“De los Montez? You don’t mean Lola Montez?”

“But who else, sir? The close friend—indeed, some say more than friend—of King Ludwig. Why, the press is never without some fresh sensation about her, some new scandal…” and he went on, chattering and smirking, but I never heeded him. My head was in a spin. Lola Montez, my Rosanna—a Countess, a monarch in all but name, a royal mistress by the sound of it. And she was writing to me, offering me hard cash—plainly I needed more information.

“Forgive me sir,” says I, breaking in on his raptures. “The title misled me, for I’d never heard it before. When I knew Lola Montez she was plain Mrs James.”

“Oh, dear me, my dear sir,” says he, very whimsical. “Those days are far behind us now! Our firm, in fact, represented a Mrs James some years ago, but we never talk of her! Oh, no, I daresay not! But the Countess of Landsfeld is another matter—a lady of quite a different colour, ha-ha!”

“When did she come by the title?”

“Why, some months ago. How you should not….”

“I’ve been abroad,” says I. “Until this week I hadn’t seen an English newspaper in almost a year. I’ve heard of Lola Montez’s doings, of course, any time over the past three years, but nothing of this.”

“Oh, and such doings, hey?” says he, beaming lewdly. “Well, my dear sir, your friend at court—ha-ha—is a very great lady indeed. She has the kingdom under her thumb, makes and breaks ministers, dictates policies—and sets all Europe by the ears, upon my word! Some of the stories—why, there was an article in one of the sheets calling her ‘The Modern Messalina’”—he dropped his voice and pushed his greasy face towards me—“and describing her picked bodyguard of splendid young men—what, sir, hey? She goes abroad with a guard of cuirassiers riding behind her coach, sets her dogs on whoever dares to cross her path—why, there was some unfortunate who didn’t doff his cap, sir—flogged almost to death! True, sir. And none dare say her nay. The King dotes on her, his courtiers and ministers hate her but go in fear and trembling, the students worship her. For luxury and extravagance there has been nothing like her since La Pompadour, they say. Why, sir, she is the nine-day wonder!”

“Well, well,” says I. “Little Mrs James.”

“Pray sir!” He pretended distress. “Not that name, I beg you. It is the Countess of Landsfeld who is your friend, if I may be so bold as to remind you.”

“Aye, so it is,” says I. “Will you tell me what she wants of me, then?”