Must I tell you what I suffered in that moment? I think not. To say my heart broke – what does it mean? Yet ’tis all there is to say. Mollybird began to die in that moment, Mollybird the simple, trustin’ little yellow gal. She’s been dead many, many years now, her an’ her broken heart, an’ Senora Marguerite Rossignol, who has no heart, can say: what use to blame Tom Molineaux for bein’ what he was? You’d as well blame a baby for crawlin’ to a shiny toy. ’Twas no real choice that temptin’ toad offered him, ’cos like a baby he didn’t have a mind to choose with. Only a body.
I remember crouchin’ by the bed, with the fire so hot to one side o’ me, an’ all cold on t’other, an’ then de la Guise was in the room, speakin’ to the mulatto woman.
“She saw and heard? Everything? Oh, excellent!” He went across to the little window, an’ stood lookin’ down, an’ gave a little yelp of laughter. Then he turned to the mulatto. “Presently, have Ganymede pay those two, and put that animal into the street. Now go. I am not to be disturbed.”
He came an’ stood over me, still smilin’ with those hateful snake’s eyes, an’ nibblin’ at his lip. I was too numb with mis’ry to think even, let alone wonder that any man could be so cruel as make me see what I had seen.
“Poor little golden nymph,” says he in that jeerin’ lispin’ voice. “So exquisite. So forlorn. Beauty, abandoned by the Beast. What would you? A brute has the appetites of a brute. But can she guess, I wonder, how great a favour the Beast has done to Beauty? What would freedom have brought her, with such a creature? What would her fate have been, eh?”
He bid me rise, an’ I was too broke in despair to disobey, or even to shrink when he began to stroke my lips an’ cheek with those soft slug fingers. Then he bid me walk ’cross to the door, an’ back again, watchin’ me with that gloatin’ smile. “Perfection,” says he, sighin’, an’ took my hands an’ kissed them, an’ at that I began to cry an’ shake with fear at last, an’ begged him to let me be, an’ he began to laugh.
That, I think, is as much as I care to remember for you. No more is necessary, for I have told you all that I know of Tom Molineaux. The transfo’mation of Mollybird into Senora Rossignol, by that scented vermin de la Guise an’ others, I am happy to leave to your ’magination. He was right, of course. I should be grateful to Tom. If he’d been true to Mollybird, there’d ha’ been no elegant coloured lady, with her fine house an’ servants an’ carriage an’ all, inquirin’ of a gennleman visitor if he would care to partake of a service of aft’noon tea an’ pastries … If you’d be so kind as to draw the bell-rope yonder … ?
CAPTAIN BUCKLEY (“MAD BUCK”) FLASHMAN, late of the 23rd Light Dragoons
Black? What black? Ah, Molineaux, the fellow who gave Cribb pepper and a half … that black. Should think I do remember him. Made a rare packet of rhino out o’ the brute, cost old Crocky and Jew King a fortune, wept all the road to Jerusalem, ha-ha! Aye, a sound investment, Black Tom, knew it the moment I clapped eyes on him, at the old Nag and Fish – the Horse and Dolphin,* you must know it, in St Martin’s Street as you come off Leicester Square … no? Gone now, I dare say, but ’twas there I launched Tom on the road to Fistic Fame, as Egan would say, for ’twas my word that swayed Richmond, no doubt o’ that. It was his ken in those days, where the sporting set was used to play cricket in the back field … oh, Alvanley, Sefton, poor old Berkeley Craven (blew his brains out over the ’36 Derby, affected ass), Mellish, Webster, God knows who. I played a single-wicket match there once against Byron, the late poet. Odd fish, bit his nails, wore curl papers in bed to give his manly locks the romantic twist, got in a fearful wax ’cos I called him Sleeping Beauty … not a bad bowler, mind; not in Brummell’s parish, but too good for me. No, boxing was my game – and milord Byron wasn’t up to my snuff there, I can tell you, gamecock though he was. Small wonder. Why, I was the best amateur miller of the day, bar Barclay Allardice. I floored Cribb … once. Shan’t tell you what he did to me …
Did I know Molineaux? Good God, man, I told you I remember him, but one don’t know that sort of specimen. Nigger pugs, what next? Anyway, what the devil is he to you, whoever you are? Who let you in here, for that matter? You ain’t a patient, are you? Or one o’ those damned mealy brain-scrubbers? No … you don’t have the style to be barmy, and not sly enough for a pill-slinger … damn them all …
Ah, the Superintendent let you in, did he? And said you might talk to me? Burn his blasted impudence, never asked my leave – who the dooce does he think he is, my keeper? Aye … that’s precisely what he does think, rot him. Well, let me tell you, sir, that my apartments are not to let, like most of ’em. I am one of a select band of gentlemen resident in this charming rural establishment because we have lost the battle with delirium tremens – temporarily, I hasten to add – and are in need of a breather between rounds, so to speak. We are here of our own free will, at exorbitant rates, have the freedom of the grounds, do not consort with the loonies, and … I say, you don’t happen to have a drop of anything with you, I suppose? Flask, bottle, demijohn, something of the sort?
Ah, pity. We might have spent a convivial hour discussing thingummy … Molineaux, did you say? Interesting aborigine, that … don’t suppose there’s a man in England could tell you more of his doings, in and out o’ the green fairy circle, than I … oh, the old pugs, to be sure, but their wits are addled, and fellows like Egan and Hazlitt would just rap a deal of romantic nonsense. They don’t know the story of Barclay’s gloves, or Joe Ward and the bullets, or how that ass Sefton came within an ace of challenging Prinny to a duel – yes, over Molineaux, I do assure you – or the indiscretions of Lady … ah, but we shan’t mention names, what would they say at Almack’s?
Yes, we could have had a jolly prose together … but I cannot abide dry discourse, what? So, good day to you … don’t roll your eyes or laugh too loud on the way out or they’ll clap you in the comic box before you can say “Bender!” Adieu, adieu …
What’s that? You could call again after luncheon … with a spot o’ lush, no doubt. My dear fellow, what a capital notion. Put ’em in separate pockets so that they don’t clink … the attendants here have ears like dago guerrillas, ’tis like being in the blasted Steel … Better still, tell you what – see down yonder, past the trees, there’s a gap in the fence that our turnkeys haven’t twigged yet, much frequented by the local mollishers – personable young females of loose conduct, sir, who disport themselves with us wealthier inmates, for a consideration. Gad, the state of the country! I shall be there at two, you can run the cargo in safety, and we shall not be espied or earwigged …
Damn you, did I say two o’clock or did I not? Already? Gad, how time flies. Well, thank God you weren’t beforehand … You’d best be off, m’dear – here’s a guinea for you. Tomorrow at six, mind … There she trips, my village Titania … sweet seventeen and goes like a widow of fifty. Don’t look askance at me, sir, if you were in this bloody bastille you’d be glad of a tickletail yourself. Now, have you brought … oh, famous! Sir, you are a pippen of the first flight! Brandy, bigod, that’ll answer. Fix bayonets and form square, belly, the Philistines are upon thee … Ah-h-h! Aye, that’s the neat article. Sir, your good health …
Now, tell me, how did you get my direction in the first place? My son? ’Pon my soul, that was uncommon condescending of him; he don’t use to oblige strangers, unless … didn’t lend him money, did you? You married? Ah, you have a sister … oh, charming fellow, absolutely, quite the military lion, too. Taking her to see the hippopotamus, is he … and then to Astley’s? I see … oh, couldn’t be in better hands. No need for you to race back to Town …
Well, now, since we have time before us, I tell you what – ne’er mind questions, I’ll recollect, and you can take notes.