The Short Reign of Pippin IV Page 8

  “My poor child,” said Uncle Charlie. “I did not mean to hurt you. Wait! I will get another bottle. This time you shall have it without water.”

  Tod watched the king sip his brandy and ruddy relaxation come over him. The tremble went out of his hands and lips and he loosened his muscles to the embrace of the velvet chairs.

  “Thank you,” he said to Uncle Charlie. “This is exquisite cognac.”

  “It should be. It has been waiting around since the Treaty of Ghent. Will you have a little more? You will notice I have not offered it to these commoners.”

  Tod Johnson picked Clotilde’s hand from her lap and held it between both of his.

  “I’ve been worried, sir,” he began uneasily. “You know I’ve been dating your daughter. I like her. Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t give a—I mean I’d just go ahead—but, you see, sir, I like you too, and, well—I want to ask you—“

  Pippin smiled at him. “Thank you,” he said. “I guess one of the hard things about being king is that no one can afford to like the king, nor can the king dare to like anyone. You are worried because Clotilde is a royal princess, is that not so?”

  “Well, yes, and you know all the trouble they have had in England. I don’t want to hurt her and, well—I’m—I don’t want to get hurt myself.”

  Clotilde broke in angrily. “Toddy, is it that you place yourself to absorb a powder?”

  “I don’t think I understand,” said Pippin. “What is this powder?”

  Tod laughed. “Clotilde is taking a Berlitz course in American slang. I think her instructors are a little confused about it too. She means am I winding up for a run-out.”

  “Preparing to say adieu,” Uncle Charlie filled in.

  The king asked kindly, “And are you?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. Now what I want to ask you is this: I’ve been reading a little. The French kings have always observed the Salic Law, is that not so? And this law says that women cannot succeed. Isn’t that true also? And therefore it is not so important to the state who noblewomen marry? Is that so?”

  Pippin nodded approvingly. “You have read properly. That is true up to point. But in one place you are in error, and this has nothing to do with the Salic Law. Women of great houses have always been used as magnets for other great houses, along with their lands and their holdings and their titles.”

  “Kind of catalysts for mergers,” Tod suggested.

  Uncle Charlie broke in. “The Salic Law is not a law. It is only a custom brought to us by Germans. Don’t give it a thought.”

  Pippin said, “My uncle, by your definition our ancestors were Germans too—Héristal, Arnulf.” He turned back to Tod. “My young friend, I don’t know what the decision will be about succession. Clotilde is my only child. I am not prepared to divorce my wife for the sake of an heir, and my wife has passed—But you understand. It is quite possible that public pressure may force Clotilde to be a breeding ground for kings. Custom, particularly meaningless custom, is generally more powerful than law. Would you be content to leave the—the powder untaken until we see? By the way, does this refer to gunpowder or to medicinal powder?”

  “Darned if I know,” said Tod. “The only people who try to find out what slang means are the ones who can’t use it. You mean, sir, that I should stick around a while?”

  “Exactly,” said the king. “You see, a second function of nice-looking noblewomen was to bring money into the family.”

  “If you’re thinking of Petaluma, forget it,” said Tod. “If I know my father, he’ll have it tied up in trust funds and things.”

  “But you see,” said Uncle Charlie, “his reputation for having it will make you not an undesirable suitor. The French resent more than anything else being fools. Marrying a rich man, no matter what the drawbacks, has never been considered foolish in France.”

  “I see. You’re covering for me. Thanks. Make me kind of like part of the family—for a while, at least. That’s why I asked in the first place. I know you’re the king and you’re older than I am but you haven’t had much practice kinging. You’ve got a great little thing here, great, but it can blow up in your face if you don’t play your cards right.”

  “This has happened in the past,” said Pippin. “And not so very long ago either.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about that, sir, now that I’m a—you might say apprentice—member of the family.”

  Clotilde cried, “Nots! Politics. You are a droopys. I am a bore.”

  Tod laughed shortly. “Maybe she’s right,” he said. “They say that Americans talk sex in the office and business in the bedroom. I’ll take her out violin-dodging, but I would like to talk to you.”

  “I should be glad,” said Pippin. “Will you come to Versailles?”

  “I’ve been out there,” said Tod. ‘‘It’s crawling with freeloaders. Tell you what, sir. Why don’t you come to my suite at the George Cinq?”

  The king said, “One of the drawbacks of my office is that I can’t go where I wish. The management would have to be told, the secret police, the newspapers privately informed. Your suite would be searched and men placed on the roofs across the way. It’s not very much fun to be royalty.”

  Tod said, “Not at the George Cinq. There hasn’t been a Frenchman there in years. Besides, Ava Gardner and H. S. H. Kelly are in residence. You couldn’t raise an eyebrow. It might be the most private place in France for a French king.”

  “Perhaps so,” said Pippin. “I have even thought of disguises.”

  “My God,” Uncle Charlie said, “you’d be so bad at it. You have absolutely no talent as an actor.”

  The queen drew her chair close to the chaise longue where Sister Hyacinthe sat in pious contemplation.

  “I’ve always told you Pippin was vague,” she said. “He was bad enough with his telescope, but he’s worse now. He paces—with his hands behind his back—and he mutters. When I speak to him, he doesn’t hear. And he is miserably unhappy. There’s something on his mind. I wish you’d talk to him, Suzanne. You were always good with men—they say.”

  “They say,” Sister Hyacinthe observed. “But maybe not good enough. What would I say to him?”

  “Find out what’s bothering him—”

  “Maybe just being king is bothering him.”

  “Nonsense,” said Marie. “Anybody would want to be king.”

  Marie steered her husband to Sister Hyacinthe’s cell. “This is my old friend,” she said, and then cleverly, “Oh! There’s something I forgot. Excuse me for a moment.” And she went out.

  The king looked casually at the nun.

  “Sit down, Sire.”

  “I haven’t been very dutiful toward the Church. Since I was a child,” he said.

  “You might say I haven’t either. I was twenty years on the musical stage.”

  “I thought you were familiar.”

  “In this costume? I am complimented, M’sieur. Very few ever looked at my face.”

  He tried for gallantry. “Then there must be incredible beauties . . .”

  “Under this habit? Thank you. I went to school with Madame. You may have heard her speak of me as Mademoiselle Lescault. I don’t think she will have mentioned my profession. Marie is one of those fortunate people who forbid existence to matters they do not approve of. I envy her this gift.”

  “My wife is remarkable in many ways, but not for subtlety. It is true that quite often I do not know what she is up to but I have never any doubt when she is up to something ”

  Suzanne put her head back and closed her eyes. “You wonder why she brought you here and left you here?”

  “I imagine that is what I wonder.”

  “She feels that you are uneasy, restless.”

  “I have often been uneasy and nearly always restless. This has not troubled her before. She attacked it with sauces and small delicious sweets.”

  “That is the housewife’s remedy. I hope it cured you, or at least that you said it did.”<
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  “I hope I tried, Sister.”

  “You are amiable, M’sieur. Could you tell me why you are uneasy now? Something I can twist around for Marie? She worries about you.”

  The king said, “I would help you if I could. Many of the causes I do not know myself. I did not ask to be king. I was picked like a berry from a bush and placed in a position where there are many precedents, nearly all of them bad and all of them unsuccessful.”

  “You cannot, like a berry, let happen what will happen?” “No,” said the king, “it is the misfortune of men to want to do a thing well, even a thing they do not want to do at all. You will not believe this, Sister, but once I wanted to dance well. It was ridiculous.”

  “You are afraid you will make mistakes?”

  “My dear Sister, the path is solid with mistakes. Even the best of kings failed.”

  “I am sorry for you.”

  “No, you must not be sorry. My uncle told me I had the choice of cutting my wrists. I did not take advantage of it.”

  Sister Hyacinthe said, “There have been kings who put the whole business in others’ hands—the ministry, the council, the team—and went about enjoying themselves.”

  “I think, Sister, that was only after they had given up. There is a strong pressure on a king to be a king. The purpose of a king is to rule and the purpose of rule is to increase the well-being of the kingdom.”

  “It is a trap,” said Sister Hyacinthe, “like all other virtue—it is a trap. Where virtue is involved it is very difficult to tell oneself the truth, M’sieur. There are two kinds of virtue. One is passionate ambition and the other simply a desire for the peace which comes from not giving anyone any trouble.”

  “You are thoughtful, Sister,” said the king, and she knew from the brightness of his eyes that she had captured his attention.

  “I have not been without this problem,” she said. “When after twenty years of standing nude on a stage, inspiring dreams, I hope, in lonely men, I took the veil, it would have been very easy to assume a holy impulse—I could recite you all the ways of saying it. But I knew that I was simply tired.”

  “You are honest.”

  “I don’t know. Having admitted that my impulse was less than pure, I found in myself kindnesses, understandings, that even I can find no fault with—by-products of the initial laziness—I didn’t even have to worry about virtue once I took the weight off my feet.”

  “How about the ritual—the rising, kneeling, reciting of magic religious formulae?”

  “It is no more than breathing after a little while. Easier to do than not to do.”

  The king got up and scratched his elbows, walked around his chair, sat down.

  “It seems a big jump,” he said, “from sinner to—saint.”

  Sister Hyacinthe laughed. “Sin is difficult to isolate in oneself,” she observed. “In others it is easy to discern, but in ourselves it has a way of being based on necessity or good intentions. Please don’t repeat this to Marie—”

  “Pardon? Oh! I don’t think it would occur to me.”

  “Marie is a wife—that’s different.”

  “She is very kind to me,” said the king.

  Sister Hyacinthe regarded him with amazement. “I hope that was said only in courtesy,” she said, “not as a truth.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “There is no kindness in women,” said the nun. “There is love, but that is a subjective thing. If I had ever married I might have convinced myself otherwise.” She regarded him narrowly. “What is the best thing that ever happened to you, Sire?”

  “Why-”

  “If you can tell me, perhaps I can tell you what it is you are missing and mourning for.”

  “Why, I guess—I guess it was when the comet appeared in my reflector and I knew I was the first human ever to see it. I was—I was filled with wonder.”

  “They had no right to make you king,” she said. “A king only repeats old mistakes, and if he knows this in advance—I understand now, Sire—but I can’t help you. You didn’t cut your wrists and now it is too late. A comet. Yes, I can see . . .”

  “I like you, Sister,” said the king. ‘Will you permit me to call on you now and then?”

  “If I were sure your feeling was purely intellectual . . .”

  “But Sister—”

  “I should forbid it,” said Sister Hyacinthe, and her laughter was reminiscent of the ladies’ dressing room backstage. “You are a good man, Sire, and a good man draws women as cheese draws mice.”

  One of the great burdens on the king was his lack of privacy. He was followed, fawned on, protected, stared at. He had considered the use of disguises in the manner of Haroun-al-Raschid. At times he locked himself in his room simply to get away from the eyes and voices of the people who surrounded him.

  At about this time he made a happy accidental discovery. The queen, finding it necessary to clean his office, sent him out until she could get it swept and dusted. He was wearing his corduroy jacket, a little frayed at the elbows, flannel trousers in need of a press, and espadrilles. He slipped some papers in a briefcase and went to the gardens to finish his work. As he sat on the coping of a fish pond, a gardener approached him.

  “It is not permitted to sit here, M’sieur ” said the gardener.

  The king moved to a place in the shade on a great stairway. Immediately a gendarme touched his elbow.

  “The visiting hours are from two to five, M’sieur. Please go to the entrance and await a guide.”

  Pippin gaped at him. He gathered up his papers and sauntered to the entrance. He paid his fee for the guided tour. He bought postcards and peered with the crowd into rooms guarded by velvet ropes.

  All through the palace he saw servants and nobility and ministers of state and not one of them looked at the man in the corduroy jacket and espadrilles. Even the queen bustled by and did not notice him as the tour stared after her.

  In delight he followed the tourists back to the entrance and boarded the chartered bus for Paris. His heart was light. To test himself thoroughly he strolled up the Champs Elysées and no one saw him.

  He took a table at the Select and ordered a Pernod and water and he watched the passing throng. He listened to tourist talk, and his freedom grew on him like wings.

  He indulged himself in a mildly anti-monarchist argument with a correspondent from Life magazine, who retorted, “I suppose the king hasn’t yet been able to clean out all the Communists.”

  Pippin sneered, borrowed a cigarette, and strolled across the Champs Elysées, past Fouquet’s, and into the Avenue George V, past the Hotel Prince de Galles, and to the entrance of the Hotel George V itself. As he entered the lobby, he was stopped by an official.

  “You wish something?”

  “I wish to see Mr. Tod Johnson.”

  “You are delivering something? Leave it at the—”

  “I have his briefcase,” said Pippin. “He has asked me to hand it to him personally.”

  “The hall porter—” began the official, his eyes fastened on the espadrilles.

  “Please call Mr. Tod Johnson’s suite, M’sieur. Tell him that Mr. King has brought his briefcase from Uncle Charlie’s Gallery.”

  Tod welcomed Pippin at the door to his apartment, tipped the suspicious guide, and clapped the king on the back. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “Isn’t it wonderful? I had a hard time getting in,” said the king.

  Tod said, “I have a friend who claims that, if you want to hide, get a job as a waiter in a good restaurant. No one ever looks at a waiter. Sit down, sir. Can I get you a drink?”

  “A—how do you call it?—mar—mart—?”

  “Martini?”

  “Exactly, a martini,” said the king happily. “Do you know, a tourist nearly had me arrested for lése majesté.”

  “Won’t they be looking for you, sir?”

  “I hope so,” said the king. “But they won’t look here. You said yourself th
at the French do not come here. . . . Now that, my friend, is a better one than my uncle makes.”

  “He can’t bring himself to use enough ice,” said Tod. “One of my own guards ejected me from my own garden,” said the king happily.

  “I guess people see what they expect to see. They don’t expect a bareheaded king with a bald spot. Did you think of it yourself, sir?”

  “Oh, no! It was an accident. You see, Marie wanted to clean my little office. And then a gardener wouldn’t let me sit down on a coping.”

  “You aren’t insulted?”

  “How do you mean, insulted? I’ve never been happier.”

  “Well, I know some great stars of Hollywood who disguise themselves with dark glasses and pulled-down hats. They’re pretty upset if no one recognizes them. Then there’s the owner of three of our biggest magazines. He has a real hatred for publicity but he just happens to get photographed all the time. Take my father, now—”

  Pippin broke in. “I wanted to talk to you about your father.”

  “Had a long letter from him this morning. He doesn’t approve of me going around with Bugsy, with the princess.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  “No. He’s a snob. You see, he’s a self-made man and there’s no snob like a self-made man. They say he only looks up to his maker. The second generation can relax a little—even be democratic.

  “My father’s letter is funny. He’s interested in what is going on here. He says for me to tell you that you’ve got a real chance here, if you play your cards right. But he doesn’t believe you will.”

  “Do you think he would come here to advise me?”

  “Oh, no!” said Tod. “He’s a snob. He might come over later and criticize. There’s a dividend here.” And Tod filled the king’s glass.

  “I came to see you because I want to ask you some questions. It is true that at first your father actually raised chickens?” '

  “Sure he did, and he hates chickens.”