each other than not, and their Turkish rulers (who had no dam’ business to be in Europe, if you ask me) were incapable of controlling things, what with the disgusting inhabitants forever revolting, and Russia and Austria trying to horn in for their own base ends. By and large we were sympathetic to the Turks, not because we liked the brutes but because we feared Russian expansion towards the Mediterranean (hence the Crimean War, where your correspondent won undying fame and was rendered permanently flatulent by Russian champagne).b

  At the same time we were forever nagging the Turks to be less monstrous to their Balkan subjects, with little success, Turks being what they are, and when, around ’75, the Bulgars revolted and the Turks slaughtered 150,000 of them to show who was master, Gladstone got in a fearful bait and made his famous remark about the Turks clearing out, bag and baggage. He had to sing a different tune when the Russians invaded Ottoman territory and handed the Turks a handsome licking; we couldn’t have Ivan lording it in the Balkans, and for a time it looked as though we’d have to tackle the Great Bear again – we sent warships to the Dardanelles and Indian regiments to Malta, but the crisis passed when Russia and Turkey made peace, with the San Stefano Treaty.

  The trouble was that this treaty created what was called “Big Bulgaria”, which would clearly be a Russian province and stepping-stone to the Mediterranean and the Suez Canal. The Austrians, with their own ambitions in the Balkans, were also leery of Russia, so to keep the peace Bismarck, the “honest broker” (ha!) called the Congress of Berlin to amend San Stefano to everyone’s satisfaction, if possible.4

  “Everyone will be there! Tout le monde!” Blowitz was fairly gleaming with excitement. “Prince Bismarck will preside, with your Lord Salisbury and Lord Beaconsfield – as we must learn to call M. D’Israeli – Haymerle and Andrassy from Austria, Desprez and Waddington from France, Gorchakov and Shuvalov from Russia – oh, and so many more, from Turkey and Italy and Germany … it will be the greatest conference of the Powers since the Congress of Vienna, with the fate of Europe – the world, even – at stake!”

  I could see it was just his meat; but what, I wondered, did it have to do with me. He became confidential, blowing garlic at me.

  “A new treaty will emerge. The negotiations will be of the most secret. No word of what passes behind those closed doors will be permitted to escape – until the new treaty is published, no doubt by Prince Bismarck himself.” His voice sank to a whisper. “It will be the greatest news story of the century, my friend – and the correspondent who obtains it beforehand will be hailed as the first journalist of the world!” The round rosy face was set like stone, and the blue eyes were innocent no longer. “The Times will have that story … First! Alone! Exclusive!” His finger rapped the table on each word, and I thought, aye, you could have heaved your wife’s former husband into the drink, no error. Then he sat back, beaming again. “More brandy, my boy!”

  “Got an embassy earwig, have you? How much are you paying him?”

  He winked, like a conspiring cherub. “Better than any ‘earwig’, dear ’Arree, I shall have the entrée to the mind of one of the principal parties … and he will not even know it!” He glanced about furtively, in case Bismarck was hiding behind an ice bucket.

  “The Russian Ambassador to London, Count Peter Shuvalov, will be second only to Prince Gorchakov in his country’s delegation. He is an amiable and experienced diplomat – and the most dedicated lecher in the entire corps diplomatique.5 Oh, but a satyr, I assure you, who consumes women as you do cigars. And with a mistress who knows how to engage his senses, he is … oh, qui ne s’en fait pas … how do you say in English –?”

  “Easy-going?”

  “Précisément! Easy-going … to the point of indiscretion. I could give numerous instances – names which would startle you –”

  “Gad, you get about! Ever thought of writing your recollections? You’d make a mint!”

  He waved it aside. “Now, this Congress will dance, like any other, and it is inevitable that M. Shuvalov will encounter, at a party, the opera, perhaps on his evening promenade on the Friederichstrasse, the enchanting Mamselle Caprice of the French Embassy. What then? I will tell you. He will be captivated, he will pursue, he will overtake … and his enjoyment of her charms will be equalled only by the solace he will find in describing the labours of the day to such a sympathetic listener. I know him, believe me.” He sipped a satisfied Chartreuse. “And I know her. No doubt she will be the adoring ingénue, and M. Shuvalov will leak like an old samovar.”

  I had to admire him. “Crafty little half-pint, ain’t you, though? Here, give us another squint at that picture … by Jove, lucky old Shovel-off! But hold on, Blow – she may romp each day’s doings out of him, but she can’t get you the treaty word for word – and that’s what you want, surely?”

  “Mais certainement! Am I an amateur, then? No … I absorb her reports by the day, and only when all is concluded, and the treaty is being drafted, do I approach a certain minister who holds me in some esteem. I make it plain that I am au fait with the entire negotiation. He is aghast. ‘You know it all?’ he cries. ‘A matter of course,’ I reply with modesty, ‘and now I await only the text of the treaty itself.’ He is amazed … but convinced. This Blowitz, he tells himself, is a wizard. And from that, cher ’Arree,” says he, smiling smugly, “it is but a short step to the point where he gives me the treaty himself. Oh, it is a technique, I assure you, which never fails.”

  It’s true enough; there’s no surer way of getting a secret than by letting on you know it already. But I still couldn’t see why he was telling me.

  “Because one thing only is lacking. It is out of the question that Caprice should communicate with me directly, for I shall be jealously observed at all times, not only by competitors, but by diplomatic eyes – possibly even by the police. It is the price of being Blowitz.” He shrugged, then dropped his voice. “So it is vital that I have what you call a go-between, n’est-ce pas?”

  So that was it, and before I could open my mouth, let alone demur, his paw was on my sleeve and he was pattering like a Yankee snake-oil drummer.

  “’Arree, it can only be you! I knew it from the first – have I not said our fates are linked? To whom, then, should I turn for help in the
greatest coup of my career? And it will be without inconvenience – indeed, to your satisfaction rather –”

  “So that’s why you wangled me the Order of the Frog!”

  “Wangle? What is this wangle? Oh, my best of friends, that was a bagatelle! But this what I beg of you … ah, it imports to me beyond anything in the world! And I would trust no other – my destiny … our destiny, would forbid it. You will not fail Blowitz?”

  When folk yearn and sweat at me simultaneous, I take stock. “Well, now, I don’t know, Blow …”

  “Shall I give you reasons? One, I shall be forever in your debt. Two, my coup will enrage Prince Bismarck … that pleases, eh? And three …” he smirked like a lascivious Buddha “… you will make the acquaintance … the intimate acquaintance, of the delicious Mamselle Caprice.”

  At that, it wasn’t half bad. It was safe, and I could picture Bismarck’s apoplexy if his precious treaty was published before he could make his own pompous proclamation. I took another slant at the photograph lying between us … splendid potted palms they were, and while her pose of wanton invitation might be only theatrical, as Blowitz had said, I couldn’t believe she wasn’t enjoying her work.

  “Well … what would I have to do?”

  D’you know, the little villain had already reserved me a Berlin hotel room for the duration of the conference? Confidence in destiny, no doubt. “It is in the name of Jansen … Dutch or Belgian, as you prefer, but not, I think, English.” He had it all pat: I would rendezvous with Caprice at her apartment near the French Embassy, and there, in the small hours of each morning, when she had sent Shuvalov on his exhausted way, she would give me her reports, writ small on rice paper.

  “Each day you and I will lunch – separately and without recognition, of course – at the Kaiserhof, where I shall be staying. You will have concealed Mamselle’s report in the lining of your hat, which you will hang on the rack at the dining-room door. When we go our respective ways, I shall take your hat, and you mine.” This kind of intrigue was just nuts to him, plainly. “They will be identical in appearance, and I have already ascertained that our sizes are much the same. We repeat the performance each day … eh, voilà! It is done, in secrecy the most perfect. Well, my boy, does it march?”