France was on a peak of good fortune. Everyone admitted it. Tourists were sleeping in the flowerbeds of the better hotels.
This being so, how does one explain the little cloud that peered over the horizon in mid-September, blackened and spread during the first weeks of October, towered like a thunderhead as November approached?
It is common to explain historic events after the fact in terms of the preoccupation of the historian. Thus the economist finds his pattern in economics, the politician in politics, the medical man in pollens or parasites. Very few if any historians have looked for causes simply in how people feel about things. Is it not true that in the United States the eras of greatest peace and prosperity have been also the periods of greatest uneasiness and discontent? Is it not also true that in these weeks of France’s fruition there began to develop and grow among all classes a restlessness, a nervousness, a rustle of fear?
If this should seem unreasonable, even unbelievable, consider to yourself how on a lovely sunny day a man will say to his neighbor, “Probably rain tomorrow.” How in a cold, damp winter the general opinion is that it will be a hot, dry summer. Who has not heard a farmer, looking at his abundant crop, complain, “There won’t be any market”?
I do not think the historian need look any further in this. It is the tendency of human beings to distrust good fortune. In evil times we are too busy protecting ourselves. We are equipped for this. The one thing our species is helpless against is good fortune. It first puzzles, then frightens, then angers, and finally destroys us. Our basic conviction was put into words by a great and illiterate third baseman.
“Everything in life,” he said, “is seven to five against.”
The peasant, counting his profits, found time to wonder how much he had lost to the wholesaler. The retail merchant could be heard to curse under his breath when the wholesaler turned his back.
This climate of suspicion on an individual level did not remain there. For example, the Foreign Policy Committee of the United States Senate, hearing of the Russian purchase of four tank cars of French perfume, requested samples from the Secret Service and put them in the hands of qualified scientists to find what offensive qualities—explosive, poisonous, or hypnotic—might lurk in “Quatre-Vingt Fleurs” or the newest product, “L’Eau d’Eau.”
On the other hand, Russian operatives secretly inspected a shipment of plastic helicopters designed for the toy shops of Paris.
A troop of French Boy Scouts, drilling with quarter-staffs, was photographed by the silent services of four nations and the pictures sent home for evaluation.
Worst badgered of all were the speleologists, who found that they could not be alone and unobserved even in the deepest caves.
Suspicion of France was on the rise throughout the world. And in France there were gusts of nervousness. Luxembourg’s addition of eight soldiers to its standing army caused a hurried meeting in the Quai d’Orsay.
In the provinces, people glanced nervously in the direction of Paris. In Paris it was whispered that the provinces were growing increasingly restless.
Armed robbery increased. Juvenile delinquency skyrocketed.
When on September 17 the police discovered in a cellar on the lie Saint-Louis a cache of buried Communist arms, a ripple of terror spread through France. The police perhaps were not sufficiently explicit. They did not make public that the arms had been hidden by the Commune of 1871, that the cap-and-ball rifles and ancient bayonets were not only obsolete but heavily rusted.
And while this cloud was rising and darkening—what of the king?
It is generally agreed that within a short time of his coronation the king began to change. Such a thing was to be expected, or at least to be anticipated.
Let us draw a parallel. Consider a strain of bird dogs, say pointers, developed, selected, and trained for a thousand generations for the trait of hunting. Then imagine a morganatic marriage and a resulting intermixture of blood until finally we have a puppy of this mingling in a pet-shop window. He is taken to live in a city apartment, walked twice a day on leash, sniffing his way from automobile tire to trash basket to fire hydrant. His nose is accustomed to perfume, gasoline, and mothballs. His toenails are clipped; his skin scented with pine soap; his food taken from a tin can.
This dog, growing up, is trained perhaps to carry the morning paper from the apartment door, to sit, to lie down, to shake hands, to beg, to bring his masters slippers. He is disciplined to stay clear of the hors-d’oeuvre tray, to control his bladder. The only birds he has ever known are fat waddling pigeons, or frantic sparrows in the street; the only love a sneer from a passing pekinese.
Let us then suppose that in his prime of life this dog—the descendant of greatness—is taken on a picnic in the country, to a pleasant place beside a little stream. In the war against sand and ants and the winds which whip up the comers of the tablecloth, our dog is forgotten for a moment.
He smells the lusciousness of running water and strolls to the streamside and drinks deeply of a fluid uninfused with germicides. An ancient feeling fills his breast. He moves along a little path, sniffing at leaves and brown tree-trunks and at grass. He pauses at a track where a rabbit has crossed. The fresh wind teases his skin.
Suddenly an emotion falls upon him: an ecstacy, a fullness, like a memory. To his nose comes a scent unknown but remembered. He shivers and makes a little whining sound, then moves uncertainly toward the magic.
Then hypnosis falls upon him. His shoulders hunch a little. His thin tail straightens. One foot creeps after its fellow. His neck stretches forward until nose and head and spine and tail become one line. His right front paw rises. He freezes. He does not breathe. His body is like a compass needle, or like a gun pointing at a covey of quail hidden in the underbrush.
In February 19—a gentle, inquisitive man lived in a small house in Avenue de Marigny, together with his daughter and his pleasant wife, his balcony and his telescope, his rubbers and umbrella, and his briefcase always. He had dentists, and insurance, and a little stock in the Crédit Lyonnais. A vineyard in Auxerre . . .
Then without warning this little man was made king. Who of us who do not have the blood can know what happened at Reims when the royal crown descended? Did Paris look the same to the king as it had to the amateur astronomer? How did the word “France” sound in the ears of the king?—and the word “People” in the ears of the king?
It would be strange if ancient mechanisms failed to operate. Perhaps the king did not know what was happening. Perhaps he, like the pointer, responded to forgotten stimuli. It seems undeniable that the kingdom created a king.
Once he became the king he was alone, set apart and alone, and this is a part of being a king. Monarchy created a king.
Uncle Charlie had been to Versailles once in his life when as a child in black smock and white collar he marched in a ragged line of smocked school children through halls and bedchambers, ballrooms and cellars of that national monument, on order of the Minister of Public Instruction.
At that time Charles conceived a hatred and horror for the royal palace from which he never recovered. He remembered the cracked and painted paneling, the squeaking parquetry, the velvet ropes, the drafty halls, as a kind of nightmare.
It was, therefore, a surprise to the king when Uncle Charlie called on him in the royal apartments, and even a greater surprise that he was accompanied by Tod Johnson.
Charles gazed about the painted room. The floors screamed with shrunken pain when he moved. A blanket was tacked over the windows to keep the chill autumn winds out, and a log fire burned in the great fireplace. The gilt clocks sat on their marble tables and the stiff chairs stood against the wall as Charles remembered them.
Uncle Charlie said, “I must speak to you, my child.”
Tod broke in. “I read in the Paris Herald Tribune that you had a mistress, sir. Art Buchwald said it.”
The king raised his eyebrows.
Uncle Charlie said quickly, “I am teaching
Tod my business. He’s opening a branch in Beverly Hills.”
“You can sell them anything as long as the price is high,” said Tod. “Where do you keep your mistress, sir?”
“I have made some changes,” the king said, “but in the matter of a mistress I had to compromise. The feeling was too strong. She is a nice little woman, I am told. Does her job well.”
“You were told, sir? Haven’t you seen her?”
“No,” said the king, “I haven’t. The queen insists that I ask her for an aperitif one day soon. Everyone says she is very nice; dresses well—neat, pleasant. It’s just a form, but in this business forms are very important, particularly if one has plans.”
“Aha,” said Uncle Charlie. “Plans. That’s just what I was afraid of. That’s why I came.”
“What do you mean?” the king asked mildly.
“Listen, my child. Do you think your secret is a secret? All Paris, all France knows.”
“Knows what?”
“My dear nephew, did you think a mechanic’s jumper and a false mustache was a disguise? Do you think, when you applied for a job at Citroen and stood all day at the gates talking to the workmen, that you were actually incognito? And when you went through the old buildings on the Left Bank, pretending to be an inspector, tapping on walls, looking down drains—did you imagine that anyone thought you were an inspector?”
“I am amazed,” said the king. “I had the cap, the badge.”
“And it’s not only that,” cried Uncle Charlie. “You’ve been out in the vineyards, pretending to be a vine-dresser. You have driven the concessionaires at Les Halles insane with your questioning.” He mimicked, “ ‘What do you pay for carrots? What do you sell them for? What does the wholesaler pay the farmer for them?’ And the working man: ‘What rent do you pay? What are your wages? How much do you pay to the union? What benefits do you get? What is your average cost for food and rent for the week?’ I think there you pretended to be a reporter from L’Humanite.”
“I had a press card,” said the king.
“Pippin,” demanded Uncle Charlie, “what are you up to? I warn you! People are growing nervous.”
The king tried to pace the floor until the squealing of the inlaid wood stopped him. He removed his pince-nez and straddled it on the forefinger of his left hand.
“I was trying to learn. There are so many things to be done. Did you know, Uncle Charlie, that twenty per cent of the rented buildings of Paris are a danger to health as well as a threat to safety? Only last week a family in Montmartre was nearly smothered with falling plaster. Do you know that the wholesaler takes thirty per cent of the selling price of those same carrots and the retailer takes forty per cent? And do you know what that leaves for the farmer who raises a bunch of carrots?”
“Stop!” cried Uncle Charlie. “Stop right there! You are playing with fire. Do you want barricades in the streets again? Do you wish Paris in flames? What makes you think you can reduce the numbers of the captains of police?”
“Nine out of ten of them do nothing,” said the king.
“Oh, my child,” said Uncle Charlie. “My poor bewildered child. You are not going to fall into the old trap, are you? Study the British. When the present Duke of Windsor was king he went down into a coal mine just once and the resulting shock not only caused questions in Parliament but nearly lost the prime minister a vote of confidence. Pippin, my dear, dear child, I order you to desist!”
The king sat down in a little chair and it became a throne.
“I did not ask to be king,” he said, “but I am king and I find this dear, rich, productive France tom by selfish factions, fleeced by greedy promoters, deceived by parties. I find that there are six hundred ways of avoiding taxes if you are rich enough—sixty-five methods of raising rent in controlled rental areas. The riches of France, which should have some kind of distribution, are gobbled up. Everyone robs everyone, until a level is reached where there is nothing left to steal. No new houses are built and the old ones are falling to pieces. And on this favored land the maggots are feeding.”
“Pippin, stop it!”
“I am a king, Uncle Charlie. Please do not forget that. I know now why confusion in government is not only tolerated but encouraged. I have learned. A confused people can make no clear demands.
“Do you know what a French workman or peasant says when he refers to the government? He calls it ‘them’ They are doing this. They, they, they. Something set apart, nameless, unidentifiable, and so unattackable. Anger dwindles down to grumbling. How can you force redress from something which does not exist?
“And consider the intellectuals, the dried-up minds. The writers in the past burned the name ‘France’ on the world. Do you know what they are doing now? They’re sitting in huddled misery, building a philosophy of despair, while the painters, with few exceptions, paint apathy and jealous anarchy.”
Uncle Charlie sat on the edge of one of the brocaded chairs and he rested his head in his cupped hands and he swayed from side to side like a mourner at a funeral.
Tod Johnson stood at the fireplace, warming his back. He asked quietly, “Have you got the capital and organization to change it?”
“He’s got nothing,” Uncle Charlie moaned. “Not one person. Not one sou.”
“I have the Crown,” said Pippin.
“They’ll have you in the tumbril. Don't think the guillotine is beyond recall. You’ll fail before you start. They’ll destroy you.”
“You use the word yourself.” said Pippin. “They, they, the nameless they. It seems to me that even though the king may know he will fail, the king must try.”
“Not so, my child. Not so. There have been many kings who simply sat back and—”
“I don’t believe it,” said the king. “I believe they tried, whatever was said of them. They must have tried; every one of them must have tried.”
“How about a war?” Charlie suggested.
The king chuckled. “I know you have my welfare at heart, dear Uncle.”
“Come on, Tod,” said Charles Martel. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I want to talk to Tod,” said Pippin. “Good night, dear Uncle. You can go down that staircase in the comer and avoid the aristocrats. Creep out through the garden. Give the Royal Guard a cigarette!”
After Charles had gone, Pippin raised a comer of the blanket and peered out. The chill night was full of frog sounds and the carp were burping and spluttering in the ponds. He saw his unfortunate uncle moving along the path, his arm clutched by an elderly nobleman who spoke earnestly and loudly in Gothic type into Charles’s ear.
The king sighed and dropped the blanket and turned back to Tod. “Such a pessimist,” said Pippin. “He never married, you know. He always said that by the time he knew the woman well enough to marry her, he knew better.”
“He's an operator,” said Tod. “But you know he didn’t really want to enlarge his business. I had to guarantee it wouldn’t be any work or trouble to him.”
The king pressed the edge of the blanket against the chill from the window. “The frames are shrunk,” he said. “Marie hates to have me put the blanket up—but I get cold.”
“How about plastic wood?” said Tod. “It’s a kind of putty.”
Pippin observed, “Modern repairs for an old structure. Now that’s one of the reasons I asked you to wait. Perhaps my memory is a little cloudy about our last meeting.”
“But sir-”
“It was very pleasant and it did help me. I believe you lectured me about American corporations—”
“I don’t know much about them, sir, but, you see, our family is a corporation and so naturally—”
“I understand. Now your government is a democracy—a system of checks and balances. Is that not right?”
“Right, sir,” said Tod.
“And within that structure you have great corporations which themselves have somewhat the nature of governments. Is that not also right?”
“Yo
u’re ahead of me, sir, but I guess that’s right. You’ve been burning brain juice.”
“Thank you. I guess I have. Is it not so that there is in a corporation a, shall we say, flexibility, one does not find in your government? I mean, could not a change of policy be carried out quickly and effectively in a corporation, let us say by an order from the chairman of the board, without consulting all the stockholders, an order which is presumed to be for the good and profit of the shareholders?”
Tod regarded the sovereign with speculative eyes. “I see what you’re getting at, sir.”
“What would be the procedure?”
“You think you might get farther as chairman of the board than as king?”
“I am asking, perhaps, a leading question.”
“Well, let me think, sir. If it was a big change the chairman would put the question up to the board members, and if they agreed the order would go out. If they split, they’d have to call on the stockholders.”
“I guess that’s out of the question, then,” said the king. “I can’t get even two of our people to agree.”
“You see, sir,” said Tod, “each member of the board rep resents a certain amount of stock. If there’s a rhubarb, the members vote proxies from the stockholders. The one with the most proxies gets control. Then the unions must be consulted if they have a beef.”
“Oh, dear! Even for a program obviously good and desirable?”
“Yes, sir. You might say particularly then.”
The king sighed. “Apparently a corporation isn’t much different from a government.”
“Well, it’s a little different. It depends on how the stock is held. All the stock in our corporation is held by our family. Remember when we talked about selling titles in America?”
“Through a haze I remember it.”
“There’s a fortune in it,” cried Tod. “Why, sir, it might solve this proxy business. Why don’t you just put it in my hands? I can get a hundred thousand dollars for a little old knighthood. I’ll bet I can sell a dukedom for anything I want to ask.”