The Short Reign of Pippin IV Read online

  The meeting convened at three p.m. December 5, and it was agreed that after the address from the throne it should recess until the next day. The king was neither invited to nor wanted at the subsequent meetings. At the end he was expected to place his royal signature on the Code, preferably without reading it.

  It will be remembered that the Due des Troisfronts had made the first demand for the return of the monarchy. It was therefore considered only proper that he should announce the king, in spite of his cleft palate.

  At 3:15 the Chief Minister raised the royal gavel, actually a wooden replica of the hammer from which Charles Martel took his name.

  The hammer crashed nobly down three times. From the entrance to the right of the rostrum the halberdiers wheeled inward, opened the double doors, and presented their arms.

  The Due des Troisfronts entered. He was scaled like a lizard with orders and decorations, while a toupee which was an integral part of his coronet gave him an alert look—a little like the March Hare. He advanced to the rostrum and glanced about in panic. Academician Poitin of the Royal Academy of Music rapped three times with his baton, and six trumpeters in tabards raised six-foot straight trumpets from which hung the royal arms. M. Poitin gave them a downbeat, and they blew a fanfare which seemed to rock the great room.

  The Due des Troisfronts struggled for breath. “Hentulmeh. I give you the Hing of Fhance!”

  From the gallery the Duchesse was heard to break into applause.

  Again the fanfare.

  Again the halberdiers swung open the double doors—and Pippin entered.

  By no stretch of imagination could he have been thought to have either a military figure or carriage. The marshal’s uniform was a mistake. Moreover, the uniform—rented from a theatrical costumer—had at the last moment been discovered to be far too large. The tunic had been made to fit by a row of safety pins up the back. Nothing could be done about the crotch of the trousers, which, even though the waistband was high on his chest, still dangled halfway to his knees. The purple velvet cape with edging of ermine hung from his shoulders and was followed by two pages delegated to control it. They did their best, and when the king reached the rostrum and turned they brought the trailing ends of the train inward to try to conceal his pants, so that he arose out of its folds like the stamen of a lily.

  The king placed the manuscript of his address on the rostrum. His hands wandered to his breast, searched frantically amongst the great stars and orders. His glasses were not there. He remembered putting his pince-nez and the ribbon down while his tunic was being pinned up the back. He spoke to one of the boys, who dashed out through the side entrance, knocking a halberd from a guard’s hand.

  Meanwhile Le Maitre Poitin, who after all had been fifty years in the theater, signaled the trumpeters to break into the traditional hunting call whose triumphant theme, “There goes the fox,” puts a strain on the versatility of the straight trumpet.

  While this brilliant improvisation continued, the page returned and handed the king his pince-nez. Pippin bent over his pages, written in the precise but minute hand of the mathematician.

  Pippin read his speech exactly as though he was reading a speech. His voice had no rise and fall. His points were made with no underlining and no declamation.

  No one could find any fault with the opening statement:

  “My Lords, and my People—

  “We, Pippin, King of France by right of blood and by further authority of election, do hold that this land has been singularly favored by God with richness of soil and geniality of climate, while its people are endowed with intelligence and talent above many others—’

  At this point applause broke out, which caused him to look up, remove his pince-nez, and lose his place.

  When the noise had subsided he replaced his pince-nez and bent over the tiny handwriting.

  “Let’s see. M-mmm—here it is—talent above many others. When we assumed the crown, we made a careful study of the nation, its riches, its failures, and its potentials. Not only did we study available statistics but also we went out among the people, not in our royal character but on the level of the people themselves—”

  He paused and looked up and remarked conversationally, “If that seems romantic to some of you, I ask you how else I could have found out.”

  He went back to his manuscript.

  A slight uneasiness crept into the great gathering.

  “We found,” he said pedantically—“we found that the power, the products, the comforts, the profits, and the opportunities of our nation deserve a wider distribution than they now have.”

  Plight and Left Centrists looked at one another in consternation.

  "We believe that changes, programs, and some restrictions are necessary to the end that our people may live in comfort and peace and that the genius of the French, which once lighted the world, may be rekindled.”

  During the time it took him to turn a page there was a little pattering of scattered handclapping. The delegates restlessly moved their feet among their books and briefcases.

  Pippin continued. *

  “The People of France have created a king. It is not only the nature but the duty of a king to rule. Where a president may suggest, a king must order—otherwise his office is meaningless and his kingdom does not exist.

  “We therefore order and decree that the Code you are creating shall contain the following. .

  And then the bomb exploded.

  The first section dealt with taxes—to be kept as low as possible and to be collected from all.

  The second, wages—to be keyed to profits and to move up and down with the cost of living.

  Prices—to be strictly controlled against manipulation.

  Housing—existing housing to be improved and new construction to be undertaken with supervision as to quality and rents.

  The fifth section called for a reorganization of government to the end that it perform its functions with the least expenditure of money and personnel.

  The sixth considered public health insurance and retirement pensions.

  The seventh ordered the break-up of great land holdings to restore the wasted earth to productivity.

  “To the great three words I want to add a fourth,” he said, “so that henceforth the motto of the French shall be Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, and Opportunity.”

  The king, his head still down, waited for applause, and when none came he looked out over the thunderstruck gathering. The delegates were hypnotized with horror. They stared glassily back at the king. They seemed scarcely to breathe.

  Pippin IV had planned to bow at this point and to leave with dignity on the heels of his applause, but there was only aching silence. Uproar he could have understood. He had even prepared himself for denunciation, but the silence held him and confused him. He took off his pince-nez and mounted it on his forefinger.

  “I meant every word I said,” he began uneasily. “I have really seen France, France which has survived three invasions, two occupations in three generations, and emerged whole and strong and free. I tell you what an enemy could not do to us we are doing to ourselves, like greedy, destructive children throwing cake at a birthday party.”

  And suddenly he was angry—coldly angry.

  “I didn’t ask to be king,” he said hoarsely. “I begged not to be king. And you didn’t want a king. You wanted a patsy.” Then he shouted, “But you elected a king, and by God you’ve got a king—or a gigantic joke.”

  Delegates cleared their throats, took off their glasses and polished them.

  ‘'I know as well as you do that the time for kings is past.” he said quietly. “Royalty is extinct and its place is taken by boards of directors. What I have tried to do is to help you make the leap, for you are not one thing or the other. I am going to leave you now to your deliberations. You have my orders—but, whether you obey them or not, try to be worthy of our beautiful nation.”

  The king bowed slightly and turned to walk toward the d
oor, but an open-mouthed page was standing on the edge of his purple and ermine-collared cape. It ripped from his shoulders and fell to the floor, exposing the row of safety pins up the back of his tunic, and the baggy crotch of the trousers flopping between his knees.

  Strain in children and adults opens two avenues of relief—laughter or tears—and either is equally accessible. The safety pins did it.

  Beginning with a snigger in the front benches, it spread to giggles, and then to hysteric laughter. Delegates pounded the backs of the delegates in front of them and honked and roared and wiped their eyes. Thus they channeled the shock the king’s message had given them, the shock and the terror and their own deep sense of guilt.

  Pippin could hear the laughter through the closed doors. He removed the baggy pants and hung them on a chair. He put on his dark blue suit with its pin stripe and tied his black silk knitted tie.

  Quietly he went out a rear entrance and walked around the building and stood in the crowd gathered at the noble marble entrance. People said, “What’s all the noise? What’s going on in there?”

  The king moved slowly away from the excited people. He walked in the streets a while, looked in windows. At a music store he bought a small cheap harmonica, and, concealing it in his hand, he blew a chord on it now and then. He walked down to the Seine embankment and watched the eternal fishermen with their filament lines and breadcrumb bait.

  And then, because the days were growing short, he bought a ticket on the Versailles bus and went home. He wandered about in the empty royal apartments.

  He turned out the lights and pulled a chair to the leaded window overlooking the gardens. He took the harmonica from his pocket and tried it timidly. In an hour he had worked out the scale. In two hours he produced a slow and labored “Auprés de ma blonde, qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon.”

  Pippin smiled, sitting in the dark. The palace was quiet. He played “Frére Jacques” slowly but accurately from beginning to end. The carp burped loudly in the fish ponds.

  Meanwhile, telegraph and radio and transoceanic telephones staggered under the weight of traffic.

  Dark-suited men sped to chancelleries. Private and secret wires went into action. The State Department in Washington froze French assets in the United States.

  Luxembourg mobilized.

  Monaco closed its borders and its soldiers tore the flowers from their rifle barrels.

  A Soviet submarine was sighted in San Francisco Bay.

  A squadron of Soviet destroyers gave chase to an American submarine in the Gulf of Finland.

  Sweden and Switzerland declared their neutrality while putting themselves in a position of defense.

  England growled and grumbled with delight and suggested that the royal family could find traditional sanctuary in London.

  Paris was shuttered. Students from the Sorbonne swarmed up the Eiffel Tower and ripped down the royal standard and raised the Tricolor among the wind gauges.

  At Suze-sous-Cure, the populace, led by the chief of police, burned the town hall, whereupon the police station was burned by the same populace under leadership of the mayor.

  Falaise in Normandy rounded up all strangers and guarded them.

  At Le Puy bonfires burned on the pinnacles.

  Marseille rioted courteously and looted with discrimination.

  The Pope offered arbitration.

  In Paris the gendarmes helped the rioters build barricades, using police hurdles.

  The warehouses up-Seine were broken open, and wine barrels rumbled over the cobbles.

  Partisans howled with enthusiasm and revolt. Right Centrists posted ink-wet bills saying to the bastille.

  The American Ambassador denounced revolution.

  The Kremlin, China, the satellites, and Egypt telegraphed congratulations to the heroic People’s Republic of France.

  In the dark and quiet room at Versailles, Pippin tried to play the “Memphis Blues” and found he had no sharps and flats on his instrument. He moved on to “Home on the Range,” which requires none, and was so intent on his work that he did not hear the soft knocking on the door.

  Sister Hyacinthe opened the door, looked in, and saw the king silhouetted against the window. Her low laughter made him stop his playing and peer around at her. She looked like a great black bird against the painted wall.

  “It is well to have a second trade,” she said.

  The king stood up awkwardly and knocked the moisture from the harmonica against the palm of his hand. “I didn’t hear you, Sister.”

  “No. You were too busy, Sire.”

  He said a little stiffly, “One finds oneself doing silly things.”

  “Perhaps not silly, Sire. The mind seeks curious retreats. I did not know you were here. Nearly everyone else has gone.”

  “Where have they gone, Sister?”

  “Some went to save themselves, but most have simply gone to Paris to see the fireworks. They are drawn to activity as insects are drawn to light. I myself am leaving, Sire. My Superior has ordered me to return. I am afraid, Sire, that your short reign is over. I am told that all France is in revolt.”

  “I was not ready to think about it,” said Pippin. “I suppose I have failed.”

  “I don’t know,” said the nun. “I have read your remarks to the convention. They were bold remarks, Sire. Yes, I imagine that you have failed, you personally, but I wonder whether your words have failed. I remember another who failed—whose words we live by.” She placed a small bundle on the table beside him. “A present for you, Sire, the time- honored disguise.”

  “What is it?”

  “One of my habits, a nun’s dress, the traditional means of escape. I see no reason for either hemlock or cross.”

  Pippin said, “Is it that bad? Are they really so furious?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sister Hyacinthe. “You have caught them in error. It will be very difficult for them to forgive you. Your words will be thorns in every future government. You will haunt them. Perhaps they sense that.”

  “I want to find Marie,” he said. “I thought perhaps she would come here.”

  “Maybe she will—or maybe she is not able to get back. I understand there is an uproar in Paris. When they have exhausted the fun in Paris the rioters may come here. If you intend to go, I suggest that you go tonight.”

  “Without Marie—without Clotilde?”

  “I don’t think they are in as much danger as you, Sire. If you will put on this habit, you can go with me. My convent will conceal you until it is safe to cross the frontier.”

  “I don’t want to cross the frontier, Sister. I really don’t think I am so important that they will want my life.”

  “Your Majesty,” the nun said, “they may well be afraid of each other. Every group may feel that the others might join you.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said the king. “The kingdom was a myth—it didn’t exist. And the king? What is he but a kind of national joke? I don’t believe they will dignify the kingship with murder.”

  “I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “I really don’t know.”

  He said, “If I escape or try to, I will be making myself important enough to kill. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if Louis the Sixteenth had not tried to escape—if he had walked alone and unguarded to the Jeu de Paume.”

  “You are brave, Sire.”

  “No, Sister, I am not brave. Perhaps I am stupid, but I am not brave. I do not want to be a sacrifice. I want my little house, my wife, and my telescope—nothing more. If they had not forced me to be king I would not have been forced to be kingly. It was a series of psychological accidents.”

  “I wish I could be sure that you were safe. But I must go, M’sieur. Do you know that so-and-so has cured my feet? I may not forgive him for that. You will not come with me?”

  "No, Sister.”

  “Give me your hand!”

  Sister Hyacinthe bowed over his hand and kissed it. "Good-by—Your Majesty.”
/>   When he looked up she had gone, so silently that not even the parquetry had protested.

  Pippin put the still warm harmonica against his lips and played very slowly, do-re-mi-fa-sol-la—He missed on the si, went back and corrected it, and completed with do.

  He went down the circular staircase to the garden. His footsteps sounded loud on the gravel. He strolled around to the great entrance and for a time he could not see that any guard was posted. Then a match was lighted and he saw a single guardsman seated on the ground, his back against the kiosk, his rifle leaning against the wall. The king approached.

  “Are you all alone?”

  “They all went to Paris,” the guard complained. “It isn’t fair. Why should I be picked to stay—and told—and ordered to stay? My service record will show that I have been a good soldier.”

  “Would you like a Lucky Strike?”

  “Do you have one?”

  “You may have the whole package.”

  The guard stood up suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  “I am the king.”

  “Pardon, Sire. I didn’t recognize you. I beg pardon.”

  “What is going on in Paris?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. Great doings. They say riots and all such like—maybe even looting—and here I have to sit and miss it all.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair,” said Pippin. “Why don’t you go?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. I would be court-martialed, and I have a family. I have to think of them. The captain ordered—”

  Pippin said, “Do you believe that I outrank the captain?”

  “Certainly, Sire.”

  “Then I relieve you of your duty.”

  “It can’t be just word of mouth. What proof do I have?”