Antal Szerb - Oliver VII

“Splendid,” said Sandoval, resignedly.

“So, no difficulty there. No difficulty at all. There’s only one problem, and that’s a rather specific one.”

“What’s that.”

“The leading man. Oscar. Oscar the psychological mystery. Because, whether you think so or not, Oscar is a psychological mystery. A mystery even my rapier brain can’t penetrate.”

“How do you mean, Count?”

“It’s something I can’t quite put into words. I just feel — it’s my miraculous intuition — that I can never be quite sure of him. You can never be certain he’s actually there. He could go off the rails at any moment. It wouldn’t surprise me if he just suddenly disappeared. Or at the very last moment, on the field of battle, face to face with Coltor, he might do something completely unexpected. For example, blurt out that he isn’t really the king, or that he is the king but he won’t sign the treaty. I tell you, he’s capable of anything. Ah, but here are the excellent Baudrieu, and the inimitable Valmier. Allow me to introduce you gentlemen to one another. Baudrieu, you must call on Coltor before lunchtime, and inform him — with all the usual bowings and scrapings — that the hour of decision is upon us, and he must come to the Palazzo Pietrasanta tomorrow afternoon.”

“Very good, boss.”

“Valmier, here is an Alturian flag. Find a place for it on the wall. There we are. And now hang there, glorious banner, with your two golden sardines on a field of silver, and bring blessings on your sons. Now, Valmier, you must don your time-honoured livery, and apply your celebrated cheek-whiskers. A visitor will be arriving in the next few hours and we need a footman.”

“Very good, boss.”

“Then why aren’t you going?”

“Well, boss, I had to take out the livery from the pawnbroker, and then my travel expenses … if I could trouble you for a little advance … ”

“When you are properly dressed, my young friend, I shall give your request consideration … and you, Sandoval, are to undertake any artistic duties we decide on. The toothpaste advertisement is up in the top room. Turn it into a portrait of Philip II or the One-Eared. We must spread a little meaningful Alturian atmosphere around the place.”

At that moment Mawiras-Tendal entered, with a birdcage in his hand.

“Very suitable,” said St Germain. “Here we have Diogenes, His Highness’ favourite canary. Things are starting to take shape.”

“Where are we going to put it?” the Major asked.

“We’ll take it up to the great hall, where the meeting will be held. His Highness doesn’t like being without his favourite canary for a single minute. Oh yes, I haven’t yet told you, Mr Meyer. I have decided on the time. It’s this afternoon.”

The Major looked at St Germain in astonishment.

“Why so soon?”

“We can’t act quickly enough. There are traitors all around us. Somebody is trying to scupper our little enterprise. He’s already tried to expose us. But the miserable fellow forgot that he was dealing with St Germain. My arm has a long reach. I’m not referring to statesmen, of course, but I would venture to assert that there is no private individual in all Europe whose arm has such a long reach. I knew of this shabby little plan, and I put a stop to it with no trouble at all. That’s the person I am.”

The Major went pale, and put the cage down.

“To the devil with this bird,” he said with exasperation. “Does Oscar know it’s this afternoon …?”

“He doesn’t know, because I have only just decided. Do go, my dear Meyer, and tell him. He’s here in the palazzo somewhere.”

There was no need to tell the Major twice; he rushed off immediately. He found Oscar in the room assigned to Marcelle.

“Oscar, I have to talk to you urgently. Alone.”

They went out onto the street so that they could speak without fear of being interrupted.

“Your Highness,” the Major began.

“‘My dear fellow’,” Oscar corrected him.

“Your Highness,” the Major repeated, rather more firmly. “We haven’t time just now for casual informality.”

“What is it, what’s happened? Don’t make me nervous!”

“Permit me, Your Highness, to make you very nervous. We haven’t a second to waste. St Germain has invited Coltor to this damned palazzo this afternoon.”

“Hm. He’s in such a hurry?”

“Yes. And now we really have no choice but to disappear.”

For some time the King maintained a sombre silence. Then he replied:

“Can you think of no other solution, Major? I really would like you to find some other way out. I would feel terrible leaving them in the lurch. St Germain is such a decent chap. A great talent. Without him I would never have known what to do if I were still king. It just proves it — even kings have to get to know life.”

“Your Highness, there is no other solution. You simply cannot meet Coltor here. We must leave for Trieste on the twelve o’clock train.”

“Yes, yes, I see that. And Marcelle?”

“I’d say yes, we should take her with us, but I’m afraid she would never leave St Germain in the lurch a few hours short of the realisation of his great plan. But we can write to her from Trieste a day or two after we get there and ask her to come. If Your Highness would still wish that … ”

“ … if I still wished it. You are quite right, I would. But the fact is, if I leave now it’ll be the end of everything, signed and sealed; and Marcelle, I am afraid, would no longer be a concern. Well, Milán, I must go and take my leave of her.”

“But Your Highness!”

“It’s all right, my Milán. I know what you want to say. She won’t suspect for a moment that I am saying goodbye. I just want to see her once more. She was very good to me … and this whole business has been very instructive.”

The King found Marcelle alone in her room. She had been putting on her Princess Ortrud costume, as they had conceived of it after studying pictures in the newspapers of the way she wore her hair, and how she looked at the time of the revolution. When the King saw her made up like this, he just stood there in the doorway, turned to stone: so strong was the resemblance to Ortrud.

“Your Highness … ” she began, and performed a deep curtsey, as St Germain had just taught her.

The King raised his hands in front of him, like a man warding off an apparition.

“Sensational,” he stammered.

“Well, how do you like it?” she asked.

He continued to stare in astonishment.

“But, you know, it’s perfect. Just perfect.”

“Am I beautiful?”

“They’re so right for you, the make-up, the dress — you must wear them always.”

“What do you think: do I look like her?”

“Until you open your mouth. The moment you speak, the resemblance stops.”

“Really?” Suddenly she looked at him in amazement. “You talk as if … you’ve seen her.”

“Y — yes. I was over there once … she was playing tennis.”

“So. Is she beautiful?”

“It’s a matter of taste.”

Some jealous suspicion had stirred in Marcelle, and his confused answers were simply reinforcing it.

“Tell me, Oscar … tell me: would you rather I were really her?”

“You know I love you just as you are.”

“What am I ‘just as’?”

“For example, as you are now, dressed as Princess Ortrud. That’s how I love you.”

“How much?” she asked coyly.

“So much,” he replied, embracing her and showering her with kisses.

She pulled away, and snapped angrily at him:

“You snake! You lying snob. It isn’t me you love, it’s the princess!”

The King was horrified. She was absolutely right. The thought of Ortrud had been so strong, and so unexpected. He simply did not understand himself. He had always been too busy to realise how attractive she was, from a distance.