'Impossible arrogance of these prelates,' says a stout, florid man near me.
'I'm Church of England myself,' says I.
This had the effect of turning attention on me. Lola saw me for the first time, and the anger died out of her eyes. She surveyed me a moment, and then slowly she smiled.
'Harry Flashman,' says she, and held out a hand towards me— but as a monarch does, palm down and pointing to the ground between us. I took my cue, stepping forward and taking her fingers to kiss. If she wanted to play Good Queen Bess, who was I to object?
She held my hand for a moment afterwards, looking up at me with her glowing smile.
'I believe you're even handsomer than you were,' says she.
'I would say the same to you, Rosanna,' says I, cavalier as be-damned, 'but handsome is too poor a word for it.'
Mind you, it was true enough. I've said she was the most beautiful girl I ever met, and she was still all of that. If anything, her figure was more gorgeous than I remembered, and since she was clad in a loose gown of red silk, with apparently nothing beneath it, I could study the subject without difficulty. The effect of her at close quarters was dazzling: the magnificent blue eyes, the perfect mouth and teeth, the white throat and shoulders, and the lustrous black hair coiled up on her head—yes, she was worth her place in Ludwig's gallery. But if she had ripened wonderfully in the few years since I had last seen her, she had changed too. There was a composure, a stateliness that was new; you would always have caught your breath at her beauty, but now you would feel a little awe as well as lust.
I was leering fondly down at her when Starnberg chimes in.
''Rosanna'?' says he. 'What's this, Lola? A pet name?'
'Don't be jealous, Ruth,' says she. 'Captain Flashman is an old, very dear friend. He knew me long before— all this,' and she gestured about her. 'He befriended me when I was a poor little nobody, in London.' And she took my arm in both of hers, reached up, and kissed me, smiling with her old mischief. Well, if that was how she chose to remember our old acquaintance, so much the better.
'Listen, all of you,' she called out, and you could have heard a pin drop. 'The Rittmeister Flashman is not only the closest to my heart of all my English friends—and those, you remember, include the noblest in the land— but the bravest soldier in the British Army. You see his decorations'—she leaned across me to touch my medals, and the presence of two almost naked, beautifully rounded breasts just beneath my face was delightfully diverting. Lola was always vain of her bosom,[21] and wore it all but outside her gown; I wished I had had a pinch of snuff to offer her. 'Who ever saw a young captain with five medals?' she continued, and there was a chorus of murmured admiration. 'So you see, he is to be honoured for more reasons than that he is my guest. There is no soldier in Germany with a higher reputation as a Christian champion.'
I had sense enough to look quizzical and indulgent at this, for I knew that the most popular heroes are those who take themselves lightly. I had heard this kind of rot time without count in the past few years, and knew how to receive it, but it amused me to see that the audience, as usual, took it perfectly seriously, the men looking noble and the women frankly admiring.
Having delivered her little lecture, Lola took me on a tour of introduction, presenting Baron this and Countess that, and everyone was all smirks and bows and polite as pie. I could sense that they were all scared stiff of her, for although she was her old gay self, laughing and chattering as she took me from group to group, she was still the grande dame under the happy surface, with a damned imperious eye. Oh, she had them disciplined all right.
Only when she had taken me apart, to a couch where a flunkey served us Tokay while the others stood at a respectful distance, did she let the mask drop a little, and the Irish began to creep back into her voice.
'Let me look at you comfortably now,' says she, leaning back and surveying me over her glass. 'I like the moustaches, Harry, they become you splendidly. And the careless curl; oh, it's the bonny boy still.'
'And you are still the most beautiful girl in the world,' says I, not to be outdone.
'So they say,' says she, 'but I like to hear it from you. After all, when you hear it from Germans it's no compliment—not when you consider the dumpy cows they're comparing you with.'
'Some of 'em ain't too bad,' says I carelessly.
'Ain't they, though? I can see I shall have to keep an eye on you, my lad. I saw Baroness Pechman wolfing you up a moment ago when she was presented.'
'Which one was she?'
'Come, that's better. The last one you met—over there, with the yellow hair.'
'She's fat. Overblown.'
'Ye-es, poor soul, but some men like it, I'm told.'
'Not I, Rosanna.'
'Rosanna,' she repeated, smiling. 'I like that. You know that no one ever calls me by that name now. It reminds me of England—you've no notion how famous it is to hear English again. In conversation, I mean, like this.'
'Was that why you sent for me—for my conversation?'
'That—and other things.'
'What other things?' says I, seeing a chance to get down to business. 'What's this very delicate matter that your chamberlain talked about?'
'Oh, that.' She put on a coy look. 'That can wait a little. You must know I have a new motto since I came to Bavaria: 'pleasure before business'.' She gave me a sleepy look from beneath those glorious black lashes that made by heart skip a little. 'You wouldn't be so ungallant as to hurry me, would you, Harry?'
'Not where business is concerned,' says I, leering again. 'Pleasure's another matter.'
'Wicked,' she says, smiling lazily, like a sleek black cat. 'Wicked, wicked, wicked.'
It is remarkable what fatuities you can exchange with a beautiful woman. I can think shame when I consider the way I sat babbling with Lola on that couch; I would ask you only to remember that she was as practised a seductress as ever wore out bed linen, and just to be beside her, even in a room full of people, was in itself intoxicating. She was overpowering, like some rich tropical flower, and she could draw a man like a magnet. The same Dr Windischmann, Vicar-General, whose name she had been taking in vain so recently, once said that there was not even a priest in his charge who could have been trusted with her. Liszt put it more bluntly and accurately when he observed to me: 'As soon as you meet Lola, your mind leaps into bed.'
Anyway, I mention this to explain how it was that after a few moments with her I had forgotten entirely my earlier misgivings about her possible recollection of our parting in London, and my fears that she might harbour a grudge against me for the Ranelagh affair. She had charmed me, and I use the word exactly. Laughing and talking with her over the Tokay, only one thought was in my mind: to get her bedded as swiftly as might be, and the devil with anything else.
While we were chatting so amiably and I, poor ass, was succumbing to her spell, more people were arriving in the ante-room, and presently she had them called up, with Lauengram playing the major-domo, and talked to them in turn. These levees of hers were quite famous in Munich, apparently, and it was her habit to hold court to all sorts of folk: not just distinguished visitors and such odds and ends as artists and poets, but even statesmen and ambassadors. I don't recall who was there that morning, for between Lola and the Tokay I was not paying much heed, but I know they scraped and fawned to her no end.
Presently she announced that we would all go to see her cuirassiers at exercise, and there was a delay while she went off to change; when she returned it was in full Hussar rig, which showed off her curves admirably and would have caused the police to be called in London. The sycophants 'Ooh-ed and Aah-ed' and cried 'Wunderschon!', and we all trooped after her to the stables and rode out to a nearby park where a couple of squadrons of cavalry were going through their paces.
Lola, who was riding a little white mare, took great pleasure in the spectacle, pointing with her whip and exclaiming authoritatively on the manoeuvres. Her courtiers echoed her applause faithfully, all except Rudi Starnberg, who I noticed was watching with a critical eye, like myself. I ought to know something about cavalry, and certainly Lola's cuirassiers were a smart lot on parade, and looked very well as they thundered past at the charge. Starnberg asked me what I thought of them; very fine, I said.
'Better than the British?' says he, with his cocky grin.
'I'll tell you that when I've seen 'em fight,' says I, bluntly.
'You won't deny they're disciplined to perfection,' cries he.
