Flashman And The Tiger

Whatever I replied must have satisfied him, for he bore me off to meet the other passengers, all of whom seemed to know him, but in fact I wasn’t at all sure that I liked his "petit cadeau". I’d come to France to skulk and fornicate in peace, not to travel; on the other hand, I’d never visited Vienna, which in those days was reckoned first among all the capitals of Europe for immoral high jinks, and a day and a night of luxurious seclusion with Her Highness should make for an amusing journey. The last railroad rattle I’d enjoyed had been the voluptuous Mrs Popplewell on the Baltimore line in ’59, and rare fun it had been—until she pitched me off the train, and I had to hightail it for dear life with the Kuklos in hot pursuit. Still, the Three Fates were unlikely to be operating in Austria—oh, the blazes with it, what was I fretting for?[See Flashman and the Angel of the Lord, which recounts, inter alia, his adventures with the Kuklos, the forerunner of the infamous Ku Klux Klan, and its leaders, who styled themselves Atropos, Clotho, and Lachesis—the Three Fates of mythology.] So I exchanged courtesies with the others, of whom I remember only the celebrated Nagelmacker, boss of the line, who looked like a Sicilian bandit but was all courtesy, and a Something-or-other Effendi, a fat beard from the Turkish Embassy; there were various scribblers and a swarm of railway directors, Frog and Belgique mostly, making about two score all told.

And then there was a sudden bustle, and we were being herded aboard, with minions directing us to our compartments—I remember Blowitz and I were in Number 151, which seemed odd on such a small train—and whistles were blowing and guards shouting, and from our window we could see the mob at the barrier hurrahing and throwing up their hats, and officials on the platform were waving, and the carriage doors were closed, crash! crash! crash!, a last whistle shrilled—and then a strange silence fell over the Gare de l’Est, and I guess little Blowitz’s enthusiasm must have had its effect, for I remember feeling a strange excitement as the train quivered ever so little, the steam rushed hissing past our window, there was a faint clank of buffers, a gentle rumble of wheels beneath our feet, and we were gliding away smoothly and ever so slowly, the waving figures on the platform passing from sight in succession, and then we were out of the station and I was thinking, you’ve been in some odd vanguards, Flashy, from the Forty-Niners to the Light Brigade, and here’s another for you, and Blowitz snapped shut his hunter and shook my hand, gulping with emotion—gad, he was a sentimental little barrel.

"Sept heures et un, précisément," says he reverently. "L’Express Orient parti!"

He was in a state of non-alcoholic intoxication if ever I saw one, exclaiming in delight over every convenience and decoration in our cabin, and inviting me to marvel at the fine upholstered furniture, the glossy panelling, the neatly-concealed little basin in a corner by the door, the array of lights and buttons, the hidden cupboards and drawers, the velvet curtains, and the rest. Every second word of his babble was "magnifique!" or "superbe!" or "merveilleux!" and once even "top-hole, I declare!", and I couldn’t deny that it was. As it turned out, my first journey on the Orient Express was to be my last, but I remember it as the best-appointed train I ever struck, and delighted Blowitz by saying so.

"You will find no more splendid accommodation in Vienna!" cries he. "Which reminds me, you should stay at the Golden Lamb on the Praterstrasse, rather than the Archduke Charles; give my name to Herr Hauptmann and you will receive every attention. And his table is all that could be desired—ah, mais écoutez! Even as I speak, le diner est servi! Allons, mettons-nous!"

That was another score for the Orient Express: we were hardly out of Paris before we had the nosebags on, and I have to concede that there was nothing wrong with the grub on offer in the opulent dining salon with its little pink shades and snowy cloths and silver and crystal and swift service. Blowitz almost burst into tears of gluttony at the sight of it, and stuffed himself to ecstasy, going into raptures at each arriving course, and reproaching me for my apparent lack of appetite; in fact I was sharp-set, but ate and drank in moderation, for my mind was on the ladies' sleeping-coach where I supposed la Kralta would be dining in anonymous seclusion; you don’t want to be bloated when the charge is sounded.