Antal Szerb - Oliver VII

“And what will we get from this game, my dear Count?”

“My boy, at this moment I simply don’t know. Believe me, we shall have all the time we need later on to think about these questions of material detail. Every second, hundreds upon hundreds of possibilities are flashing through my brain. We’ll have to see which looks the most viable. But what matters is the beauty and excitement of the game, believe me, Sandoval.”

They had arrived at the not very distinguished little hotel where St Germain was now lodging. Honoré was waiting for them.

“Well, Count. Anything to hope for?”

“I came, I saw, and I shall very quickly conquer. Bring everyone to me, my boy — that is to say, Oscar, Marcelle and Meyer.”

The King entered the room, but not exactly in his Oscar frame of mind: he was irritable and bellicose. Mawiras-Tendal had already given him a clear account of what had happened.

“Count,” he said, turning to St Germain. “Is it true that you spoke to Coltor?”

“It is. Today Fortune admitted me once again to her favours.”

“And what was said, might I enquire?”

“You may not, my dear boy.”

“My dear Count … I have to say … if you by any chance told Coltor that I am King Oliver VII, then everything is over between us. And I shan’t be here.”

St Germain stood up. His facial expression changed completely. At that moment he was a formidable figure.

“But what are you thinking? Do you think opportunities like this come twice in a lifetime? What sort of weak-mindedness, and folly, is this — that you don’t wish to be a king?”

“That I cannot explain. It’s a regrettable, but very old, I might say childhood, notion I have, that I don’t want to be a king. Anything but that.”

At that moment Marcelle ran in. She was clearly startled.

“What is it? What’s happened?” she asked. “The police?”

“The police?” St Germain replied, with disdain. “Not an institution I am familiar with. Thanks to the inscrutable ways of Providence, my girl, our affairs have taken a decisive turn today. Consider this young man,” he said, turning to the King. “You believe, my dear, that he is Oscar. But from now on he is no longer Oscar but King Oliver VII, the former ruler of Alturia. Whether you believe it or not.”

Mawiras-Tendal leapt to his feet.

“My dear Mr Meyer,” said St Germain. “I can see that you have already grasped our grandiose possibilities. From today, Oscar is the King and we are his Court. I am the Chief Steward, and Mr Meyer, who is so like a Prussian officer, will be his aide-de-camp. What was the name of that famous aide-de-camp of the Alturian King?”

“Mawiras-Tendal, if I remember correctly,” said the Major.

“No, it wasn’t that — but some such barbarous-sounding name. We shall complete our Royal Household with a few telegrams. Marcelle, my girl, you are Princess Ortrud, daughter of the Empress of Norlandia.”

“Oh my God!” she gasped.

“Now, Oscar. Look at the way you’re sitting there!” The Count rounded on the King, who had sunk deep into himself. “Is that how a king would sit?”

“No, sorry. It would be rather different. But, thank God, I’m not a king.”

“Do shut up, Oscar!” shouted Marcelle. “If the Count says you’re a king, then you are one, because he will certainly have his reasons why you should. If you say one more word, I’ll slap your face.”

Oscar fell into a troubled silence.

“That’s the way to do it,” said St Germain. “And to lend a show of plausibility to our roles, we’ll have to lease the Palazzo Pietrasanta once again.”

“But what with?” Marcelle asked. “We still owe part of the money from our last stay.”

“What’s this, my girl? I thought just a moment ago that you had complete trust in me, in my unfailing resourcefulness and hidden reserves of strength. Well, well: I must have been mistaken,” he went on grimly.

“But I do trust you,” she replied.

“And this is why. We’ll pay for it by selling your diamond ring.”

Marcelle clutched her left hand.

“Not that!”

St Germain turned to Sandoval with a sorrowful face.

“Groom,” he began. “The history of the world furnishes us with many examples of enterprises of the most incalculable promise brought down by the small-mindedness, rapacity, short-sightedness and sheer stupidity of women. Now it seems we shall bleed to death, be utterly ruined and perish just a few steps short of our goal. I could say a lot more on the subject, but … ”

Then, instantly changing his face and voice, he said, in the most natural manner conceivable:

“So let’s have that ring, girl.”

“Here you are,” Marcelle replied, deeply moved, and drew it from her finger. “But I’d just like to know what sort of business this is.”

“No flower will ever bloom for us in Alturia,” Oscar muttered resignedly, his aggression having evaporated.

“Oscar, just you keep quiet!” Marcelle shouted. “What do you know about business?”

“As a reward for your readiness to sacrifice, my girl,” said St Germain, “I shall enlighten you as to the nature of this project. It is not unknown in the newspaper-reading fraternity that Coltor has never given up his original plan. He still wants his Concern to get their hands on the entire wine and sardine production of Alturia. The plan failed to materialise at the time because of the revolution and the abdication of the feeble-minded king.”

“He wasn’t that weak-minded,” Oscar muttered, clearly offended.

“But since then, the situation has changed,” St Germain continued. “Under the new ruler, Alturia has proved unable to cope with its financial problems, and there are voices, steadily gaining in number, calling for the revival of the Coltor Plan. There is now a powerful Oliverist party, who want to restore the feeble-minded king to the throne. But the great obstacle in the way of all this to date is that the king has vanished without trace. Some people think he is dead, others that he has been seen in Budapest, with a feather-grass hat on his head, and others again claim to have spotted him in Kansas City, in his shirtsleeves. We now find ourselves in the happy position of having traced him and being able to put him in contact with Coltor; as a consequence of which, preliminary discussions can now be commenced in the usual way. That’s what this business is about.”

“I don’t get it,” said Marcelle. “Sooner or later it will become apparent that Oscar is a nobody, and we’ll end up in trouble. Where’s the profit in that?”

“Well said,” Oscar chimed in.

“Marcelle, my girl,” said the Count, after a short silence, “you are a fine, lovely woman, but, regrettably, you lack the spark of genius. You can’t see into the future. You don’t really think we’ll wait around for all that to come out? Nothing of the sort. The whole game will last a couple of days. Just until Coltor presents a hundred thousand dollar cheque.”

“But why would he do that?” Honoré asked.

“As an advance on the loan which will follow, to tide the King over his temporary financial difficulties. We cash the cheque, and instantly vanish from the city of lagoons. My friend Jacques Millevoi happens to be here with his boat at anchor … I know a place in Mexico where they’ll never find us. First you’ll have to brush up your Spanish grammar. We’ll need to stay there for some weeks.”

“If I heard this from anyone else, I’d think it was a lot of … ” Marcelle declared. “But as it’s the Count … ”

“Clever girl. I’ve done far more unlikely things than this before. The time old Rothschild actually believed the Pope had sent me for the two dogs, when my only form of identification was a panorama postcard of Ventimiglia … But now, my dears, we must part. St Germain needs his night of silence and solitude to work out the details of this wonderful plan. Come back early tomorrow morning, and everyone will receive his instructions. God be with you.”