"There's a likely lad, professor," says I. "Let's hear him construe." So, willy-nilly, they had to put the brute up, and he was paper-colour at the shock of it. Of course he floundered and grunted and glared round for inspiration, and the goody-goodies giggled and nudged each other, and the professor's frown grew blacker every minute.
"Stand down, sir," says he grimly, and to me: "He shall be corrected, highness, I assure you."
"That's your sort, professor," says I. "Lay on with a will." And I left in excellent humour. There would be a raw backside in that school by night, or I was mistaken—mind you, I'd sooner it had happened to the clever little sneaks, but no doubt my counterpart would pass his smarts on to them in turn.
The crowds still filled the streets for my final progress to the palace, which was a fine imposing pile on the outskirts of town, with pillars and balconies, and the running lion flag of Strackenz floating from its roof with the Danish colours alongside. The people were jammed up to the railings, and the sweep of the drive beyond was lined with the yellow-jacketed infantry of the Duchess's guard, all in glittering back-and-breasts, with drawn swords. Trumpeters blew a fanfare, the crowd surged and shouted, and I cantered up the gravel to the broad palace steps. There I turned and waved, for the last time, and wondered why people will make such a fuss over royalty. It's the same with us; we have our tubby little Teddy, whom everyone pretends is the first gentlemen of Europe, with all the virtues, when they know quite well he's just a vicious old rake-rather like me, but lacking my talent for being agreeable to order. Anyway, I was aboard Lily Langtry long before he was.
That by the way; all such lofty philosophical thoughts were driven from my mind when I entered the palace, for there I met the Duchess I was to marry next day in the old Cathedral of Strackenz, and it is a tribute to her that while I have only the haziest memories of the brilliant throng that crowded the marble staircase and great ballroom, my first glimpse of her remains fresh in my mind to this day. I can still see her, standing slim and straight on the dais at the far end of the room, with the ducal throne framed in crimson behind her, watching me as I approached, with the spectators suddenly hushed, and only the sound of my marching feet echoing through the silence.
This was one of the moments when it struck me: this is all a fraud, it isn't real. Here was I, not Prince Carl Gustaf of the ancient royal house of Oldenbcurg, but rascally old Flashy of the vulgar and lately-arrived house of Flashman, striding ahead to claim my noble bride. God, I remember thinking, the things people get me into, and that thought probably prevented me from wearing the devil-may-care leer that I normally assume in the presence of beautiful women.
She was beautiful, too—far more so than her portrait had made her out. She couldn't have been more than twenty, but already she had the hard, cold loveliness that you find only among Northern women, with their fine, long features looking as though they had been carved from marble. Her figure, in an ivory dress with a train that spread out behind her, was perhaps a trifle on the slim side, with a hint of boyishness about it, but everything was there and in good parade order. She was crowned with a little silver diadem sparking with stones, and her shining fair hair was pulled back and rolled into some kind of jewelled net behind her head. The effect of it all—so pale and pure and perfect—was rather aweinspiring; I felt almost afraid of her.
The way she looked at me didn't help matters—the grey eyes were cold and proud, and I thought: this is a spoiled, arrogant madame if ever I saw one. Whatever her feelings might be about a duty marriage, she didn't seem to care for me at first glance; I knew she was looking at my glistening bald head, and I thought angrily what a damned shame it was I hadn't my natural adornments of curly mane and whiskers. The hand she held out for me to kiss was as pale and chilly as mist in a cemetery, and just about as welcoming. I took it, murmuring about pleasure and honour and deeply heartfelt felicitous gratification, and felt it quiver ever so slightly before it was withdrawn.
So there we stood together on the dais, with me wondering what to say next, and then someone in the watching multitude began to clap, and in a moment they were crowding forward to get a closer look, I suppose, at the pair of us, and everyone was pleased and happy and clapping away like mad. I found myself grinning and nodding at them, but her grace stood there quite serene, with never a smile, as though this was her due, and rather a bore.
Well, thinks I, this is going to be a chilly wooing, and then an old cove in a frock coat with orders on his breast came bowing up beside us, and turned to the throng with his hand raised for silence. This turned out to be the Chief Minister, one Schwerin; he made a neat little speech in which he managed to wrap up a nice complimentary welcome for me, a note of homage for the duchess (who couldn't get too much of it, as I discovered), a patriotic boost for Strackenz, coupled with the state of Denmark, and a hint to the mob to keep their distance and stay out of the buffet next door until her grace and I saw fit to lead the way.
That was about the size of it, and the good folk—who were a very well-trained court—chattered respectfully among themselves while Schwerin brought forward the more distinguished to be presented to me. These included the various emissaries to Strackenz, the British one among them, and I found myself thanking God that I'd never moved in diplomatic circles at home, or he might have remembered me. As it was, he and the others made their bows, and when they had withdrawn the Duchess indicated to me that we should sit down. We did so, both rather stiff, and while the noble assembly pretended not to notice, we began to get acquainted. It was formality carried to nonsense, of course, and if I didn't have a clear memory of our opening exchanges I wouldn't believe them.
Duchess Irma: I trust your highness's journey has not been tedious.
Flashy: Indeed, no, although I confess I have counted every moment in my impatience to be here.
Duchess: Your highness is very gracious. We of Strackenz can only hope that you are not too disappointed in us—we are very small and provincial here.
Flashy (very gallant): No one could be disappointed who was welcomed by so beautiful and noble a hostess.
Duchess: Oh. (Pause). Was the weather cold on your journey?
Flashy: At times. Occasionally it was quite warm. Nowhere so warm, however, as I find it here. (This with a flashing smile.)
Duchess: You are too hot? I shall order the windows opened.
Flashy: Christ, no. That is … I mean, the warmth of your welcome … and the people in the streets, cheering… .
Duchess: Ah, the people. They are rather noisy.
Well, I don't give up easy, but I confess I was fairly stumped here. Usually, with young women, I get along all too well. Formal chit-chat isn't my style—a little gallantry, a few jocularities to see if she will or she won't, a pinch on the buttocks, and off we go. Either that, or off I go. But I couldn't make anything of the Duchess Irma; she kept her head tilted high and looked past me, so composed and regal that I began to wonder, was she perhaps terrified out of her wits? But before I could take soundings on that, she rose, and I found myself escorting her into the antechamber, where great tables were laid out with silver plate and crystal, and a most scrumptious spread was served by flunkies while a little orchestra struck up in the gallery overhead. I was sharp-set, and while one of the Duchess's ladies looked after her, I laid into the ham and cold fowls, and chatted affably to the nobs and their ladies, who were making the most of the grub themselves, as the Germans always do.
This kind of function normally bores me out of mind, and beyond the fact that the food was unusually excellent, and that the Duchess seemed intent on not being left alone with me for more than a moment at a time, I haven't any sharp recollection of it. I remember turning once, in that gay company with its buzz of well-bred conversation, and catching her eyes fixed on me; she looked quickly away, and I thought, my God, I'm marrying that woman tomorrow. My heart took a skip at the thought; she was unutterably lovely. And then it took a lurch as I remembered the appalling risk that I ran every moment I was in Strackenz, and wondered what the penalty might be for marrying the heir to the throne under false pretences. Death, certainly. I tried to smile politely at the eager, sycophantic faces around me, and to listen to their incredible inanities of small-talk, while my mind raced away looking for a way out, even although I knew it didn't exist.