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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and one is saying there ain’t no letter ‘W’ in French, and t’other says: ‘Then ’ow d’yer spell “wee”?’ Just so … well, the joke is that the second chap doesn’t know how to spell ‘oui’, you see …

      M: And one is to laugh at that?

      F: Well, I can’t say I did myself, but –

      M: Pouf! And this other, then? (Sits by F, taps page with dainty scarlet nail, regards him wide-eyed)

      F (aware that only a wisp of gauze lies between him and the delightful meat): Eh? Oh, ah, yes! Well, here’s a stout party complaining that the fish she bought yesterday was ‘off’, and the fishmonger retorting that it’s her own fault for not buying it earlier in the week …

      M (bee-stung lips breathing perfume): What then?

      F: Gad, that’s sweet! … Ah, well, I guess that the joke is that he’s blaming her, don’t you know, when in fact he’s been selling the stuff after it’s started to stink.

      M (bewildered, nestling chin on F’s shoulder): So le poissonnier is a thief. That amuses, does it?

      F: See here, I don’t write the damned jokes … (Attempts to fondle her starboard tit)

      M (parrying deftly): Good as gold, méchant! Now, this page here, the lady in harlequin costume … ah, très chic, her hat and veil trop fripon, and her figure exquisite, mais voluptueuse! (sits bolt upright, inspired to imitation)

      F: God love us!

      M (swaying out of reach) … but her expression is severe, and she carries a baton – to chastise? She is perhaps a flagellatrice? Formidable! But this also is humorous?

      F: Certainly not. This picture is intended to be ogled by lewd men. Speaking as one myself …

      M: No, no, be still, you promised! What is ogled?

      F: What people did at your Folies photograph, as well you know! Enjoyed posing for it, didn’t you? – dammit, you’re enjoying this!

      M (wickedly): Mais certainement! (nestles again, nibbling F’s ear) Et vous aussi? No-no-no-wait! One last question … ah, but only one … these words, above this article … what do they mean?

      F (reading): ‘Hankey Pankey’ … (as she bursts out laughing) I knew it, bigod! You understand Punch’s beastly jokes as well as I do, don’t you? Well, just for that, young woman, I shan’t tell you what Hankey-Pankey means … I’ll show you! (Demonstrates, avec élan et espièglerie and lustful roarings, to delighted squeals and sobs from Mamselle. Ecstatic collapse of both parties)⁶

      Afterwards, as I lay blissfully tuckered, with that splendid young body astride of me, moist and golden in the fading sunlight, her eyes closed in a satisfied smirk, I found myself wondering idly if the French secret service ran an École de Galop to train their female agents in the gentle art of houghmagandie, as Elspeth calls it – and if so, were there any vacancies for visiting professors? Anyway, Mamselle Caprice must have been the Messalina Prizewoman of her year; no demi-mondaine perhaps, according to Blowitz, but as expert an amateur as I’d ever struck, with the priceless gift of fairly revelling in her sex, and using it with joyous abandon … and considerable calculation, as I was about to learn.

      She stretched across to the nearby table for a gilt-tipped cigarette, lighting it from a tiny spirit lamp, and I couldn’t resist another clutch at those firm pointed poonts overhead. She squirmed her bottom in polite response, trickling smoke down her shapely nostrils as she studied me, head on one side; then she leaned down, murmuring in my ear.

      ‘If you were Count Shuvalov … would you be ready to confide in me now?’ She gave a little chuckle, and nibbled.

      ‘I’ll be damned! Been using me for net practice, have you?’ I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Experimenting on me, you little trollop – of all the sauce!’

      ‘Why not?’ says the shameless baggage, sitting up again and drawing on her scented weed. ‘If I am to learn his secrets, it is well I should know what … beguiles men of his age. After all, you and he are no longer boys, but mature, possibly of similar tastes …’

      ‘A couple of ageing libertines, you mean? Well, thank’ee, my dear, I’m obliged to you – as I’m sure Count Shovel-off will be, and if you pay him the kind of loving attention you’ve just shown me, I daresay he’ll be sufficiently captivated to gas his fat head off –’

      ‘Oh, he is captivate’ already,’ says she airily. ‘He has admired the notorious photograph … and we have met, and he has begged an assignation for tomorrow night.’⁷

      ‘Has he, now? That’s brisk work.’ Highly professional, too … by Blowitz? … by the French secret department? Certainly by the brazen little bitch sitting cool as a trout athwart my hawse, sporting her boobies and blowing smoke-rings while she mused cheerfully on how best to squeeze the juice out of her Russian prey.

      ‘You see,’ says she, ‘to captivate, to seduce, is nothing … he is only a man.’ She gave the little shrug that is the Frenchwoman’s way of spitting on the pavement. ‘But afterwards … to make him tell what I wish to know … ah, that is another thing. Which is why I ask you, who are experienced in secret affairs, Blowitz says. You know well these Russians, you have made the intrigues, you have made love to many, many women, and I am sure they have – how do you say? – practised their nets on you.’ She smiled sleepy seductive-like, and leaned down again to flicker the tip of her tongue against my lips. ‘So, tell me … which of them most appealed, to win your confidence? The fool? The task-mistress? The slave? L’ingénue? Or perhaps la petite farceuse who teases you with foolish jokes, and then …’ She wriggled, stroking her bouncers across my chest. ‘To which would you tell your secrets?’

      ‘My, you’ve studied your subject, haven’t you?’ I eased her gently upright. ‘Well, the answer, my artful little seductress, is … to none of ’em – unless I wanted to. But I ain’t Shovel-off, remember. From what I hear he’s the kind of vain ass who can’t resist showing off to every pretty woman he meets, so it don’t matter a rap whether you play the innocent or Delilah or Gretchen the Governess. Get him half-tipsy, pleasure him blind, and listen to him blather … but don’t try to come round him with jokes from Punch, ’cos they’d be lost on him. Tease him with a few funny bits from Tolstoy, if you like, or the latest wheezes from Ivan the Terrible’s Guffawgraph –’

      ‘Oh, idiot!’ She slapped me smartly on the midriff, giggling. ‘You are not serious, you! I ask advice, and you make game of me!’

      ‘Advice, my eye – mocking a poor old man, more like.’

      ‘Old? Ha!’ exclaims she, rolling her eyes – she could pay a neat compliment, the minx.

      ‘As if there was anything I could teach you about bewitching a man!’ I can pay a compliment, too. She gave a complacent toss of the head, arms akimbo.

      ‘Oh, one can always learn, from a wise teacher … I think,’ says she, assuming the depraved sneer she had worn in her photograph, ‘that since I do not like M. Shuvalov, I should prefer to be Gretchen the Governess, très implacable, sans remords!’ She made growling noises, flourishing an imaginary whip. ‘Ah, well, we shall see! And now,’ she hopped nimbly down, ‘I make supper!’

      Which СКАЧАТЬ