Royal Flash. George Fraser MacDonald
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though?’ says the Mooner. ‘Gad, look at ’em bouncing when she struts!’
‘That’s Donna Lola Montez, is it?’ says I. ‘When does she perform, d’ye know?’
‘Opens next week,’ says he. ‘There’ll be a crowd and a half, shouldn’t wonder. Oh, Lovely Lola!’
Well, I’d never heard of Lola Montez, but I saw there was something here that needed going into. I made a few discreet inquiries, and it seemed that half the town was talking about her already, for Lumley was making a great to-do about his beautiful new attraction. The critics were slavering in advance about ‘the belle Andalusian’, and predicting a tremendous success, but nobody had any notion that she wasn’t a genuine Spanish artiste at all. But I was in no doubt about her; I’d been close enough to Rosanna James to be sure.
At first I was just amused, but then it occurred to me that here was a heaven-sent opportunity to have my own back on her. If she was exposed, denounced for what she really was, that would put paid to her making a hit. It would also teach her not to throw piss-pots at me. But how to do it best? I pondered, and in five minutes I had it pat.
I remembered, from the conversations we had had during our passionate week, her mention of Lord Ranelagh, who was one of the leading boys about town just then. She was forever chattering about her admirers, and he was one she had turned down; snubbed him dead, in fact. I knew him only to see, for he was a very top-flight Corinthian, and didn’t take much heed even of heroes if they weren’t out of the top drawer (and I wasn’t). But all I’d heard suggested that he was a first-class swine, and just the man for me.
I hunted him out at his club, slid inside when the porter wasn’t looking, and found him in the smoke-room. He was lying on a couch, puffing a cigar with his hat over his brows; I spoke right out.
‘Lord Ranelagh,’ says I. ‘How are you? I’m Flashman.’
He cocked an eye lazily under the brim of his hat, damned haughty.
‘I’m certain I haven’t had the honour,’ says he. ‘Good day to you.’
‘No, no, you remember me,’ says I. ‘Harry Flashman, you know.’
He pushed his hat right back, and looked at me as if I was a toad.
‘Oh,’ says he at length, with a sneer. ‘The Afghan warrior. Well, what is it?’
‘I took the liberty of calling on your lordship,’ says I, ‘because I chanced to come across a mutual acquaintance.’
‘I cannot conceive that we have any,’ drawls he, ‘unless you happen to be related to one of my grooms.’
I laughed merrily at this, although I felt like kicking his noble backside for him. But I needed him, you see, so I had to toad-eat him.
‘Not bad, not bad,’ says I. ‘But this happens to be a lady. I’m sure she would be of interest to you.’
‘Are you a pimp, by any chance? If so—’
‘No, my lord, I’m not,’ says I. ‘But I thought you might be diverted to hear of Mrs James – Mrs Elizabeth Rosanna James.’
He frowned, and blew ash off his ridiculous beard, which covered half his shirt-front.
‘What of her, and what the devil has she to do with you?’
‘Why, nothing, my lord,’ says I. ‘But she happens to be taking the stage at Her Majesty’s next week, masquerading as a famous Spanish dancer. Donna Lola Montez, she calls herself, and pretends to be from Seville. An impudent imposture.’
He digested this, while I watched his nasty mind working.
‘How d’ye know this?’ says he.
‘I’ve seen her at rehearsal,’ says I, ‘and there’s no doubt about it – she’s Rosanna James.’
‘And why should this be of interest to me?’
I shrugged at this, and he asked what my purpose was in telling him.
‘Oh, I was sure you would wish to be at her first performance – to pay your respects to an old friend,’ says I. ‘And if so, I would solicit a place for myself in your party. I entertain the same affection for her that I’m sure your lordship does.’
He considered me. ‘You’re a singularly unpleasant creature,’ says he. ‘Why don’t you expose her yourself, since that’s obviously what you want?’
‘Your lordship, I’m sure, has a style in these things. And you are well known, while I …’ I didn’t want to be the centre of any scandal, although I wanted to have a front seat to see the fun.
‘I can do your dirty work, eh? Well, well.’
‘You’ll go?’
‘That is no concern of yours,’ says he. ‘Good day.’
‘May I come?’
‘My dear sir, I cannot prevent you going where you choose. But I forbid you absolutely to address me in public.’
And he turned over on his side, away from me. But I was satisfied; no doubt he would go, and denounce ‘Donna Lola’. He had his own score to pay off, and was just the sort of mean hound who would do it, too.
Sure enough, when the fashionable crowd was arriving at Her Majesty’s the following Monday, up rolls Lord Ranelagh with a party of bloods, in two coaches. I was on hand, and tailed on to them at the door; he noticed me, but didn’t say anything, and I was allowed to follow into the omnibus-box which he had engaged directly beside the stage. One or two of his friends gave me haughty stares, and I took my seat very meek, at the back of the box, while his lordship showed off at the front, and his friends and he talked and laughed loudly, to show what first-rate bucks they were.
It was a splendid house – quite out of proportion to the opera, which was The Barber of Seville. In fact, I was astonished at the gathering: there was the Queen Dowager in the Royal Box, with a couple of foreign princelings; old Wellington, wrinkled and lynx-eyed, with his Duchess; Brougham, the minister, the Baroness de Rothschild, Count Esterhazy, the Belgian Ambassador, and many others. All the most eminent elderly lechers of the day, in fact, and I hadn’t a doubt that it wasn’t the music they had come for. Lola Montez was the attraction of the night, and the talk through the pit was of nothing else. Rumour had it that at certain select gatherings for the highest grandees in Spain, she had been known to dance nude; it was also being said that she had once been the leading light of a Turkish harem. Oh, they were in a fine state of excitement by the time the curtain went up.
My own idea of theatrical entertainment, I admit, is the music-hall; strapping wenches and low comedians are my line, and your fine drama and music bore me to death. So I found The Barber of Seville a complete fag: fat Italians screeching, and not a word to be understood. I read the programme for a bit, and found more entertainment in the advertisements than there was on the stage – ‘Mrs Rodd’s anatomical ladies’ stays, which ensure the wearer a figure of astonishing symmetry’; I remember thinking that the leading lady in The Barber could have profited by Mrs Rodd’s acquaintance. Also highly spoken of were Jackson’s patent enema machines, as patronised by the nobility when travelling. I wasn’t alone, I noticed, in finding the opera tedious; there were yawns in the pit, and Wellington (who was near our box) began to snore until his Duchess dug him in the ribs. Then the first act ended, and when the applause died away everyone sat up, expectant; there was a flourish of Spanish music from the orchestra, and Lola (or Rosanna) shot dramatically on to the stage.
I’m no authority on the dance; the performer, not the performance, is what I pay to see. But it seemed to me that she was damned good. Her striking beauty brought the pit up with a gasp: she was in a black bodice, cut so low that her breasts seemed to be in continual danger of popping out, and her tiny pink skirt showed off her legs to tremendous advantage. The slim white neck and shoulders, the coal-black hair, the gleaming eyes, the scarlet lips curled almost in contempt – the whole