Flashman And The Tiger

So I sat on the couch while she filled two glasses, pledged me with a flashing smile, and then sauntered artlessly into the sunlight from the window to give me the benefit of her transparent négligée. There followed as eccentric a conversation as I can recall—and I’ve been tête-a-tête with Mangas Colorado Apache, remember, and the lunatic leader of the Taiping rebellion.

Mamselle (solicitous): You are comfortable? Eh bien, you must rest quietly a moment, and be courtois … what you call proper, correct … until you have explained what I wish to know.

Flashy (slavering with restraint): Good as gold. Fire away.

M (handing him an illustrated journal): So tell me, then, what is so tres amusant about that?

F: Good God, it’s Punch! One of last month’s.

M (ever so serious): If I am to be perfect in English, I must understand your humour, n’est-ce pas? So, instruct me, if you please.

F: What, this cartoon here? Ah, let’s see … two English grooms in Paris, 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 poissonier 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, tres 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 espieglerie 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 Ecole 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 …"