“Florence Nightingale. Or does it have to be a Frog? Well, then, Madame du
Barry –” “Jeanne d’Arc is yet to reappear, perhaps. But you are not serious,
my boy. You doubt my reason. Oh, yes, you do! But I tell you, everything
moves by a fixed law, and those of us who would master our destinies –” he
tapped a fat finger on my knee “– we learn to divine the intentions of the
Supreme Will which directs us.”
“Ye don’t say. One jump ahead of the Almighty. Who are you reincarnating, by
the way – Baron Munchausen?”
He sat back shortling, twirling his moustache. “Oh, ’Arree, ’Arree, you are incorrigible!
Well, I shall submit no more to your scepticism méprisant, your dérision
Anglaise. You laugh, when I tell you that in our moment of first
meeting, I knew that our fates were bound together. ‘Regard this man,’ I
thought. ‘He is part of your destiny.’ It is so, we are bound, I, Blowitz,
in whom Tacitus lives again, and you . . . ah, but of whom shall I say you
are a reflection? Murat, perhaps? Your own Prince Rupert? Some great beau
sabreur, surely?” He twinkled at me. “Or would it please you if I named
the Chevalier de Seignalt?”
“Who’s he when he’s at home?” “In Italy they called him Casanova. Aha, that
marches! You see yourself in the part! Well, well, laugh as you please, we
are destined, you and I. You’ll see, mon ami. Oh, you’ll see!”
He had me weighed up, no error, and knew that on my infrequent visits to
Paris, which is a greasy sort of sink no much better than Port Moresby, the
chief reason I sought him out was because he was my passport to society
salons and the company of the female gamebirds with whom the city abounds –
and I don’t mean your poxed-up opera tarts and cancan girls but the quality
traffic of the smarthôtelsand embassy parties, whose languid ennui
conceals more carnal knowledge than you’d find in Babylon. My advice to
young chaps is to never mind the Moulin Rouge and Pigalle, but make for some
diplomatic mêlée on the Rue de Lisbonne, catch the eye of a
well-fleshed countess, and ere the night’s out you’ll have learned something
you won’t want to tell your grandchildren.
In spite of looking like a plum duff on legs, Blowitz had an extraordinary
gift of attracting the best of ’em like flies to a jampot. No doubt they
thought him a harmless buffoon, and he made them laugh, and flattered them
something monstrous – and, to be sure, he had the stalwart Flashy in tow,
which was no disadvantage, though I say it myself. I suppose you could say
he pimped for me, in a way – but don’t imagine for a moment that I despised
him, or failed to detect the hard core inside the jolly little flâneur. I
always respect a man who’s good at his work, and I bore in mind the story
(which I heard from more than one good source) that Blowitz had made his
start in France by paying court to his employer’s wife, and the pair of them
had heaved the unfortunate cuckold into Marseilles harbour from a
pleasure-boat, left him to drown, and trotted off to the altar. Yes, I could
credit that. Another story, undoubtedly true, was that when The Times,
in his early days on the paper, were thinking of sacking him, he invited the
manager to dinner – and there at the table was every Great Power ambassador
in Paris. That convinced The Times, as well it might.
So there you have M. Henri Stefan Oppert-Blowitz, and if I’ve told you a deal
about him and his crackpot notions of our “shared destiny”, it’s because
they were at the root of the whole crazy business, and dam’ near cost me my
life, as well as preventing a great European war – which will happen
eventually, mark my words, if this squirt of a Kaiser ain’t put firmly in
his place. If I were Asquith I’d have the little swine took off sudden;
plenty of chaps would do it for ten thou’ and a snug billet in the Colonies
afterwards. But that’s common sense, not politics, you see.
That by the way. It was the back end of ’77 that the unlikely pair of Blowitz
and Sam Grant, late President of the United States, put me on the road to
disaster, and (as is so often the case) in the most innocent-seeming way.
Like all retired Yankee bigwigs, Sam was visiting the mother country as the
first stage of a grand tour, which meant, he being who he was, that instead
of being allowed to goggle at Westminster and Windermere in peace, he must
endure adulation on every hand, receiving presentations and the freedom of
cities, having fat aldermen and provosts pump his fin, which he hated of all
things, listening to endless boring addresses, and having to speechify in
turn (which was purgatory to a man who spoke mostly in grunts), with crowds
huzzaing wherever he went, the nobility lionising him in their lordly way,
and being beset by admiring females from Liverpool laundresses to the Great
White Mother herself.
Hard sledding for the sour little bargee, and by the time I met him, at a
banquet at Windsor to which I’d been bidden as his old comrade of the war
between the states, I could see he’d had his bellyful. Our last encounter
had been two years earlier, when he’d sent me to talk to the Sioux and lost
me my scalp at Greasy Grass, and his temper hadn’t improved in the meantime.
“It won’t do, Flashman!” barks he, chewing his beard and looking as though
he’d just heard that Lee had taken New York. “I’ve had as much ceremony and
attention as I can stand. D’you know they’re treating me as royalty?
It’s true, I tell you! Lord Beaconsfield has ordained it – well, I’m much
obliged to him, I’m sure, but I can’t take it! If I have to lay another
cornerstone or listen to another artisans’ address or have my hand tortured
by some worthy burgess bent on wrestling me to the ground . . .” He left off
snarling to look round furtive-like in case any of the Quality were in
earshot. “At least your gracious Queen doesn’t shake hands as though she
purposed to break my arm,” he added grudgingly. “Not like the rest of ’em.”
“Price of fame, Mr President.” “Price of your aunt’s harmonium!” snaps he.
“And it’ll be worse in Europe, I’ll be bound! Dammit, they embrace you,
don’t they?” He glared at me, as though daring me to try. “Here, though –
d’you speak French? I know you speak Siouxan, and I seem to recollect Lady
Flashman extolling your linguistic accomplishments. Well, sir – do you or
don’t you?”
