The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1038: Chapter 73: Royalists, God is also a Royalist!_2

“What’s wrong?” Clara stuck her head out of the carriage window: “A collision?”

Arthur glanced outside and signaled to Clara: “You stay here, gentlemen can resolve these issues themselves.”

“Remember to take your gun.”

“Why?”

“No one listens to you in London; do you really expect to be heeded in Paris?”

Clara pushed Arthur out of the carriage, threw his gun holster at him, and then slammed the door shut with a bang.

Seeing this, Arthur could only shrug: “What’s the big deal? At worst, I’ll just go back and lie in my coffin.”

“No, that’s not an option.” Lying on the carriage roof, Agares casually picked up a small stone and threw it at Arthur’s head: “While it’s not hard to summon back Dickens and Great Dumas, and there are plenty of prostitutes in Paris, I doubt the French would welcome Wellington visiting here.”

Arthur pinched that tiny stone, just as he aimed at the Red Devil, the guy instantly turned into a puff of red smoke and vanished without a trace.

Seeing this, Arthur could only comment indifferently: “You’ve truly grasped the essence of Fleet Street.”

He stepped forward, and as he reached the front of the carriage, he saw the coachman engaged in a heated argument with two men.

“Do you know what keeping to the right means? The road is so wide, yet you refuse to stay in your own lane and instead claim mine, now after the collision you shamelessly blame it all on me?”

“You bastard, it was you who changed lanes first, in this crowded street, where are the rules for driving, isn’t it common sense for the newcomers to give way to the ones already here?”

“Damn, you guys sound like you’re from the provinces.”

“We are Italians!”

“Don’t mention Italy, anywhere in Europe you should keep to the right.”

Arthur walked up and asked: “What’s happening here?”

The coachman, seeing his employer arrived, quickly took off his hat and said: “Sir, you be the judge, in Europe, aren’t all carriages supposed to keep to the right?”

“Hmm…” Arthur lit a cigarette: “You’ve really asked the wrong person, I’m not European.”

“You’re not European?” The coachman looked Arthur up and down: “Then where are you from?”

Arthur blew out a smoke ring, straightened his collar, and said: “I’m a Briton.”

“Damn!” The coachman slapped his forehead and said: “I seem to have heard that in your place, carriages indeed keep to the left.”

“Sir Arthur Hastings?”

Just as Arthur and the coachman were discussing the relationship between Europe and Britain, someone suddenly called out his name.

Arthur turned his head and saw a familiar face among the Italians who had clashed with the coachman.

Medium height, well-proportioned, blonde hair and blue eyes, with a Greek-style nose, forehead, and chin, wearing a tattered white hat, an old military uniform, and a pair of cracked boots, he looked just like a living, walking Greek statue.

It was him, our Mr. Giuseppe Garibaldi.

Mr. Garibaldi was as enthusiastic as ever, whether it was because he was entranced by Eld Carter’s seafaring stories or merely due to his naturally candid disposition, he didn’t guard against Arthur like Mazzini did, instead, he approached warmly to shake hands with Arthur.

While shaking hands, he introduced Arthur in Italian to his companion: “Ramorino, this is Sir Arthur Hastings, whom I’ve mentioned to you before, he’s the best novel writer.”

The gentleman named Ramorino, with a pipe in his mouth, spoke up: “No need for your introduction, I’ve heard Mr. Chopin mention Mr. Arthur Hastings more than once. He always says he’s a man of great integrity and a friend of the Polish.”

Though Arthur was not fluent in Italian, his Latin was decent, so with some guesses, he could make out the gist.

Ramorino approached to shake hands with Arthur: “Girolamo Ramorino, pleased to meet you.”

This name might not be as thunderous to future generations as Garibaldi’s, but to a British spy living in 1833, this fellow was far more troublesome than Garibaldi.

Why, you ask?

Because this gentleman, not yet forty, was not only a wanted man across various Italian states but also honorably featured on St. Petersburg’s ‘must-kill list.’

As an Italian who joined the Napoleonic Army at seventeen, Mr. Ramorino fought valiantly in the Napoleonic Wars, participating in major battles like the Battle of Wagram, the Russian campaign, and the Battle of Leipzig. By the time Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo, Ramorino had risen from a common soldier to a corps quartermaster.

After Napoleon’s fall, Ramorino didn’t rest either; in 1821, he participated in the Piedmont uprising to overthrow the Kingdom of Sardinia and fled to France after the failure.

And when the Warsaw uprising took place last year, he immediately set off for Poland. Initially serving as a Colonel, after the victory at Mickiewicz Potocki, Ramorino was swiftly entrusted with greater responsibility, appointed Commander of the Warsaw Second Corps, and thrashed the Tsarist Russian Army in the subsequent Battle of Warka.

Such a résumé makes it easy to understand why he would associate with Chopin.

After all, to the Poles, Ramorino, like Hastings, was considered an old friend of the Polish people.