"How the devil should I know? What on earth has this to do -?" "Bismarck is sure he would be. Not that he’s asked—but your name has been mentioned to the Emperor lately, and he spoke of you most warmly. Gratifyin', what—from such a cold fish?"
"And the Empress?" This was Kralta. "Was she well disposed towards you?"
"She was very … gracious. Charming. See here, this is—" "Did you admire her?"
"Of course he did!" laughs Willem. "Who doesn’t? Half Europe’s in love with the beautiful Sissi!"
"You met her again, later," says Kralta. "In England." "I hunted with her, once or twice, yes."
"Hunted, eh?" Willem’s tongue was in his cheek. "Was that the only … exercise you took with her?"
"Yes, damn your eyes! And if that’s where you’ve been leading with your infernal questions—"
"It had to be asked," says Kralta sharply. She stared down her nose. "Then there are no grounds at all for the Emperor to feel … jealousy towards you? Where his wife is concerned?"
"Or to put it tactfully," says Willem, "if you happened along, Franz-Josef wouldn’t bar the door on you just because little Sissi was on the premises?" He gave the snorting little chuckle which I was beginning to detest. "Ve-ry good! D’ye know what, Kralta? Bismarck was right. `Flashman is the man' … I say, Munich already! How time flies in jolly company!" He stood up and consulted his watch. "We stop only five minutes … but you won’t do anythin' rash, Harry, will you? A German gaol wouldn’t suit, you know."
He needn’t have fretted. One thought alone was in my mind as we waited, looking out on the orderly bustle of Munich station: the Austrian frontier lay a bare sixty miles off, we’d cross it in two hours, and if (a large if, granted) I could give ’em the slip I’d be beyond the reach of Bavarian law in a country at loggerheads with Germany and as likely to oblige Bismarck by returning a fugitive as I was to take holy orders.
As to what he could want of me, I was no wiser. What could it matter what the Emperor and Empress of Austria thought of a mere British soldier? She had an eye for men, and it was common talk that Franz-Josef had warned her off various gallants with whom her relations had probably been innocent enough, but I hadn’t been among ’em. I dare say I could have added her scalp to my belt, but I’d never tried, for good reason: everyone knew that Franz-Josef, whose ambition seemed to be to bag every chamois and woman in Austria, had given her cupid’s measles, and while the poultice-wallopers had doubtless put her in order again, you can’t be too careful. And while she looked like Pallas Athene, I suspected she was half-cracked—flung herself about in gymnasiums and went on starvation diets and wrote poetry and asked for a lunatic asylum as a birthday present, so I’d been told. She and Franz-Josef hadn’t dealt too well since he’d poxed her, and she’d taken to wandering Europe while he pleaded with her to forgive and forget. Royal marriages are the very devil.
I tell you this because it’s pertinent to the catechism which Willem resumed as soon as we’d pulled out of Munich. He began by asking what I knew of the Austrian Empire. I retorted that they seemed to be good at losing wars and territory, having been licked lately by France, Prussia, and Italy, for heaven’s sake, and that the whole concern was pretty ramshackle. Beyond that I knew nothing and cared less.
He nodded. "Aye, ramshackle enough. Fifty million folk of a dozen different nations bound together in a discontented mass under a stiff-necked autocrat who don’t know how to manage ’em. He’s a dull dog, Franz-Josef, whose blunders have cost him the popularity he enjoyed as the handsome boy-emperor of thirty-five years ago. But his empire’s the heart and guts of Europe, and if it were to suffer any great convulsion … well, it better not. Know anythin' about Hungary?"
I understood it was the biggest state in the empire bar Austria itself, and that the natives were an ornery lot, but fine horsemen. He grinned.
"Proper little professor of international politics, you are! Well, I’m quarter Hungarian myself, through Mama; rest o' me’s Prussian. And you’re right, they’re an ornery lot, and don’t care above half for Austrian rule. They’ve declared independence in the past, risin' in revolt, and Franz-Josef made the mistake of gettin' the Tsar to put ’em down with Russian troops—they’ll never forgive him that. He’s been at his wit’s end to keep ’em quiet, makin' concessions, havin' himself and Sissi crowned King and Queen of Hungary, but there are still plenty of Magyar nationalists who’d like to cut with Austria altogether. People like Lajos Kossuth, regular firebrand who led the uprisin', now in his eighties and exiled in Italy but still hatin' the Hapsburgs like poison and dreamin' of Free Hungary. Believe it or not, he and his nationalist pals have the sympathy of Empress Sissi and the Emperor’s son and heir, Crown Prince Rudolf, who favour constitutional reform.[14] And there are others, extremists who’d like to take a shorter way."
He paused to light a cigarette, blowing out the match and watching its smoke. "Terrorists like the Holnup, which is Hungarian for `tomorrow', ’nuff said. They skulk in secret, plottin' bloody revolution, but most Hungarians regard ’em as a squalid gang of fanatics not to be taken seriously." He threw aside the spent match. "So did we … until about a month ago, when Bismarck got word, through his private intelligence service, that the Holnup were about to take the warpath in earnest. Here, let me give you another brandy."
He poured out a stiff tot, and a cloud must have passed over the sun just then, for the brightness faded from the pretty autumn colours speeding past the window, and to my nervous imagination it seemed that the shadow penetrated into the compartment, robbing the trickling brandy of its sparkle, and that even the rumble of the wheels had taken on a menacing, insistent note.
"The Holnup intend to assassinate Franz-Josef," says Willem, filling a second glass for himself. "If they succeed, there’ll be civil war. Oh, pottin' royalty’s nothing new, and usually there’s no great harm done—various lunatics have tried for Franz-Josef before, there have been two attempts on the German Emperor, and the Tsar was blown up a couple of years ago … but this would be different.[15] What, Hungarians killin' the Austrian monarch, at a time when Hungary’s boilin' with unrest, when it’s known that Sissi supports its independence, and surrounds herself with worshippin' Magyars, and corresponds with Kossuth, and there’s even been rumour of a conspiracy to bestow the crown of Hungary on Prince Rudolf, who hates Papa and is as pro-Hungarian as his beautiful idiot of a mother?" He gave a mirthless bark of laughter. "Think what use the nationalists could make of those two half-wits, willin' or not! Casus belli, if you like! Civil war in Austria-Hungary—and how long before France and Germany and Russia, aye, and perhaps even England, were drawn in? And that is what will happen if Franz-Josef stops a Hungarian bullet."
Somewhere or other that downy bird Kipling observes that the lesson of the island race is to put away all emotion and entrap the alien at the proper time.[16] I learned it in my cradle, long before he wrote it, and have practised it all my life with some success, and only this difference, that for "entrap" I prefer to substitute "escape". The putting-away-emotion business ain’t always easy, but I like to think I managed it pretty well in the face of Starnberg’s disgusting proposal, concealing my shocked bewilderment before that grinning young devil and his steely-eyed accomplice as they watched to see how I would respond to their bombshell.
There was no point in protest or roaring refusal. As you know, I’d been press-ganged aboard the good ship Disaster before, by legions of experts from Palmerston to Lincoln, with the likes of Colin Campbell and Alick Gardner and U. S. Grant and Broadfoot and J. B. Hickok and Raglan and God knew who else along the way, all urging hapless Flashy into the soup by blackmail and brute force, and nothing to be done about it. Ah, but this time there was, you see, with the Austrian border drawing nearer by the minute, so I must bide my time and delude the aliens as seemed best, listening to their lunatic notions as though I might be persuadable, and waiting my chance to cut and run. My strong card was that despite Willem’s menaces, they’d made it plain that they wanted me as a willing ally; I must play on that, but not too hard. The question was, which role to adopt (ain’t it always?), balancing righteous outrage at the way I’d been treated against the chivalrous impulses which they’d expect from an officer and gentleman. So now I let out a soft "Ha!" and gave Willem my most sardonic stare.