“And here’s Marcelle,” Steel crowed. “St Germain’s right-hand woman.”
“What?” exclaimed Antas. “She too?”
And his heart broke.
“Mademoiselle, I am delighted to see you,” Steel pronounced in his haughtiest tones. “After this, we can have no more pressing duty than to telephone the police.”
In an instant Valmier was out through the door and had vanished from the scene of our little history. Marcelle screamed and tried to dash out to alert Oscar to the catastrophe, but Steel blocked her way.
“No one must leave the room!” He seized Marcelle by the arm. “Especially not you. You’re staying right here.”
She screamed again. At that precise moment the King and the Major appeared. (Honoré, hearing the commotion from outside the room, thought it better to stay there and wait to see what happened.)
In those first moments the only detail of the whole tumultuous scene that caught the King’s eye was that someone was holding Marcelle by force. He leapt across, seized Steel by the shoulder and shook him.
“Let her go at once!” he shouted. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Steel, of the New York Times,” the journalist declared, taking up the pose of a boxer. “And who the hell are you?”
“I am, er … ” the King stammered … but at that moment Antas recognised him, stepped between the two, and greeted his former ruler with a deep bow.
“Your Highness … ”
“What’s this?” Steel croaked. “Who’s a king here?”
“You don’t recognise His Royal Highness, King Oliver VII?” Antas asked.
“Oliver VII? The one with the moustache and sideburns … last seen in Kansas City, in his shirtsleeves … ”
“I am so happy to see you again, Your Highness,” Antas gushed.
“You are welcome, my dear Antas,” the King replied graciously, and held out his hand. Then Antas and the Major greeted each other warmly.
Baudrieu rose, and held his hands up to the sky.
“A miracle has happened! There’s been nothing like this since the wedding feast at Canaa … ”
Gervaisis woke up and declared:
“Autres pays, autres mœurs.”
Coltor got up and made for the door. He had now lost the thread completely, having gathered just enough of the chaotic situation to make him want nothing more than to get out of this madhouse. The appearance of Antas had done little to reassure him. He had begun to suspect either that everyone present was drunk or that he had been suddenly struck down by some dire affliction.
But Harry Steel stood in his way, and seized his hand with great gusto. Coltor struggled in vain to free it.
“Sensational, sensational!” Steel roared. “I congratulate you, Mr Coltor! No doubt about it — once you get something into your head you should do it! This is great!”
Then he let go of Coltor’s hand and turned to St Germain.
“The only thing I don’t understand is how you got here.”
“So, do you recognise my excellent Chief Steward now?” the King asked, having finally grasped the situation and wanting to rescue St Germain and his friends.
“Your Highness’ Chief Steward? But that’s me!” Antas wailed.
“Count St Germain has been serving in your stead while we have been abroad, my dear Antas.”
“Now I get it!” Steel yelled, in relief. Then he rushed over to St Germain and shook hands with him. “I do beg your pardon, Count. Very foolish of me.”
“Not at all, young man, not at all,” the Count replied.
“Well then, I must make a call straight away,” Steel shouted excitedly, and flew to the telephone.
“Now … ” whispered Baudrieu, seizing St Germain’s arm. “Now’s our chance to clear out. Valmier’s already scarpered. Quick, quick. Gervaisis, can you wake up?”
“Of course we’re not clearing out, you ox!” St Germain hissed. “We’ve won!”
“Hello!” Steel boomed into the telephone. “New York Times? Steel here. Take a note, please; this is urgent!” Then he went on, in the voice of one dictating: “ ‘Unexpected developments in the Alturian situation. This afternoon, in Venice’s historically renowned Palazzo Pietrasanta, former King of Alturia Oliver VII sat down to negotiate with Mr Coltor, head of the Coltor Concern. According to unofficial sources, their agreement will take effect from today. The King, who is in vigorous health, dropped his incognito and greeted Coltor in his traditional field marshal’s greatcoat.’ Please transmit this immediately,” he concluded, and put the receiver down.
“What happens now?” asked the Major. He was deathly pale. “This is madness. I knew it would all end badly. This Steel has wrecked everything. Tomorrow the whole world will be talking about nothing else. Show us how you’ll get out of that, Your Highness.”
“Not at all, my Milán, not at all. This pipsqueak American has turned the agreement into a fait accompli. Tomorrow the whole world will know, and we’ll have to honour it. No harm in that. What has happened has happened, and perhaps it’s better this way. Milán, there have been wise kings who led their countries to disaster, and foolish kings who saved their countries from ruin. Mr Coltor, I must ask you: are you prepared to accept this treaty in the form we began to outline this afternoon?”
“Pardon me. Your Highness needs first to make clear if you are prepared to return to your throne, or whether this whole business has simply been a bit of foolery and confidence trickery.”
“I am happy to return to the throne if you will amend your treaty.”
“And I am happy to modify my treaty, provided you return.”
“Well then … then, St Germain, you have rescued Alturia. You have brought a treaty into being which I can conclude without shame, and ensured the happiness of my people. But … ” (this was done very quietly) “ … before that, you rescued me. You taught me what it is to be a king.”
The King, the Major, Coltor and Antas remained together for a long time, discussing ways of countering any diplomatic contention that might arise between Norlandia and the present government of Alturia as a result of Steel’s indiscretion. While this was going on St Germain entertained Steel, who hung on his every word with rapt attention. He knew that not a jot of it was true, but his reporter’s heart delighted in this revelation of the Count’s ingenuity.
When Coltor’s party finally left, thoroughly contented, the King went upstairs to look for Marcelle. But he found only Sandoval, pacing back and forth in agitation. Sandoval was faced with a dilemma. He could not decide whether to keep faith with Princess Clodia or to throw his lot in with the past and present King, to whom, as the Nameless Captain, he had sworn an oath of loyalty. He felt obliged to stand with the weaker party — but he could not make up his mind which of the two was at that moment the weaker.
Almost as if he knew what was passing through Sandoval’s mind, the King addressed him:
“Sandoval, I’m going back to Alturia. It’s no use. I see now that a king’s place is on the throne. Duty isn’t a bed of roses. When I came here I was desperate to live the same sort of life as everyone else; to be like an ordinary person. Now I know it’s impossible. A man, using the word in its highest sense, has a responsibility, a calling. A fisherman has no vocation to be a king. He’d make a bad king, and the king a poor fisherman. That was my error. We need fishermen, and we need kings. You, my dear Sandoval, stood by me when you stood by the Nameless Captain before you knew who he was, and you stood by me as Oscar the con-man, here, in Venice. Now you must stand beside me in my most difficult hour, when I become King again. Help me take back my throne.”
Deeply moved, Sandoval bowed. His decision was made.