“There we are,” said the Major. “If you’d just let me have that sheet of paper, I’ll type it up and take it to the Hotel Bonvecchiati myself. It was quite by chance that I discovered he was staying there. Sandoval, this is the very first time I ever have been disloyal to His Highness, but there are times when betrayal is the truest mark of loyalty.”
Left to himself, Sandoval got up, put on his coat and went down to the seafront to think. The Major’s course of action did not please him in the slightest. He was in Venice as the trusted emissary of Princess Clodia, of Delorme and, more generally, of the victorious revolution. As recently as yesterday it had been clear to him that he could only serve their cause by joining in the King’s little game. If they could entrap Coltor, the whole affair would then come to light in all its ridiculousness. That could only be of advantage, in one of two ways. On the one hand, it might compromise Coltor and the whole treaty and thus prevent the latter ever
becoming
reality, perhaps at the same time destroying any desire on Coltor’s part to attempt similar experiments. On the other,
now that he had got to know Oliver and to understand the motives behind his actions, Sandoval felt that he might still make use of the situation to the King’s advantage. True, if it came to light that Oliver had personally taken part in such an inappropriate and foolish game, it would make a return to his ancestral throne much more difficult, perhaps
impossible
—but then the King feared nothing so much as going back. Perhaps it really wouldn’t bother him at all if these events made him seem an even more bohemian type, and even more of an enigma, in the public eye—in fact, the role he had chosen to play was probably quite close to his heart.
But then, Mawiras-Tendal’s intervention might not only put an end to St Germain’s plans but also to his own
expectations
. But how could he stop it? It seemed impossible. By now the letter would undoubtedly have been written and delivered. All he could hope for would be to take some sort of step to mitigate its effect. It was lucky the Major had not been able to keep his thoughts to himself but had shared them with him. But what could he do? Either stop Antas going to Coltor, or prevent Coltor giving credence to Antas’ words. But how?
Sandoval was not a man to spend much time in
contemplation
. He was one of those people who always act on the immediate impulse, and then have no idea what they are doing. He had one positive fact to go on: that Antas was here in the city, in the Hotel Bonvecchiati. Minutes later, he was sitting in a boat and drawing alongside the Riva dei Schiavoni.
He made his way through St Mark’s Square, passed under the arch of the Oratorio, through the Merceria and into the Calle dei Fabri, where all the little jewellers were. Here he bumped into Marcelle. For the first time he noticed what a very attractive girl she was. “Not the sort of beauty you’d
notice indoors,” he thought, “but one of those girls who really stand out in a street … ”
Marcelle explained what had passed at the jeweller’s, and the other errands she had been running for St Germain. Together they made their way back to St Mark’s.
“Tell me, Sandoval,” she asked. “What do you think of all this?”
“Pure genius,” he replied. “A plan like that occurs to the human brain once in a hundred years.”
“Do you think so? To me it all seems too perfect. To be
perfectly
frank, these big projects leave me cold. I’d much prefer some … some decent, responsible old guy in whose company I could relax. You don’t happen to know of anyone?”
“I’ll think about it. And what about Oscar? Oscar is
horribly
jealous.”
“True. But isn’t it wonderful? For a man, in this day and age, to be jealous of a woman … perhaps that’s why I’m so fond of him, and why I forgive him his stupidity and dullness … I’ve seldom met such a cack-handed bloke in my life.”
They were now standing on the embankment opposite the tall, slender tower of San Giorgio Maggiore, looking out at the marine panorama that, before the war, every human being worth the name gazed on once in his lifetime, like a Muslim on pilgrimage to Mecca. Though he had seen it a hundred times, Sandoval now gave himself up fully to the roseate loveliness of the Venetian scene. Just then a large, white-painted boat glided slowly by on the golden water of twilight, on its way to anchor somewhere beside the church of Santa Maria della Salute. And that boat, on its
mysterious
journey, gave Sandoval the great idea that he had been searching for the whole afternoon.
“Marcelle,” he shouted, “I have it. I’ve found someone for you!”
“Who’s that?”
“A wonderful old pasha, the greatest buffoon on the entire planet! He’s simply made for you. He’s here in Venice. You must get onto him straight away. I have his address.”
“Now look here, chum. You’re not going to drag me down that road!” she protested, bristling with moral indignation. “You must learn to give people their due. Do you think I’m some sort of tart? That I want that sort of relationship? Certainly not. Listen, boy, my relationships last at least a fortnight. Some have been a lot longer.”
“God help me, my precious, but I had no such thought,” he replied by way of apology. “I know very well who I’m
talking
to. Listen, I’m a portrait painter, I can tell the difference between one woman and another. We’ll just be putting on a little show. Now, let’s first go and have dinner.”
They wined and dined very pleasantly in a little restaurant just off St Mark’s. When they had finished they returned to the Square.
St Mark’s Square is the centre of the world. Before the war broke out, the world was much smaller than it is now, and there were far fewer people; that is to say, fewer people who counted as such. There were just one or two locations that could claim to be such centres, on the grounds that at some time or other ‘everyone’ ended up strolling around them. St Mark’s was certainly one of these.
Sandoval had calculated correctly. They did indeed meet Antas, and in the most fortunate of circumstances. The Count was alone, ambling around the piazza in a pair of black-and-white chequered trousers and white linen jacket, with an imposing carnation in his buttonhole, and eyeing the ladies through his monocle with a degree of interest that belied his age. Sandoval made sure they approached along his line of vision. As they drew closer, Antas became so
overwhelmed by admiration for Marcelle that he failed to notice the painter, until his loud and enthusiastic greeting:
“Good evening, Count.”
Antas was horribly startled, but, recognising Sandoval, his astonished face was transformed into a happy smile and he advanced towards the two of them.
“Oh, Sandoval! Forgive me for troubling you, but I really can’t pass over the opportunity of having a couple of words with you … here in St Mark’s Square … ” (bowing furiously all the while in Marcelle’s direction, and leaving no doubt why he was so very delighted to meet him).
“
Chère
Marcelle,” said Sandoval, “allow me to introduce my most distinguished patron Count Antas, former Royal Chief Steward to King Oliver VII.”
Marcelle smiled a very friendly smile, and a lively
conversation
started between the two. At Antas’ suggestion, they took a seat in one of the cafés. Sandoval listened with half an ear to the Count’s naive bragging while he considered what to do. He gathered from what was being said that the Count had left his hotel soon after lunch and had not been back since. Perhaps he hadn’t yet had the Major’s letter. By the next morning, when he did get it, he would be on the very best of terms with Marcelle.
Suddenly he could refrain no longer from asking him:
“Count, forgive me if I presume on our old intimacy to ask: what did Her Ladyship say when you returned home after our last little outing?”
“Ah, my boy, I had a stroke of luck. Enormous luck. By the time I got home the revolution had broken out and I was relieved of my duties. And then it really played havoc with her nerves. She forgot about everything else. The poor thing has never recovered from the disaster. That’s why I came to Venice for a break.”
Marcelle explained that she too was a painter, though not one who needed to work. She was in Venice on a study trip. And she adored seafood. She spoke in a refined,
distinguished
way, to Sandoval’s delight. They took their leave of Antas towards midnight, having planned a trip for the following day to the little fishing village on Burano, whose colourful boats and lively water-life Marcelle would be sure to find interesting.
In the boat going back she said: “Tell me, is he a real count?”
“Absolutely the real thing. And his grandfather before him.”
“Yes, it showed. Such a fine gentleman. Not like that poor Oscar. But that’s why I love Oscar all the more. Now why would that be?”
“Like attracts like.”
“Quite probably.”
St Germain was still up when they called round to tell him what had been happening. Naturally they said no more than what was necessary, and did not implicate Mawiras-Tendal. Sandoval said that he just happened to know this Palawer person who had written the letter: he had been in his
company
on several occasions in France and they had now met again in Venice.
“Chance events are always interesting,” was St Germain’s response. “What we need to establish now is how this Palawer knew about our plans. Do you have any suggestions?”
Sandoval had the feeling he was being cross-examined. But he had come prepared for the question.
“All I can think is someone in Coltor’s entourage has been
blabbing about what an amazing deal his boss is working on. And of course Palawer, as an Alturian, would have known that the King isn’t in Venice, so Coltor could only be dealing with an impostor.”
“Hm. Are you so sure the King isn’t in Venice?”
Sandoval began to feel rather uncomfortable. Did this man actually suspect something? Was his illustrious ancestor
whispering
something to him through the mists of ages?
“Of course I’m sure,” he replied. “The King is hunting big game in Central Africa.”
“So they say,” said St Germain, thoughtfully. “Oh well, no matter. Perhaps tomorrow … ”
And he reworked the details of the rest of the plan, taking Antas into account.
Early next morning they set off for Burano.
Sandoval had arranged a particularly early rendezvous so that Antas would not have time to call on Coltor beforehand. When they met, the Count appeared rather agitated, as if something were weighing heavily on his mind. Obviously Mawiras-Tendal’s letter, which he must have now read.
Once they were sitting in the boat and heading out over the unruffled water towards the ring of tiny islands that encircle the city, Antas could restrain himself no longer and poured out his troubles.
“I had a letter this morning, from a certain Dr Palawer, a former Secretary of State in my homeland, Alturia,” he began. “He tells me there are swindlers on the prowl, here in Venice, passing themselves off as King Oliver VII and his royal household. They hope to take in the great financier Coltor. The whole story is so improbable that I would never
have believed it if anyone other than Palawer had told me. And the most outrageous thing of all, he says, is that one of the gang is preparing to impersonate me. Calling himself Count Antas … it’s monstrous! Just imagine, Sandoval, if my wife heard that I was consorting with swindlers! I’d never be able to set foot in Alturia again.”
“And what do you intend doing about it, Count?”
“I’ll go to Coltor later today, show him the letter, and expose the whole ungodly business.”
“Today? I thought we might have the whole day together,” whimpered Marcelle. “I thought we were going out to Burano.”
“Oh, how wonderful you are,” Antas enthused. “How happy I would be, my God, how happy I would be, if we could stay there … ”
He wavered for a moment, then heaved a profound sigh.
“Duty is not a bed of roses, as our national poet tells us. I really must speak with Coltor today. Who knows, tomorrow may be too late. Sometimes you can be taken in so quickly you hardly even notice.”
“Then at least let me go with you,” Marcelle pleaded. “I’ve never seen a great financier like Coltor close up. I’d love to see what sort of face he has. Faces really interest me, as a painter!”
“I’ll take you most gladly, but how?”
“Oh that’s not a problem! Tell him I’m your niece, and you didn’t want to leave me alone in the hotel.”
“True! Wonderful, pure genius!”
“Count,” Sandoval intervened, “would it be terribly
indiscreet
if I asked you to show me this letter?”
“Of course not. Here it is.”
He drew it from his pocket and gave it to Sandoval. The painter immersed himself in studying the text. Meanwhile
Marcelle called Antas to the other side of the deck to show him something. Sandoval exchanged the letter for another that St Germain had written that morning. It had not been very difficult to concoct a very similar-looking one as the Major had typed his letter on Sandoval’s writing paper—a ‘chance event’ that St Germain was not of course aware of. When the Count returned, Sandoval gave him the second letter, carefully placed back inside the envelope. The Count didn’t look inside, but simply stuffed it into his pocket.
They arrived at Burano. When they had seen what there was to see, they sat down to lunch. Antas, as we have already mentioned, would happily drink alcohol whatever the time of day. Now he set about it with gusto. Amorousness and a loyal nostalgia for home induced an even greater thirst in him, and Marcelle and Sandoval did little to discourage him.
“Tell me, Count, are you on good terms with this Coltor?” Marcelle asked.
“On good terms? My dear, I might say that he was frankly eating out of my hand on his last visit to Alturia. We caroused together every night. The only problem was that the poor little chap couldn’t hold his liquor. He got drunk immediately and talked total rubbish from then on.”