Flashman and the Tiger: And Other Extracts from the Flashman Papers. George Fraser MacDonald

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      Looking back, I guess Blowitz’s ‘treat’ was a sight to see. The first of anything usually is, and the inauguration which took place in Paris that Sunday night was historic, in a Froggy sort of way. If I wasn’t unduly impressed, Blowitz himself was partly to blame; one evening of his company was always about my limit, and his enthusiasm for his ‘petit cadeau’ was such that I was quite put off beforehand, and a day spent loafing in the hotel hadn’t raised my spirits. The small unease that had been in my mind on the Channel crossing had returned, as it always does when I ain’t quite sure what I’m being pushed into, or why, and when Blowitz collected me from the Chatham as dusk was falling, I was carrying a decided hump – all the greater ’cos common sense told me I’d no reason for it.

      Blowitz was in a fine excitement, greeting me exuberantly, telling the cabby to make all haste to the Place de Strasbourg, and parrying my inquiries with a waggishness which set my teeth on edge: all would be revealed presently; yes, we had a small journey to our rendezvous with Princess Kralta, but everything was arranged, and I would be transported in more ways than one – this with a hysterical giggle as he bounced up and down on his seat, urging the driver to hurry. I fought down an urge to kick the little chatterbox out of the cab, and consoled myself with the thought that presently I’d be having my wicked way with that fine piece of blue-blooded batter; the vision of her imperious figurehead and strapping form had been in my mind all day, competing with my vague unease, and now that the reality was in prospect, I was becoming a mite impatient.

      Shortly before seven we pulled up at the canopied entrance of the Gare de l’Est, Blowitz clamouring for porters and hurrying me into the concourse – so our ‘small journey’ was to be by rail, which meant, I supposed, that Madame’s mansion lay in one of the fashionable districts outside the city.

      The station seemed uncommon busy for a Sunday night. There was a great crowd milling under the electric lamps, but Blowitz bustled through like a tug before a liner, flourishing a token and announcing himself with his usual pomposity to a blue-coated minion who conducted us through a barrier to a less-crowded platform where knots of passengers and uniformed railway officials were waiting beside a train. All eyes were turned to it, and I have to say it looked uncommon smart and polished, gleaming blue and gold under the lights, but otherwise ordinary enough, the steam hissing up from beneath the engine with that pungent railway smell, the porters busy at the five long coaches, on one of which the curtains were drawn back to reveal the glowing pink interior of a dining salon – and yet there was an unwonted hush about the working porters, an excitement among the throng watching from the barrier, and an air of expectancy in the little groups on the platform. Blowitz stopped, clutching at my arm and staring at the train like a child in a toy shop.

      ‘Ah, gaze upon it!’ cries he. ‘Is it not the train of trains – the ultimate, l’apogée, le dernier cri of travel! Oh, my boy, who was the genius who said “Let the country build the railway, and the railway will build the country”? And not only a country – now a continent, a world!’ He flourished a hand. ‘Behold that which will be called the monarch of the rails, as it prepares for its first journey!’ He turned to beam up at me, his eyes glistening moistly. ‘Yes, this is my surprise, my treat, my petit cadeau to you, dearest of friends – to be one of the select band who will be the pioneers on this historic voyage! You and I, ’Arree, and a mere handful of others – we alone will share this experience, the envy of generations of travellers yet to come, the first to ride upon the magic carpet of the steel highway – l’Express Orient!’

      The name meant nothing then, since this was only the inception of what I suppose is now the most famous train on earth – and to be honest, it still don’t mean that much. I’m a steamship man, myself; they don’t rattle or jolt, I don’t mind the occasional heave, and the feeling of being snug and safe appeals to my poltroon nature – once aboard, the world can’t get at you, and if danger threatens you can usually take to the boats or swim for it. Trains I regard as a necessary nuisance, but with Blowitz bouncing and pawing my sleeve I was bound to be civil.

      ‘Well, much obliged, Blow,’ says I. ‘Handsome of you. It looks a capital train, as trains go – but how far is it going, eh?’ It didn’t look district line, exactly, but my question was ignored.

      ‘Capital! СКАЧАТЬ