In the meantime, Caprice was on hand, and when Hutton gave me the office next day that she purposed to visit me in the evening, I struggled into my shirt and trowsers, cursing my stitches, shaved with care, gave my face furniture a touch of pomade, practised expressions of suffering nobly borne before the mirror while lust-fully recalling the soap bubbles of Berlin … and paused to wonder, I confess, how it would be, meeting her again.
You see, I don’t care to be under obligation to a woman for anything—except money, of course—and this one had saved my life at mighty risk to herself. Furthermore, the harmless jolly little banger of five years ago had emerged as a skilled and ruthless killing lady. On both counts she had the whip hand, so to speak, if she chose to use it—and show me the woman that won’t. Well, Caprice didn’t; being a clever actress and manager of men, she took what might have been an awkward reunion in her sprightly stride, bowling in without so much as a knock, full of sass and nonsense … and ’twas as though five years ago was only yesterday.
"I have not forgiven you!" cries she, dropping her cape and reticule on the table. "Not a word of farewell, not so much as a billet d’adieu when you abandon me in Berlin! Oh, c’est parfait, ca! Well, M. Jansen-Flashman, what have you to say?" She tossed her head, twinkling severely, and I could have eaten her alive on the spot. "I am waiting, m’sieur!"
"My dear, I’ve been waiting five years," says I, playing up, "just for the adorable sight of you—and here you are, lovelier than ever!" She made that honking noise of derision that is so vulgarly French, but I wasn’t flattering. The pretty girl had become a beauty, the pert gamin face had refined and strengthened, the classroom fringe had given way to the latest upswept style crowned with curls, darker than I remembered—but the cupid’s bow lips were as impudent and the blue eyes as mischievous as ever. She was still la petite Caprice, if not so little: an inch or two taller and fuller in her tight-bodiced crimson satin that clung like a skin from bare shoulders to wasp waist and then descended to her feet in the fashionable rippling pleats of the time—it hadn’t occurred to me that female politicals might dress like evening fashion-plates even when they were in the field, so to speak, and I sat lewdly agog.
"I know that look!" says she. "And I am still waiting."
"But, darling, I couldn’t say goodbye—it was Blowitz’s fault, you see; he had me on the train to Cologne before I knew it, and --
"Ah, so Blowitz is to blame! Fat little Stefan overpowered you and carried you off, eh? Some excuse, that!" She advanced with that mincing sway that had never failed to have me clutching for the goods. "Well, it does not serve, milord! I am displeased, and come only to punish you for your neglect, your discourtoisie." She struck a pose. "Behold, I wear my most becoming gown—
Worth, s’il vous plait!—I dress my hair a la mode, I devote care to my complexion, a little powder here, a little rouge there, I choose my most costly perfume (mmm-h!), I put round my neck the velvet ribbon tralala which so aroused the disgusting Shuvalov—you remember?—I make my person attrayante altogether … how do you say … ? ravissante, tres séduisante—"
"Alluring, bigod, scrumptious—"
"And then …" she bent forward to flaunt ’em and stepped away "… then, I place myself at a distance, out of reach." She perched on the table edge, crossing her legs with a flurry of lace petticoat and silk ankles. "And because you are invalide you must sit helpless like le pauvre M. Tana … non, M. Tanton … ah, peste! Comment s’appelle-t-il?
"Tantalus, you mad little goose!"
"Précisément … Tantaloose. Oui, you are condemned to sit like him, unable to reach out and devour that which you most desire … tres succulent, non?" And the minx stretched voluptuously, pursed her lips, and blew me a kiss. "Oh, hélas, méchant … if only you were not wounded, eh?"
"Now, that ain’t fair! Teasing an old man—and a sick one, too! Here, tell you what—let’s kiss and make up, and if you’ll forgive me for leaving you flat in Berlin … why, I’ll forgive you for saving my life, what?"
It had to be said, sooner or later, and when better than straight away, in the midst of chaff? The laughter died in her eyes, but only for an instant, and she was smiling again, shaking her immaculately curled head.
"We will not talk of that," says she, and before I could open my mouth to protest: "We will not talk of it at all. Between good friends, there is no need."
"No need? My dear girl, there’s every need—"
"No, chéri." She raised a hand, and while she smiled still, her voice was firm and calm. "If you please … non-non, un moment, let me … oh, how to say it? Those two in the caverne, they were not you and I. They were two others … two agents secrets, who did what they must do … their devoir, their duty. You see?"
What I saw was that this was a Caprice I hadn’t known before. Charming and merry as ever, even more beautiful—it made me slaver just to look at her—but with a quiet strength you’d never suspect until she softened her voice and spoke plain and direct, gentle as Gibraltar.
"Let us not speak of it then. It is past, you see, and so are they … but we are here!" In an instant she was sparkling again, slipping down from the table, fluttering her hands and laughing. "And it has been so long a time since Berlin, and I was so désolée to be Heft without a word—oh, and enraged, you would not believe! You remember the things I said of Shuvalov, that night of the bath?" She began to giggle. "Well, I said not quite as bad of you—but almost. Is there a word in English for angry and sad together? But that is past also!" She knelt quickly by my chair (in a Worth dress, too). "And here we are, I say! Have you missed me, chéri?"
As I’ve said before, damned if I understand women. But if she wanted to forget the horror of that ghastly mine, thank God and hurrah! No doubt she had her reasons, and since gratitude ain’t my long suit anyway, and her bright eyes and laughing lips and pouting tits were pleading in unison, I didn’t protest.
"Missed you, darling? Damnably—and a sight more than you missed a creaky old codger like me, I’ll lay—"
"It is not true! Why, when you abandoned me in Berlin, I was inconsolable, désolée—all day! And what is this codgeur, and creaky? Oh, but your English, it is ridiculous!"
"As to the other matter that we ain’t to talk about … well, I’ll just say a ridiculous English thank’ee—"
"And no more!" she commanded. "Or I shall not … what did you call it? Kiss and make up?" She gave a languorous wink and put on her husky voice. "Are you … strong enough?"
"Try me," says I, reaching for her, but she rose quickly and made a great business of having me put my hands palm down on my chair arms, whereupon she laid her own hands over mine, leaning down firmly to keep ’em pinned, while I feasted my eyes on those superb poonts quivering fragrantly under my very nose, and wondered if my stitches would stand the strain of the capital act performed in situ. Then the wanton baggage brought that soft smiling mouth slowly against mine, teasing gently with her tongue, but swiftly withdrawing when I broke free, panting, and tried to seize her bodily, reckless of the darting pain in my flank.
"Non-non!" cries she. "Be still, foolish! You will injure your wound! No, desist, idiot!" She slapped my hand away from her satin bottom. "It is not possible—"