lift.
St Germain gazed round at his followers ecstatically, and in a low, deeply impressive voice, pronounced the following words:
“Ladies and gentlemen, that mysterious presentiment sent by my illustrious ancestor through the mists of time … well, it didn’t deceive me. Like a saint plunging headlong from heaven in some old religious painting, it has come down to us, the thing we have waited for in vain for all these months—the great project. This could be the greatest deal of my entire life. I shall sell an entire country.”
Mawiras-Tendal shifted restlessly in his seat.
“Don’t say a word,” St Germain commanded. “What, I wonder, can you possibly know, Mr Meyer, of the historical background to this scene just played out before our eyes? And have you any idea of what precisely happened in the Alturian revolution? I think not. I, however, am familiar with the whole subject. At the time I made a close study of an article about it in a Sunday newspaper supplement. But why am Itelling you this? I shall now take immediate action. I shall go to Coltor and … but someone must come with me, that would make a better impression. Sandoval, you come along. Your hair is so dark you could be taken for an Alturian.”
Mawiras-Tendal rose and drew himself up to his full height.
“Count … I must beg you … not to do anything, at least until you have spoken to Oscar … ”
“Nonsense,” he conveyed with a wave of the hand, and stepped into the lift, with Sandoval in tow.
Coltor could be approached only through a secretary who, even here on the Lido, worked feverishly day and night on his ever-changing itinerary. The invading force of St Germain and Sandoval was received with extreme consternation.
“Mr Coltor is not seeing anyone.”
“We realise that. But we come in the name of Oliver VII, former King of Alturia.”
The chief secretary looked at them as if they were mad.
“In the name of King Oliver VII? Oliver is in Africa. You … come back the day after tomorrow. I shall leave a note for Mr Coltor.”
“Sir, at such moments in the history of the world every second ’ s delay could be catastrophic,” St Germain pronounced. With one stride he was at the far door and tugging it open. Sandoval was close behind him.
They dashed through two or three rooms, a posse of secretaries hard on their heels. In the fourth they found Coltor, pacing up and down in his nervous excitement.
“Mr Coltor,” St Germain respectfully began, “you must tell your people not to be forever treading on my heels. Our business is with you and you alone.”
“Who on earth are you?” demanded the astonished Coltor.
St Germain made a ceremonial bow.
“Oubalde Hippolyte Théramene, Count St Germain and Chief Steward to His Highness King Oliver VII during his temporary sojourn abroad. And this gentleman is Baron Sandoval, His Highness’ Groom.”
“Out!” Coltor yelled at the secretaries. He had now recognised St Germain, remembering that he had been sitting with the King in the hotel lobby. “Take a seat, gentlemen. I am at your disposal. I trust you bring good news of His Highness.”
Despondently, the secretaries withdrew.
“Permit me, sir, to assure you with absolute confidence that you did not make a mistake. You have a reputation across the whole of Europe for not making mistakes. And you were right again today. The gentleman you met in the foyer a few minutes ago was indeed none other than King Oliver VII.”
“But of course it was.”
“However, His Highness has maintained such a complete incognito here that even his closest followers still believe he is hunting big game in Africa. This self-concealment by His Highness has become, if I may use the term without disrespect , an idée fixe , and he refuses to give up his incognito at any price. If you wished to establish a connection with him, you chose the worst possible way when you approached him directly.”
“Then what should I do?”
“At this
St Germain gazed round at his followers ecstatically, and in a low, deeply impressive voice, pronounced the following words:
“Ladies and gentlemen, that mysterious presentiment sent by my illustrious ancestor through the mists of time … well, it didn’t deceive me. Like a saint plunging headlong from heaven in some old religious painting, it has come down to us, the thing we have waited for in vain for all these months—the great project. This could be the greatest deal of my entire life. I shall sell an entire country.”
Mawiras-Tendal shifted restlessly in his seat.
“Don’t say a word,” St Germain commanded. “What, I wonder, can you possibly know, Mr Meyer, of the historical background to this scene just played out before our eyes? And have you any idea of what precisely happened in the Alturian revolution? I think not. I, however, am familiar with the whole subject. At the time I made a close study of an article about it in a Sunday newspaper supplement. But why am Itelling you this? I shall now take immediate action. I shall go to Coltor and … but someone must come with me, that would make a better impression. Sandoval, you come along. Your hair is so dark you could be taken for an Alturian.”
Mawiras-Tendal rose and drew himself up to his full height.
“Count … I must beg you … not to do anything, at least until you have spoken to Oscar … ”
“Nonsense,” he conveyed with a wave of the hand, and stepped into the lift, with Sandoval in tow.
Coltor could be approached only through a secretary who, even here on the Lido, worked feverishly day and night on his ever-changing itinerary. The invading force of St Germain and Sandoval was received with extreme consternation.
“Mr Coltor is not seeing anyone.”
“We realise that. But we come in the name of Oliver VII, former King of Alturia.”
The chief secretary looked at them as if they were mad.
“In the name of King Oliver VII? Oliver is in Africa. You … come back the day after tomorrow. I shall leave a note for Mr Coltor.”
“Sir, at such moments in the history of the world every second ’ s delay could be catastrophic,” St Germain pronounced. With one stride he was at the far door and tugging it open. Sandoval was close behind him.
They dashed through two or three rooms, a posse of secretaries hard on their heels. In the fourth they found Coltor, pacing up and down in his nervous excitement.
“Mr Coltor,” St Germain respectfully began, “you must tell your people not to be forever treading on my heels. Our business is with you and you alone.”
“Who on earth are you?” demanded the astonished Coltor.
St Germain made a ceremonial bow.
“Oubalde Hippolyte Théramene, Count St Germain and Chief Steward to His Highness King Oliver VII during his temporary sojourn abroad. And this gentleman is Baron Sandoval, His Highness’ Groom.”
“Out!” Coltor yelled at the secretaries. He had now recognised St Germain, remembering that he had been sitting with the King in the hotel lobby. “Take a seat, gentlemen. I am at your disposal. I trust you bring good news of His Highness.”
Despondently, the secretaries withdrew.
“Permit me, sir, to assure you with absolute confidence that you did not make a mistake. You have a reputation across the whole of Europe for not making mistakes. And you were right again today. The gentleman you met in the foyer a few minutes ago was indeed none other than King Oliver VII.”
“But of course it was.”
“However, His Highness has maintained such a complete incognito here that even his closest followers still believe he is hunting big game in Africa. This self-concealment by His Highness has become, if I may use the term without disrespect , an idée fixe , and he refuses to give up his incognito at any price. If you wished to establish a connection with him, you chose the worst possible way when you approached him directly.”
“Then what should I do?”
“At this
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