Free Oliver VII by Antal Szerb

pluck Titian from the grubby claws of this American. In us he has met his match. The moment we realised that he was the sort of American who could neverbe talked out of wanting the great master—who would stop at nothing to achieve his vile purpose, but was prepared to rob and plunder to get it—we decided to mislead him in the interests of our sacred cause, as Dante did, when he threw sand down the throat of Cerberus: we dedicated ourselves to throwing a spurious Titian down the throat of this particular Cerberus to save the real thing from him. Do you take my meaning, young man?”
    “Perfectly,” Sandoval replied, with a smile.
    “I knew you would. Now, I’m sorry I can’t give you an advance for your part in the business. Just at the moment I don’t have sufficient funds with me. The high calling in which I labour has made serious inroads on my fortune. You understand me of course, young man?”
    “Perfectly,” Sandoval answered, with a smile.
    “I knew you would. And I can pay you only if our plans succeed, that is to say, if the American hands over the cash. But in that case I won’t in the least grudge your two hundred lire, since you seem such a thoroughly sympathetic young man.”
    “Excuse me, it was three hundred lire!” Sandoval shouted furiously. He was now fully into his role.
    “So, let’s say three hundred, then. The reason I’m being so generous is that I want to keep you interested should any future projects arise. And, now that we have understood one another so splendidly, I must ask you to make a start on the work. I don’t wish to press you, young man, but I’d be obliged if you could complete the masterpiece within three days.”
     
    Sandoval felt like a man into whose hand God had placed the trumpet of Joshua. He knew that by doing the picturehe would sooner or later gain a full insight into the plans of the fugitive, self-banished king, which at present remained so totally obscure. He set about his task, and worked away diligently at his Titian masterpiece, without anything particularly memorable happening in the gloom of the bogus palazzo. He encountered no one but Honoré, and from him he learnt nothing of interest.
    But as night fell on the evening of the second day, he packed up his things and, quite ‘by chance’, did not go back down the way he had come but got himself lost in the complicated layout of the house. He ended up in an unlit room, and was just about to open the door into the next when he heard the sound of conversation coming from it. The speakers ’ voices were very familiar. One he recognised as belonging to Mawiras-Tendal, and the other … the other speaker, beyond the shadow of a doubt, could only have been the ex-King.
    Sandoval’s heart was beating wildly. This was a chance he could not let slip. He instantly sank down into an armchair and closed his eyes. Anyone opening the door would think he had been sleeping there for some time. But the room was dark, and he reckoned he wouldn’t be seen.
    “I beg you, my dear Milán,” the King was saying, “it really is about time you gave up this aide-de-camp manner. You’ve stopped calling me ‘Your Royal Highness’ half the time, thank God, but that’s precisely why now, when you say ‘old chap’, it sounds as if you were piling every one of my titles back onto me. Don’t forget, I am simple Oscar now.”
    “In that case, old man,” the Major replied, audibly suffering , like a man forced to swallow some bitter mouthful, “permit me to voice a few concerns.”
    “Let’s hear them,” the King answered reluctantly. “All I ask is that you don’t talk to me about the situation in Alturia. I’vehad it up to the neck. I don’t dare to pick up a newspaper any more. These poor revolutionaries! That poor Delorme! But what can any of us do without money? It’s terrible.”
    “That not what I want to talk about.”
    “All right, then. What?”
    “I would like to draw your attention to the fact that