by Antal Szerb
Coltor returned to the negotiation room, treading nervously. The opening of the door woke Gervaisis, who declared:
“Where there is love there is peace.”
Coltor stared at him in astonishment.
“Yes indeed, Marquis, my thoughts exactly. We must come to a peaceful agreement. If His Highness is so very determined to have this monitoring body, well then, we’ll set one up. I’d like to see the body of men that could monitor me.”
“Hear hear,” Honoré chimed.
“Most respected sir,” said St Germain, “permit me, before we resume our discussions, to take advantage of His Highness’ absence to dispose of the sort of questions it might be a little delicate to discuss in his presence.”
“Please go ahead, Count.”
“The principles of gallantry require His Highness to surprise his fiancée with a gift of some value, from this happy reversal of his fortunes. But our royal household finds itself, temporarily, not in a position … we have spent months abroad, living in a manner appropriate to his Highness’ station … ”
“Naturally, of course, Count. Say no more … ”
And he promptly produced his cheque book.
“I have taken the liberty of choosing this little pendant,” St Germain continued, and from his pocket drew the sample of merchandise that the jeweller had just brought round. “Fifty thousand lire the lot, a wonderful bargain … ”
“Fifty thousand? Not worth mentioning, Count, not worth mentioning.” And he immediately filled out a cheque for the sum and handed it over.
“Thank you very much,” said St Germain, “on behalf of His Highness. We shall of course make this good as soon as the treaty takes effect. And now, I think, there is no bar to our asking His Highness to continue the discussion.”
“Come on, you,” Honoré called to the King and the Major. “Coltor has accepted your conditions, or whatever that nonsense was about. You must close the deal quickly. I don’t understand why you jabbered so much.”
“He’s accepted?” the Major asked, dumbfounded. “He’ll have to be patient for a few more moments.”
“Just get a move on,” Honoré replied, and went out.
The Major leapt to his feet.
“Your Highness,” he shouted. “Your Highness, Coltor has agreed to everything we want. This treaty will ensure Alturia’s happiness for a long time to come … if … if … Your Highness would accept it. But of course you can’t, because then you’d have to go back to your ancestral throne, and you really don’t want that, and so you can’t agree to it, because Your Highness is no longer Your Highness but simple Oscar, a common fraudster, and a fraudster can’t save Alturia. Though history tells us that Your Highness would not be the first such person to save a nation. So what do we do now, Your Highness?”
“My Milán, right now I just don’t know. But let’s get back to the negotiation room anyway. We can’t stay here.”
On their return a new surprise awaited them.
No sooner had Honoré gone to fetch them than a loud commotion was heard outside the negotiation room, voices apparently raised in violent argument. Baudrieu rushed to the door. Gervaisis woke up, and declared:
“No use crying over spilt milk.”
The door opened and Valmier and Harry Steel came tumbling in, clinging to each other’s hair, while Steel spasmodically grabbed at Valmier’s side-whiskers with his free hand. Antas came in hard behind them.
“Boss, this bloke … ” Valmier stammered.
“What sort of rascally invasion is this?” St Germain shouted at the intruders. “Gentlemen, I order you to leave. Clear out this minute!”
Harry Steel let go of Valmier and turned to St Germain with a face of gloating triumph.
“So, it’s St Germain! I should have guessed you’d have a hand in this.”
Then he turned to Coltor and solemnly intoned:
“Mr Coltor, if you are not yet aware of the fact, you have fallen into the clutches of St Germain, the most brilliant swindler of our time. Everything you see here is a deception. This palazzo is not a palace, and these people are not followers of Oliver VII … ”
“Holy God,” exclaimed Coltor, pointing at Philip II or the One-Eared. The snarl certainly was rather more fierce than usual. “That picture on the wall looked suspicious to me from the start.”
“I had my suspicions about the aide-de-camp,” the first secretary confided.
“What sort of game were they trying on you?” Harry Steel enquired. “I hope to God, Mr Coltor, you haven’t yet put any money in their hands?”
“And who are you?” St Germain snapped at Steel. “How dare you come bursting in here! And who is this other specimen you’ve brought with you?”
“I am Harry Steel, of the New York Times; as the Count knows perfectly well.”
“And I am Count St Germain, Royal Chief Steward to His Highness King Oliver VII.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Antas declared. “The Royal Chief Steward is of course none other than myself, Count Antas.”
For the first time St Germain seemed a little confused. Coltor glared ominously from one chief steward to the other. At that precise moment, Marcelle entered. She had heard the commotion from the upper floor and raced down, with Sandoval close behind.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded. Seeing Antas and Harry Steel, she clapped her hands to her face in horror. “My God! Harry Steel!” She knew him well from a previous incarnation in Paris.
“You see,” Valmier hissed into her ear, through his side-whiskers. “I told you we should clear out before it got too late.”
“And here’s Marcelle,” Steel crowed. “St Germain’s right-hand woman.”
“What?” exclaimed Antas. “She too?”
And his heart broke.
“Mademoiselle, I am delighted to see you,” Steel pronounced in his haughtiest tones. “After this, we can have no more pressing duty than to telephone the police.”
In an instant Valmier was out through the door and had vanished from the scene of our little history. Marcelle screamed and tried to dash out to alert Oscar to the catastrophe, but Steel blocked her way.
“No one must leave the room!” He seized Marcelle by the arm. “Especially not you. You’re staying right here.”
She screamed again. At that precise moment the King and the Major appeared. (Honoré, hearing the commotion from outside the room, thought it better to stay there and wait to see what happened.)
In those first moments the only detail of the whole tumultuous scene that caught the King’s eye was that someone was holding Marcelle by force. He leapt across, seized Steel by the shoulder and shook him.
“Let her go at once!” he shouted. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Steel, of the New York Times,” the journalist declared, taking up the pose of a boxer. “And who the hell are you?”
“I am, er … ” the King stammered … but at that moment Antas recognised him, stepped between the two, and greeted his former ruler with a deep bow.
“Your Highness … ”
“What’s this?” Steel croaked. “Who’s a king here?”
“You don’t recognise His Royal Highness, King Oliver VII?” Antas asked.
“Oliver VII? The one with the moustache and sideburns … last seen in Kansas City, in his shirtsleeves … ”
“I am so happy to see you again, Your Highness,” Antas gushed.
“You are welcome, my dear Antas,” the King replied graciously, and held out his hand. Then Antas and the Major greeted each other warmly.
Baudrieu rose, and held his hands up to the sky.
“A miracle has happened! There’s been nothing like this since the wedding feast at Canaa … ”
Gervaisis woke up and declared:
“Autres pays, autres mœurs.”
Coltor got up and made for the door. He had now lost the thread completely, having gathered just enough of the chaotic situation to make him want nothing more than to get
out of this madhouse. The appearance of Antas had done little to reassure him. He had begun to suspect either that everyone present was drunk or that he had been suddenly struck down by some dire affliction.
But Harry Steel stood in his way, and seized his hand with great gusto. Coltor struggled in vain to free it.
“Sensational, sensational!” Steel roared. “I congratulate you, Mr Coltor! No doubt about it—once you get something into your head you should do it! This is great!”
Then he let go of Coltor’s hand and turned to St Germain.
“The only thing I don’t understand is how you got here.”
“So, do you recognise my excellent Chief Steward now?” the King asked, having finally grasped the situation and wanting to rescue St Germain and his friends.
“Your Highness’ Chief Steward? But that’s me!” Antas wailed.
“Count St Germain has been serving in your stead while we have been abroad, my dear Antas.”
“Now I get it!” Steel yelled, in relief. Then he rushed over to St Germain and shook hands with him. “I do beg your pardon, Count. Very foolish of me.”
“Not at all, young man, not at all,” the Count replied.
“Well then, I must make a call straight away,” Steel shouted excitedly, and flew to the telephone.
“Now … ” whispered Baudrieu, seizing St Germain’s arm. “Now’s our chance to clear out. Valmier’s already scarpered. Quick, quick. Gervaisis, can you wake up?”
“Of course we’re not clearing out, you ox!” St Germain hissed. “We’ve won!”
“Hello!” Steel boomed into the telephone. “New York Times? Steel here. Take a note, please; this is urgent!” Then he went on, in the voice of one dictating: “ ‘Unexpected developments in the Alturian situation. This afternoon, in Venice’s historically renowned Palazzo Pietrasanta, former King of Alturia Oliver VII sat down to negotiate with Mr Coltor, head of the Coltor Concern. According to unofficial sources, their agreement will take effect from today. The King, who is in vigorous health, dropped his incognito and greeted Coltor in his traditional field marshal’s greatcoat.’ Please transmit this immediately,” he concluded, and put the receiver down.
“What happens now?” asked the Major. He was deathly pale. “This is madness. I knew it would all end badly. This Steel has wrecked everything. Tomorrow the whole world will be talking about nothing else. Show us how you’ll get out of that, Your Highness.”
“Not at all, my Milán, not at all. This pipsqueak American has turned the agreement into a fait accompli. Tomorrow the whole world will know, and we’ll have to honour it. No harm in that. What has happened has happened, and perhaps it’s better this way. Milán, there have been wise kings who led their countries to disaster, and foolish kings who saved their countries from ruin. Mr Coltor, I must ask you: are you prepared to accept this treaty in the form we began to outline this afternoon?”
“Pardon me. Your Highness needs first to make clear if you are prepared to return to your throne, or whether this whole business has simply been a bit of foolery and confidence trickery.”
“I am happy to return to the throne if you will amend your treaty.”
“And I am happy to modify my treaty, provided you return.”
“Well then … then, St Germain, you have rescued Alturia. You have brought a treaty into being which I can conclude without shame, and ensured the happiness of my people. But … ” (this was done very quietly) “ … before that, you rescued me. You taught me what it is to be a king.”
The King, the Major, Coltor and Antas remained together for a long time, discussing ways of countering any diplomatic contention that might arise between Norlandia and the present government of Alturia as a result of Steel’s indiscretion. While this was going on St Germain entertained Steel, who hung on his every word with rapt attention. He knew that not a jot of it was true, but his reporter’s heart delighted in this revelation of the Count’s ingenuity.
When Coltor’s party finally left, thoroughly contented, the King went upstairs to look for Marcelle. But he found only Sandoval, pacing back and forth in agitation. Sandoval was faced with a dilemma. He could not decide whether to keep faith with Princess Clodia or to throw his lot in with the past and present King, to whom, as the Nameless Captain, he had sworn an oath of loyalty. He felt obliged to stand with the weaker party—but he could not make up his mind which of the two was at that moment the weaker.
Almost as if he knew what was passing through Sandoval’s mind, the King addressed him:
“Sandoval, I’m going back to Alturia. It’s no use. I see now that a king’s place is on the throne. Duty isn’t a bed of roses. When I came here I was desperate to live the same sort of life as everyone else; to be like an ordinary person. Now I know it’s impossible. A man, using the word in its highest sense, has a responsibility, a calling. A fisherman has no vocation to be a king. He’d make a bad king, and the king a poor fisherman. That was my error. We need fishermen, and we need kings. You, my dear Sandoval, stood by me when you stood by the Nameless Captain before you knew who he was, and you stood by me as Oscar the con-man, here, in Venice. Now you must stand beside me in my most difficult hour, when I become King again. Help me take back my throne.”
Deeply moved, Sandoval bowed. His decision was made.
“Thank you,” said the King. “I have gained my first follower. And now,” (in quite a different tone), “do please tell me where Marcelle is.”
“Marcelle? She’s gone.”
“Where to?”
“She didn’t say. She just cried and cried, and left this letter for you.”
He handed over the envelope. The King opened it. The letter read:
Your Highness,
Please forgive me. I solemnly take back everything I said. Your Highness is not ‘talentless’. Your Highness took me in completely. Your Highness is the most perfect con-man I ever met. Because Your Highness is a truly Royal Highness.
Marcelle.
King Oliver entered his capital amid general rejoicing. The streets were a-flutter with flags; the Westros department store was adorned with huge portraits of Oliver and Princess Ortrud, seemingly made from entire rolls of silk and broadcloth; mothers held their children up to catch a glimpse of the happily waving King, and loyal inscriptions such as ‘King Oliver—King of our Hearts’, and ‘We cannot live without Oliver. Long live the Great Triumphal Return!’ were daubed on walls.
King Oliver appeared on the balcony of the royal palace, and greeted his people with a few warm, informal words. The welcome ovation went on forever. Then, when he left the balcony and returned to the room, his government ministers swarmed around to congratulate him.
“Life has taught me a great deal,” he told his closest followers. “You can’t escape the fact that a man sees things very differently once he has viewed them from below. Clodia, my dear, you should get to know what life is really like.”
“No good would come of that!” she replied, deeply offended. “Life is for servants. Let them do it for me.”
“Cheep cheep,” Count Antas warbled at Diogenes. The King’s favourite canary’s cage stood beside his writing desk. “Your Highness should have seen how the poor thing pined night and day for his master!”
“But I brought him his hemp seed every day,” cooed the fire-eating Delorme.
Gradually the ministers withdrew from the room, revealing Gervaisis deep asleep in an armchair. The newly appointed Colonel Mawiras-Tendal went over and shook him. He woke, and declared:
“Who once puts his hand to the plough should never look back!”
“Quite right,” said the Colonel, and led him away.
By now the only people left in the room were the King and Count St Germain, whom the King had asked to stay behind. He offered him a chair and took a seat himself.
“My dear Count,” he began, “I kept you here because I want to thank you at this time of happy celebration … ”
“No thanks are necessary, Your Highn
ess, none at all.”
“I have a great deal to thank you for. I have honoured you with the Grand Cross of the Order of St Florian and appointed you as my financial adviser, but this is truly a small reward for the services you have done me. It was from you that I learnt how to come to terms with the fact that I am a king.”
“Well, Your Highness, there are more painful and difficult professions to master.”
“There’s only one thing I don’t understand. You know everything in advance, you plan with enormous care, and what you don’t know you seem to sense intuitively … so is it possible that I, a talentless beginner, could really have fooled you, the master, for so long?”
“We all have our moments of mental blindness. But in fact Your Highness shouldn’t be so modest: you played the part of simple Oscar brilliantly. The first time I ever saw Your Highness … perhaps the voice of my illustrious ancestor whispered to me through the mist of centuries: ‘Oubalde Hippolyte Théramene, this gentleman has royal blood!’ And I was right to trust him, because he really was an expert on royalty. But then, the message came down through the mist of ages, and perhaps I misunderstood it. Or again, when the illustrious Coltor first recognised Your Highness, it might have occurred to me that a man like that doesn’t often get things wrong … and your reaction could well have given you away to me … though at moments like that the gods can inflict blindness on the ablest mortal minds. And of course, during the negotiation, even the simplest person, if not actually drunk, must have seen at once that Your Highness was a king, and bore yourself like one … But perhaps it is more romantic if we content ourselves with the thought that on this one occasion St Germain was taken in. For the first time in my life, and I’m confident it’ll be the last. There must surely have been a divine purpose at work here.”
“Now I am completely confused. Did I fool you, or did you see through everything?”
“I beg you, Your Highness, not to pursue this. Permit me instead to conduct a little official business.”
He stood up and, with the sort of flourish a magician might employ, conjured some jewellery from one of his pockets.
