Together they went to the communicating door, Rudi nodded, and in a moment they had opened it and slipped through, with Detchard behind them. There was a second in which the murmur of voices sounded louder, and then the door closed, and I was left, stark in a royal dressing-room in a German mansion, all alone and palpitating. For a moment there wasn't a sound, and then something tumbled next door. Minutes passed, a door was shut somewhere, there was a muttering of voices in the corridor that sent me scampering behind the curtains, and then silence. Several minutes passed, and my teeth began to chatter with cold and apprehension. At last I peeped out, to see if there wasn't a gown or something to wrap up in: there was plenty of furniture in the room, the main article being an enormous decorated commode—it struck me as my usual luck that whereas most royal successions lead to a throne, mine had got me nothing so far but a thunder-box—but devil a rag of clothing beyond a couple of towels. So I wrapped up in the curtain as well as I could, and waited fearfully.
Then the door opened, and Detchard's voice said softly:
"Wo sind sie?"
I poked my head out. He was carrying a big silk dressing-gown, thank God, and I grabbed at it, shuddering.
"His highness has left the house," says he. "Everything is in train. Is all well with you?"
"Oh, splendid—except that I'm almost frozen to death. Isn't there a fire, in God's name?"
"There is a stove in the bedroom," says he, and ushered me through to a splendid apartment, thickly-carpeted, with a huge four-poster bed richly-curtained, and a fine stove with its doors thrown wide to warm the room. While I thawed out Detchard stood with his grey head cocked, considering me and toying with his seals.
"It is truly amazing," says he, at last. "I did not believe it— but you are the same man. Wonderful!"
"Well, I hope the other one's warmer than I am. Haven't you any brandy?"
He poured me a glass, very carefully, and watched me gulp it down.
"You are nervous," says he. "Naturally. However, you will have the night to accustom yourself to the—ah, novelty of your situation. His highness retired early, with a slight headache no doubt brought on by the fatigue of his journey, so you will be undisturbed. Your host, Count von Tarlenheim, has given particular instructions. You will meet him briefly tomorrow, by the way, before we set out for the border. An amiable dotard. His highness—or I should say, your highness—has been quite formal with him so far, so there will be no questions asked if you are no more forthcoming tomorrow than politeness demands."
"Thank God for that," says I. I wanted time to play myself in, so to speak, and the thought of chattering to a breakfast table was out of court altogether.
"The only people who have been close to you on the journey, apart from myself, are Dr Ostred, your physician, and young Josef, your valet, He has been in your service only a day, your old valet, Einar, having become indisposed shortly after we set out."
"Convenient," says I. "Will he live?"
"Of course. You are much concerned about him." He turned, and I leaped violently as the door opened, and a little anxiouslooking chap came in.
"Ah, Ostred," says Detchard, and the little chap blinked, looked at me, at Detchard, and back at me again.
"I thought …" he stammered. "That is—your pardon, highness. I supposed … you had retired … that you would be in bed." He looked helplessly to Detchard, and I thought, by heaven, he thinks I'm the real man. He couldn't make out what had gone wrong. So here was a first-rate chance to put the thing to the test; if I could fool my own doctor I could fool anyone.
"I have a headache," says I, quite gently. "That doesn't mean that I have to take to my bed."
"No, no … of course not, highness." He licked his lips.
"Perhaps you might take his highness's pulse, doctor," says Detchard, and the little fellow came over arid took my wrist as though it was made of porcelain. There were beads of sweat on his brow.
"A little swift," he muttered, and glanced at my face. He was scared and puzzled, and then he literally leaped back as though he had seen a ghost.
"He … he …" he exclaimed, pointing.
"No, Ostred," says Detchard. "He is not the prince."
"But—" the little doctor gargled speechlessly, and I couldn't help laughing. "But he is—identical! Dear Jesus! I could not believe it! I was sure, when I saw him, that something had gone amiss—that it was still the prince. My God!"
"What gave him away?" asks Detchard.
"The scars. They are new, and pink."
Detchard snapped his teeth in annoyance. "The scars, of course. I had forgotten. That might have cost us dear. However, we have the means to put it right." And he took out a flask, which I suppose Rudi had given him, and daubed at my wounds until he and the doctor were satisfied.
"There," says Detchard. "When did you last shave your head?"
"Last night."
"It will do for the moment. Ostred will attend to it again tomorrow." He pulled out his watch. "Now, it may be best if you and I, doctor, return to our hosts." For my benefit he rattled off a few more details about Tarlenheim and the arrangements for the morning. "Your valet will look in shortly, to see you to bed," he concluded. "You may sleep easily, believe me. Now that I have seen you, my doubts are at rest. I seriously question if your own father would detect the imposture. Ha! You see—I said 'your' own father." He smiled grimly. "I half believe in you myself. And so, your highness, I have the honour to bid you good-night."
They withdrew, bowing, and left me trembling—but for once it wasn't funk. I was elated—I had fooled Ostred. By God, it was going to work. I took a turn round the room, grinning to myself, drank another glass of brandy, and another, and stood beaming at myself in the mirror. Well, Prince Harry, thinks I, if only Elspeth could see you now. And old moneybags Morrison. And Lord Godalmighty Cardigan. He'd be glad enough to have royalty back in his flea-bitten 11th Hussars. For I was royal, for the moment— a full-blown prince of the blood, no less, until—aye, until Bismarck's little game was played out. And then—oh, the blazes with him. I had another glass of brandy and took stock of my royal surroundings.
Sumptuous wasn't the word for them—silk sheets, lace pillow, solid silver cup and plate by the bed—with breast of chicken under a napkin, bigod, in case I felt peckish. I resisted a temptation to slip the plate into a pocket—plenty of time for lifting the lumber later. This was only a staging-post on the journey, after all; the pick of the loot would be in the palace of Strackenz. But I felt I could rough it here for the night—excellent liquor, a warm fire, cigars in a tooled leather box, even the pot under the bed was of the best china, with little fat-arsed cherubs running round it. I plumped back on the bed—it was like floating on a cloud. Well, thinks I, they may talk about cares of state, and uneasy lies the head and all that tommy-rot, but this is the life for old Flashy. You may take my word for it, next time you hear about the burdens of monarchy, that royalty do themselves damned proud. I've been one; I know.
My eye fell on an ornament on the mantel; a carved kneeling figure. A little prickle ran through me as I realised that this was the cupid Bismarck had mentioned—by jove, he knew his business, that one. Down to the last detail. I rolled off the bed and looked at it, and felt a slight glow of pleasure as I realised it wasn't a cupid after all—it was a nymph. The great Otto wasn't infallible then, after all. It was most obviously a nymph, and contemplating it I realised there was one thing missing from my princely paradise. Bronze nymphs don't compare to real ones: I hadn't had a woman since the blubbery Baroness Pechman had been so rudely plucked from my embrace—and I hadn't really been able to get to proper grips with her before Rudi had interrupted us. Fat and all as she was, the thought of her was making me feverish, and at that moment there was a soft tap at the door and a slim, very sober-looking fellow slipped in. This was obviously Josef, my valet.