“It was clearly St Germain’s mysterious ancestor talking to him through the mist of time. But the same mysterious ancestor has now thoroughly wrecked the whole deal. So what will become of us now? If Coltor goes home after this, St Germain’s people will beat us to death on the spot.”
“No they won’t. I’ll compensate them. I’ll swear we aren’t con men, we really are Brazilian planters. I’ve got plenty of money and I’ll offer them a large sum. On one condition: that they keep it a secret from Marcelle that they got the money from me, so she can go on believing that I am just poor pathetic Oscar. St Germain will come up with some story or other.”
“Wonderful, truly wonderful!” the Major growled. “There’s just one problem. What will Your Highness do if Coltor actually agrees to set up this monitoring body? If he did, the amended treaty would be better than any you could ever have dreamed of.”
“Don’t worry, my Milán. Coltor won’t agree. If it were simply a question of money he might, because his funds are limitless. But he can’t give way on a matter of principle. He wouldn’t be Coltor if he had let people stick their noses into his business affairs.”
When the King left the meeting Coltor had also withdrawn with his secretaries, to pace up and down in another room and think things over. St Germain remained behind, with his team.
“So what was all that?” Baudrieu asked. “Has Oscar struck out on his own, or has he gone mad?”
“Of course not, my dear friend, of course not,” St Germain replied. “It’s all part of the game. But, in terms of the agenda, you could say everything’s right on course.”
“But what was the point of it all?” Honoré asked, anxiously. “All this spiel about the poor, and all those other nonentities, instead of talking about what we’re going to get? I don’t understand any of it.”
“There are a great many things you don’t understand, my young friend. You can’t sign up just like that to a treaty that will decide the fate of an entire people. You have to give things their proper appearance. It’s much more realistic if we haggle. And you have to admit, Oscar’s acting was sensational. You would really have thought … Anyway, it’ll be time to talk about the dough in just a few minutes.”
Coltor returned to the negotiation room, treading nervously. The opening of the door woke Gervaisis, who declared:
“Where there is love there is peace.”
Coltor stared at him in astonishment.
“Yes indeed, Marquis, my thoughts exactly. We must come to a peaceful agreement. If His Highness is so very determined to have this monitoring body, well then, we’ll set one up. I’d like to see the body of men that could monitor me.”
“Hear hear,” Honoré chimed.
“Most respected sir,” said St Germain, “permit me, before we resume our discussions, to take advantage of His Highness’ absence to dispose of the sort of questions it might be a little delicate to discuss in his presence.”
“Please go ahead, Count.”
“The principles of gallantry require His Highness to surprise his fiancée with a gift of some value, from this happy reversal of his fortunes. But our royal household finds itself, temporarily, not in a position … we have spent months abroad, living in a manner appropriate to his Highness’ station … ”
“Naturally, of course, Count. Say no more … ”
And he promptly produced his cheque book.
“I have taken the liberty of choosing this little pendant,” St Germain continued, and from his pocket drew the sample of merchandise that the jeweller had just brought round. “Fifty thousand lire the lot, a wonderful bargain … ”
“Fifty thousand? Not worth mentioning, Count, not worth mentioning.” And he immediately filled out a cheque for the sum and handed it over.
“Thank you very much,” said St Germain, “on behalf of His Highness. We shall of course make this good as soon as the treaty takes effect. And now, I think, there is no bar to our asking His Highness to continue the discussion.”
“Come on, you,” Honoré called to the King and the Major. “Coltor has accepted your conditions, or whatever that nonsense was about. You must close the deal quickly. I don’t understand why you jabbered so much.”
“He’s accepted?” the Major asked, dumbfounded. “He’ll have to be patient for a few more moments.”
“Just get a move on,” Honoré replied, and went out.
The Major leapt to his feet.
“Your Highness,” he shouted. “Your Highness, Coltor has agreed to everything we want. This treaty will ensure Alturia’s happiness for a long time to come … if … if … Your Highness would accept it. But of course you can’t, because then you’d have to go back to your ancestral throne, and you really don’t want that, and so you can’t agree to it, because Your Highness is no longer Your Highness but simple Oscar, a common fraudster, and a fraudster can’t save Alturia. Though history tells us that Your Highness would not be the first such person to save a nation. So what do we do now, Your Highness?”
“My Milán, right now I just don’t know. But let’s get back to the negotiation room anyway. We can’t stay here.”
On their return a new surprise awaited them.
No sooner had Honoré gone to fetch them than a loud commotion was heard outside the negotiation room, voices apparently raised in violent argument. Baudrieu rushed to the door. Gervaisis woke up, and declared:
“No use crying over spilt milk.”
The door opened and Valmier and Harry Steel came tumbling in, clinging to each other’s hair, while Steel spasmodically grabbed at Valmier’s side-whiskers with his free hand. Antas came in hard behind them.
“Boss, this bloke … ” Valmier stammered.
“What sort of rascally invasion is this?” St Germain shouted at the intruders. “Gentlemen, I order you to leave. Clear out this minute!”
Harry Steel let go of Valmier and turned to St Germain with a face of gloating triumph.
“So, it’s St Germain! I should have guessed you’d have a hand in this.”
Then he turned to Coltor and solemnly intoned:
“Mr Coltor, if you are not yet aware of the fact, you have fallen into the clutches of St Germain, the most brilliant swindler of our time. Everything you see here is a deception. This palazzo is not a palace, and these people are not followers of Oliver VII … ”
“Holy God,” exclaimed Coltor, pointing at Philip II or the One-Eared. The snarl certainly was rather more fierce than usual. “That picture on the wall looked suspicious to me from the start.”
“I had my suspicions about the aide-de-camp,” the first secretary confided.
“What sort of game were they trying on you?” Harry Steel enquired. “I hope to God, Mr Coltor, you haven’t yet put any money in their hands?”
“And who are you?” St Germain snapped at Steel. “How dare you come bursting in here! And who is this other specimen you’ve brought with you?”
“I am Harry Steel, of the New York Times; as the Count knows perfectly well.”
“And I am Count St Germain, Royal Chief Steward to His Highness King Oliver VII.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Antas declared. “The Royal Chief Steward is of course none other than myself, Count Antas.”
For the first time St Germain seemed a little confused. Coltor glared ominously from one chief steward to the other. At that precise moment, Marcelle entered. She had heard the commotion from the upper floor and raced down, with Sandoval close behind.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded. Seeing Antas and Harry Steel, she clapped her hands to her face in horror. “My God! Harry Steel!” She knew him well from a previous incarnation in Paris.
“You see,” Valmier hissed into her ear, through his side-whiskers. “I told you we should clear out before it got too late.”