quickly conquer. Bringeveryone 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
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
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