“I don’t know what you’re talking about? I was the one who opened Coltor’s eyes to the fact that he had been caught by swindlers.”
Steel became highly excited.
“Swindlers? I didn’t know that. For God’s sake, tell me more, Count. At this moment the whole of America is hanging on your lips.”
The image seized Antas’ imagination. Half the world dangling from his lips, like a cigarette. He told Steel all he knew, while the reporter listened amazed, in a fever of curiosity. Then he jumped to his feet and said:
“Count, wait here a moment. I’ll be right back. Warm your illustrious person in the sun for a moment. It’s crucially important that you wait for me.”
“Just be quick, young man,” Antas replied. “My skin feels as if it’s starting to burn.”
Steel raced headlong to the nearest telephone booth and rang Coltor’s secretary.
“Hello. Steel here. Mr Secretary? Have you heard the great news?”
“Oh yes. Four this afternoon.”
“What’s at four this afternoon?”
“Letting the canary out.”
(This was the name for the negotiations that had been agreed for use over the telephone, to prevent Coltor’s entourage knowing of the secretary’s betrayal.)
“Where?” Steel asked.
“That I can’t tell you right now. Come to the hotel right away.”
Steel dashed back to the beach, then ploughed his way between the sprawling bathers.
“Count,” he puffed, “something doesn’t add up. Either they’ve misled you, or you’ve misled me. The King is going to negotiate with Coltor this afternoon. There’s no question about it. Coltor’s secretary told me.”
“What?” shouted the Count, as he scrambled to his feet. “It’s impossible. Coltor talking to those scoundrels after all that? In spite of my warning?”
“Did you give your warning sufficient emphasis, Count?”
Antas became troubled.
“Well, you know, the constraints of the situation … considering the long-standing intimate friendship between the two of us … it could be that I did express myself in too frivolous a manner; perhaps he was just carried away by my irresistible wit … ”
“ … and didn’t take you seriously?”
“Yes, that’s always possible. These Norlandians are such dour people, if you aren’t wearing sackcloth and ashes when you tell them something they don’t actually believe you. That could be it. How horrible! These swindlers will make Alturia a laughing stock forever!”
“We’ve no time to lose. We can still expose them, and then all the glory will be ours. What a report that’ll make!”
“I am at your service, Mr Editor. What do we have to do?”
“First of all, get your clothes on. Then be so good as to come to my hotel. You’ll get the rest of your instructions there.”
When the King and the Major returned after lunch to the Palazzo Pietrasanta, preparations had reached fever pitch.
A revoltingly ugly old woman was darting back and forth with surprising energy.
St Germain introduced her: “The Plantagenet Duchess. She’s a little deaf.”
“A little deaf, but very ugly,” the King observed.
“Not so fast! I heard that,” said the Duchess, alias Sandoval.
Honoré arrived from Sandoval’s upstairs studio, brandishing a large picture.
“Is the ladder here?” St Germain asked. “Now you need to hang it. I’ll tell you where in a moment.”
All expertise, he paced up and down the room, then pointed to a spot on the wall.
“We’ll put it there. It’ll be seen to best advantage there.”
Honoré nailed the picture to the wall.
“Who is this monster?” the King asked. “Why is he leering at me like that, and why has he got a tooth mug in his hand?”
“It’s the toothpaste advert. We repainted it,” said St Germain. “It was originally a king brushing his teeth, now it’s Philip II or the One-Eared, a former King of Alturia. You can recognise him from his enormous ear, a triumph of artistic skill by our friend Sandoval. Oscar, you should have learnt more Alturian history. I’ve told you enough about it.”
“But why is he grinning like that?” the King asked.
“Because in the advertisement there was a toothbrush in his hand. But I took it out,” Sandoval explained modestly.
“The canary, Honoré,” commanded St Germain.
Honoré had already brought it.
“Diogenes, His Highness’ favourite canary. It conjures up a bit of cosy Alturian atmosphere.”
Valmier entered, the perfect footman.
“Here’s the jewellery, boss.”
“Indeed? I’ll go and sort it out and have the necklace made up — the one Princess Ortrud is to have as a gift from the King. Oscar, time to robe up.”
“Me? What in?”
“The marshal’s greatcoat of course. I’ve already told you, young man, it’s a sacred tradition. He never appears in public without his marshal’s greatcoat on. It’s up in the studio. Sandoval will be so kind as to show you how to put it on and wear it. Off you go, young man.”
Off he went, at speed.
“The greatcoat?” he sighed. “My Milán,” he whispered: “is this what the revolution was for?”
In the room next door he stumbled over a gentleman sleeping in the depths of an armchair with his legs splayed out.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“That’s one of the Count’s great discoveries,” Sandoval answered. “Gervaisis, the eternal sleeper.”
“Wake him,” said the King.
Sandoval shook the man.
“Hey, mister, wake up.”
The sleeper came to and spoke:
“Who sows the wind will reap the whirlwind.”
“Excuse me?” the King replied.
“Nothing,” Gervaisis remarked. “Just an old proverb. I always say one when I wake up.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he retorted, and went back to sleep.
“St Germain brought him here because he thinks his aristocratic somnolence will raise the tone of the meeting.”
“I’ve also been wondering about the tone,” the King observed.
They arrived at the studio. Even with the assistance of two helpers the King had great difficulty getting the coat on. It was rather more extravagant and ornate than the original.
“Do I have to?” he asked. “Compared to this, the one at home was a housecoat.”
“Your Highness,” the Major implored him. “You can still reconsider!”
“How can you think that, Milán? Now that I’ve come this far, and actually got inside this damn thing? I’m not going to take it off now. You’d better get your major’s uniform on. It’s over there, on the bed. You’ll see what a strange feeling it is, meeting it again.”
By the time they returned to the hall, everyone was assembled. Honoré was strutting proudly up and down in his military costume; the eminent pseudo-lawyer Baudrieu, in a green jacket, was seated at the negotiation table, with its covering of green baize, putting his papers in order. Gervaisis was deep in an armchair, asleep. Suddenly he gave a loud snort.
“Thank you for bringing that to my attention, Gervaisis,” St Germain remarked. “It had quite slipped my mind.”
He drew a military decoration from his pocket and stuck it on Baudrieu.
Marcelle appeared, in her full Ortrud costume. It was very restrained. The train was as long as a barge.
“Let’s have a look at you, my girl,” the Count said. “Allow me to apply the final strokes of the brush. Stand over there, so we can see you better. Honoré, give me that illustrated newspaper.”