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).[See Flashman at the Charge]
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.'
'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 entree 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?'
'Precisement! 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 ingenue, 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 a t 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 des-tiny, 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, voila! It is done, in secrecy the most perfect. Well, my boy, does it march?'
The only snag I could see was being first wicket down with the lady after she’d endured the attentions of blasted Shovel-off, and would be intent on writing her reports. Happy thought: being a mere diplomat, his performance might well leave her gnawing her pretty knuckles for some real boudoir athletics—in which case the reports could wait until after breakfast.
Well, if I’d had any sense, or an inkling of what lay years ahead, or been less flown with Voisin’s arrack, I’d
