The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald

jealousing you mounting Queen, happying her much boom-boom not above half, maybe getting boy child I don’t know, Vavalana not liking that, mischief you if possible. Watch out him, I telling you. Meantime you pleasing Queen all while, hearty lovings, she admiring, ain’t she just, though, ha-ha?”

      And the dirty little rascal would tap his pug nose and chortle. I wasn’t so sure myself, for as time went by Ranavalona’s demands on me slowly diminished, and while it was a relief in one way – for at first, when I had been summoned to the palace almost every day on her majesty’s service, it was so exhausting I daren’t wave my hand for fear I floated away – it was worrying, too. Was she tiring of me? It was a dreadful thought, but I was reassured by the fact that she still seemed to like my company, and even began to talk to me.

Not that it was elevating chat – how were the troops? was the ration of jaka^a sufficient? why did I never wear a hat? were my quarters comfortable? why did I never kill soldiers by way of punishment? had I ever seen the English queen? You must imagine her, either sitting on her throne in a European gown, with one of her girls fanning her, or reclining on her bed in her sari, propped up on one elbow, slowly grunting out her questions, fingering her long earring and never taking those black unblinking eyes from mine. Unnerving work it was, for I was in constant dread that I’d say something to offend; it didn’t help that I never discovered how informed or educated she was, for she volunteered no information or opinions, only questions, and no answers seemed either to please or displease her. She would just brood silently, and then ask something else, in the same flat, muttered French.

      It was impossible to guess what she thought, or even how her mind worked. Well, to give you an example, I was alone with her one day, standing by obediently while she sat on the bed gazing at Manjakatsiroa (her bottle gourd) and mumbling to herself, when she looked up at me slowly and growled:

      “Does this dress please you?”

      It was a white silk sarong, in fact, and became her not too badly, but of course I went into raptures about it. She listened sullenly, fidgeted a moment, and then got up, stripped the thing off, and says:

      “It is yours.”

      Well, it wasn’t my style at all, but of course I grovelled gratefully and said I couldn’t do it justice, but I’d treasure it forever, make it my household idol, in fact, splendid idea … she paid not the slightest attention but sauntered over, bare as the back of my hand, to her great mirror and stared at herself. Then she turned to me, slapped her belly thoughtfully two or three times, put her hands on her hips, stared bleakly at me, and says:

      “Do you like fat women?”

      If the hairs on my neck crawled, d’you wonder? For if you can think of a tactful answer, I couldn’t. I stood tongue-tied, the sweat starting out on me as visions of boiling pits and crucifixion flitted across my mind, and I couldn’t restrain a moan of despair – which I immediately had the mother-wit to turn into a lustful growl as I advanced on her, grappling amorously and praying that actions would speak louder than words. Since she didn’t press the point, I gather my answer was the right one.

      Another anxiety, of course, during those long weeks, was that she would get word of Elspeth, or that my dear little wife herself would get restive and commit some folly which would attract attention. She didn’t, though, and on the occasional visits I was allowed to make to the Prince’s palace, she seemed as cheerful as ever – I still don’t understand this, although I’ll admit that Elspeth has an unusually serene and stupid disposition which can make the best of anything. She bemoaned the fact that we were kept apart, of course, and never ceased to ask me when we would be going home, but since we were never left alone together there was no opportunity to tell her the fearful truth, and it would have served no good purpose anyway. So I jollied her along, and she seemed content enough.

      It was on the last visit I paid her that I saw the first signs of distress, and guessed it had at last penetrated into that beautiful fat head that Madagascar wasn’t quite the holiday she imagined. She was pale, and looked as though she’d been crying, but for once we had no opportunity of a private tête-á-tête, for the occasion was a tea-party given by the Princess, and I was held in military small talk by the Prince and Rakohaja throughout. Only when I was leaving did I have a brief word with Elspeth, and she didn’t say much, except to grip my hand tight, and repeat her eternal question about going home. I couldn’t guess what had upset her, but I could see the tears weren’t far away, so I startled her out of her glooms in the only way I know how.

      “What’s this, old girl?” says I, looking thunderous. “Have you been flirting with that young Prince, then?”

      She looked blank, but her dismals vanished at once. “Why, Harry, what can you mean? What a question to ask—”

      “Is it, though?” says I grimly. “I don’t know – I can see he has more than an eye to you, the presumptuous young pup – yes, and you ain’t discouraging him exactly, are you? I’m not well pleased, my lady-just because I can’t be here all the time, is no reason for you to go setting your cap at other fellows – oh, yes, I saw you fluttering at him when he spoke to you – and a married man, too. Anyway,” I whispered, “you’re far too pretty for him.”

      She was pink by this time – not with guilty confusion, mark you, but with pleasure at the thought that she’d stirred the passion in yet another male breast. If there was one thing that could divert the little trollop’s attention, it was male admiration; she’d have stood preening herself in the track of a steam road roller if someone had so much as winked at her. I saw by her blushing protests how delighted she was, and that her unhappiness – whatever it was – had been quite forgotten. But now I was being called to the Prince, with Rakohaja at his elbow.

      “No doubt we shall see you tonight, sergeant-general, at her majesty’s ball,” says his highness, and it seemed to me his voice was unduly shrill, and his smile a trifle glassy. “It is to be a very splendid occasion.”

      I knew about the Queen’s dances and parties, of course, although I’d never been to one. Being officially a slave, you see, however much authority I had in the army, I occupied a curious social position. But Rakohaja put my doubt at rest.

      “Sergeant-General Flashman will be present, highness.” He turned his big scarred face to stare at me. “I shall bring him in my own party.”

      “Excellent,” twitters the Prince, looking everywhere but at me. “Excellent. That will be … ah … most agreeable.” I bowed myself away, wondering what this portended. I didn’t have long to wait to find out.

      The Queen’s galas were famous affairs. They took place every two or three months, on the anniversaries of her birth, accession, marriage – or the jubilee of her first massacre, I shouldn’t wonder – and were attended by the flower of Malagassy society, all in their fanciest costumes, crowding into the great courtyard before the palace, where they danced, ate, drank, and revelled all through the night. Proper orgies, from all I’d heard, so I was ready prompt enough, in full fig, when Rakohaja came for me early in the evening.

      There was a great crowd of the commonalty waiting at the palace gates as we passed through, peeping to get a look at their betters, who were already whooping it up to some tune. The whole vast courtyard was ablaze with Chinese lanterns slung on chains, potted palms and even whole trees and flower-beds had been brought in for decoration, the arches of the palace front were twined with rammage and cords of tinsel, a fountain had been specially constructed in the centre of the yard, the water playing over glass jars in which were imprisoned clusters of the famous Malagassy fire-flies – brilliant little emerald green jewels which winked and fluttered through the spray with dazzling effect.

      Among the trees and arbours which lined the square long tables were set, piled with delicacies, especially the local beef rice which is consumed in honour of the Queen – don’t ask me why, because it’s mere coarse belly fodder. The military band were on hand, pounding away at “Auprès de ma blonde”, and getting most of the notes wrong; I noticed they were all half-tipsy, their black faces grinning sweatily and