“Thank you,” said the King. “I have gained my first follower. And now,” (in quite a different tone), “do please tell me where Marcelle is.”
“Marcelle? She’s gone.”
“Where to?”
“She didn’t say. She just cried and cried, and left this letter for you.”
He handed over the envelope. The King opened it. The letter read:
Your Highness,
Please forgive me. I solemnly take back everything I said. Your Highness is not ‘talentless’. Your Highness took me in completely. Your Highness is the most perfect con-man I ever met. Because Your Highness is a truly Royal Highness.
Marcelle.
King Oliver entered his capital amid general rejoicing. The streets were a-flutter with flags; the Westros department store was adorned with huge portraits of Oliver and Princess Ortrud, seemingly made from entire rolls of silk and broadcloth; mothers held their children up to catch a glimpse of the happily waving King, and loyal inscriptions such as ‘King Oliver — King of our Hearts’, and ‘We cannot live without Oliver. Long live the Great Triumphal Return!’ were daubed on walls.
King Oliver appeared on the balcony of the royal palace, and greeted his people with a few warm, informal words. The welcome ovation went on forever. Then, when he left the balcony and returned to the room, his government ministers swarmed around to congratulate him.
“Life has taught me a great deal,” he told his closest followers. “You can’t escape the fact that a man sees things very differently once he has viewed them from below. Clodia, my dear, you should get to know what life is really like.”
“No good would come of that!” she replied, deeply offended. “Life is for servants. Let them do it for me.”
“Cheep cheep,” Count Antas warbled at Diogenes. The King’s favourite canary’s cage stood beside his writing desk. “Your Highness should have seen how the poor thing pined night and day for his master!”
“But I brought him his hemp seed every day,” cooed the fire-eating Delorme.
Gradually the ministers withdrew from the room, revealing Gervaisis deep asleep in an armchair. The newly appointed Colonel Mawiras-Tendal went over and shook him. He woke, and declared:
“Who once puts his hand to the plough should never look back!”
“Quite right,” said the Colonel, and led him away.
By now the only people left in the room were the King and Count St Germain, whom the King had asked to stay behind. He offered him a chair and took a seat himself.
“My dear Count,” he began, “I kept you here because I want to thank you at this time of happy celebration … ”
“No thanks are necessary, Your Highness, none at all.”
“I have a great deal to thank you for. I have honoured you with the Grand Cross of the Order of St Florian and appointed you as my financial adviser, but this is truly a small reward for the services you have done me. It was from you that I learnt how to come to terms with the fact that I am a king.”
“Well, Your Highness, there are more painful and difficult professions to master.”
“There’s only one thing I don’t understand. You know everything in advance, you plan with enormous care, and what you don’t know you seem to sense intuitively … so is it possible that I, a talentless beginner, could really have fooled you, the master, for so long?”
“We all have our moments of mental blindness. But in fact Your Highness shouldn’t be so modest: you played the part of simple Oscar brilliantly. The first time I ever saw Your Highness … perhaps the voice of my illustrious ancestor whispered to me through the mist of centuries: ‘Oubalde Hippolyte Théramene, this gentleman has royal blood!’ And I was right to trust him, because he really was an expert on royalty. But then, the message came down through the mist of ages, and perhaps I misunderstood it. Or again, when the illustrious Coltor first recognised Your Highness, it might have occurred to me that a man like that doesn’t often get things wrong … and your reaction could well have given you away to me … though at moments like that the gods can inflict blindness on the ablest mortal minds. And of course, during the negotiation, even the simplest person, if not actually drunk, must have seen at once that Your Highness was a king, and bore yourself like one … But perhaps it is more romantic if we content ourselves with the thought that on this one occasion St Germain was taken in. For the first time in my life, and I’m confident it’ll be the last. There must surely have been a divine purpose at work here.”
“Now I am completely confused. Did I fool you, or did you see through everything?”
“I beg you, Your Highness, not to pursue this. Permit me instead to conduct a little official business.”
He stood up and, with the sort of flourish a magician might employ, conjured some jewellery from one of his pockets.
“Your Highness, this necklace was created for you by that jeweller in Venice. It is a gift — something we planned in the Palazzo Pietrasanta of blessed memory. It all went very smoothly, and Mr Coltor has already settled the bill for it. But I must also mention that he gave us a hundred thousand dollars on behalf of the Concern, which we asked for at the time as an advance. He has now made it my reward for services in connection with the treaty.”
“Well, well, well. So now we don’t have to nip off to Mexico.”
“I think this is the most appropriate moment to hand the necklace over to you, as Princess Ortrud will be arriving in Lara within the week.”
The King took the necklace and studied it thoughtfully.
“Very beautiful,” he said. “Very beautiful, wonderfully executed. But … ” (he drew it closer to him, deep in thought) “ … properly speaking, it belongs to Marcelle. That ring of hers that we commandeered to hire the Palazzo Pietrasanta, and so laid the foundations of Alturia’s prosperity, will not glitter in the pages of history. All the rich people have had a reward. She’s the only one who hasn’t. How could we possibly forget her? Please, send this little gift to Mlle Marcelle Desbois. I’m sure you’ll know where to find her.”
“An excellent suggestion, I am sure. But there isn’t very far to go. Marcelle is here in the palace.”
“What? Here, in the palace?” the King shouted. “And you tell me only now?”
“I thought Your Highness might wish to take your leave of her, and that it might be instructive for you to take one last look … at life, as it is lived down there. If you would be so gracious as to allow me, I shall call her straight away.”
A moment later he was back, leading Marcelle by the hand.
“Mademoiselle Marcelle Desbois!” he announced ceremonially.
Marcelle was dressed simply, but very elegantly, for a journey. Her face wore hardly any make-up. She looked at the King with a serious, formal expression, and curtsied.
The King’s face lit up, and was again the face of simple Oscar. It was as if the marshal’s greatcoat was quite forgotten.
“Marcelle!” he shouted, and moved quickly towards her.
But when he saw that she hadn’t moved, and continued to present him with that solemnly austere face, he was shocked. He stopped and looked around for St Germain. But St Germain had discreetly vanished through the same side door through which he had brought the girl.
“Marcelle … ” he began, rather hesitantly. “But it’s truly wonderful that you are here.”
She smiled a small, restrained smile, but said nothing.
“So tell me … how do you like my country?”
“Very pretty,” she replied.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s very pretty. Or shouldn’t I have said that?”
The King swallowed briefly.
“Oh, but it is. Wonderfully so.”