Pippin got up and went to the stove and lifted down his damp and steaming clothes from the drying cords.
“They’re not dry yet.”
“I know—but I must go.”
“You going to report me to somebody for something?” “No,” said the king. “You’ve answered my question. And—by God, I’ll do it! A man can’t stand being extinct. Perhaps I’ll do it badly, but IT1 do it.”
“What are you talking about? You haven’t had that much wine.”
Pippin pulled on his clammy clothes. “I’ll send you some wine,” he said. “I owe it to you.”
“For what?”
“You have told me. To be guillotined a man must have done something to make him worthy of the guillotine. The guillotine or—or the Cross requires either a thief or—Thank you, my puller-out-of-things.”
The king strode out of the shack and walked rapidly through the forest to the thicket by the roadside where his scooter was hidden.
In the royal apartment the queen rubbed lemon oil on a polished tabletop.
“How many times must I say that a glass should not be set down without something under it?”
The king put his arms around her and drew her close.
“What are you doing? Pippin, you’re wet! Pippin, look at your face-your eye! What have you done?”
Tripped over the coping and fell in the carp pond ” You’ll never learn to look where you’re going. Pippin! Someone might come in- M’sieur-they don’t knock.”
On one point all ministers, delegates, nobles, and academicians were agreed. The opening of the convention must be regal. Too many of the recently honored had not yet been able to display publicly their robes and feathers, hats, medals, rosettes, and braid. The king was requested to attend the opening in state and deliver a short and tasteful address from the throne. A number of sample speeches were sent to him, based on the cautious sentiments of British royalty.
The King of France should accept the love and support of his subjects, should mention his own love both for his subjects and for the Kingdom of France, should recognize the glorious past and anticipate a glorious future. He should then retire and leave the making of the constitution, or rather of the Code Pippin, to the delegates.
Pippin agreed to this, but then the argument about costumes raged for two hours. The committee was large, and its members insisted on standing, although the sovereign suggested that they sit. Furthermore, two elderly noblemen uncomfortably wore their hats, a right their forebears had been granted by Francis I—to remain covered in the presence of the king.
Pippin IV said acidly, “It was my impression and my hope, gentlemen, that this coming deliberation was for the purpose of devising a constitution, a body of laws dealing with ordinary things in the lives of ordinary people. Why is it necessary that we turn it into a costume party reminiscent of those given by South American millionaires in Venice? Why may we all not wear sober clothing of our own time?”
A Socialist and a nobleman fought for the floor and the Socialist won, no less a Socialist than Honnête Jean Veauvache, now Comte des Quatre Chats. M. le Comte replied for the whole committee, as the nodding of heads indicated.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “there is nothing ordinary about law. On the contrary, it is a mystical matter, in most minds closely related to religion. And, as the dispensers of holy law find vestments necessary, so do the servants of civil law. Remark, Sire, that our judges preside in gowns and caps. Think of English judges, who require themselves not only to sit in robes and wigs, regardless of the heat of the weather, but even to carry nosegays of flowers, once designed to cover the smell of the people, but not abandoned in a less odoriferous period. And in America, Sire, the most irascibly democratic of nations, where panoply in government is forbidden and where the chief of state is required to be the worst dressed of all—even there, I am told, the ordinary people, feeling robbed, join secret organizations, where regularly they wear crowns and robes and ermine, and speak in rituals of antiquity which give them solemn solace even though they do not understand the words.
“No, Majesty, the common people not only do not want commonness; they will not permit it.
“I ask you to remember Louis Philippe, the so-called Bourgeois King, who dared to walk the streets in ordinary clothing and moreover to carry an umbrella. He was banished from France by an outraged people.
“Finally, Sire, the flower of France will be sitting and their ladies will be in the galleries. They have purchased new robes—even coronets. They are not to be denied the right to wear them. These may seem small things, but actually they are very large and very important. And if to this assembly should come the king, dressed in a two-button suit and a Sulk tie, carrying his papers in a briefcase, I shudder to think of the reaction. Indeed I feel that such a king would be laughed out of office.”
The committee was nodding as one man, and when Honnete Jean finished, the members were constrained to applaud.
He was followed by a venerable Academician, a man whose name and whose wisdom are bywords in the world.
“I wish to second the words of Monsieur le Comte,” said the master, “but I wish to go one step further. Majesty may do almost anything it wishes save one. The king may not permit himself to be ridiculous. It is the one thing which will inevitably destroy him. In my youth, Sire, it was my good fortune to study under a very learned man, but also a man of huge understanding. At one time he told me the following: 'If/ he said, ‘the greatest intellect in the world should be called before the fifty next greatest minds in the world to discuss a problem of such importance that the earth’s existence depended on it, and if that greatest man in his preoccupation had neglected to button his fly, the meeting not only would not hear a word he said—its members would be unable to control their giggles/ ”
The king had his pince-nez riding on his forefinger.
“My lords,” he said, “I do not wish to be obstructive. Neither have I any desire to inhibit you in your new wardrobes and those of your wives, but at the coronation, in all that stuff, I felt a fool; moreover, I must have looked a fool.”
“Not so, Your Majesty,” they chorused.
“Well, anyway, I was so hot I couldn’t breathe.”
Le Comte des Quatre Chats held up his hand again to be
recognized.
“It would be sufficient, Sire, if you would appear in the uniform, say, of a Grand Marshal of France.”
“But I am not a Grand Marshal.”
“The king, Sire, is whatever he wishes to appoint himself.”
“But I have no such uniform.”
“There are the museums, Sire. Surely Les Invalides can furnish a Grand Marshal’s uniform.”
The king was silent for a moment, and then he said, “If I agree to this, gentlemen, will you permit that I arrive from Versailles by automobile rather than by the state coach? You don’t know how uncomfortable that coach can be.”
After a whispered conference it was so agreed, but Honnête Jean said finally, “We, your loyal servants, Sire, would be pleased if during your address—only during—you would permit the purple robe of royalty to be dropped over your shoulders.”
“Oh, Lord!” said Pippin. “All right, I’ll agree, but only during the speech.”
And it was so concluded.
On the afternoon of December 4, while the palace of Versailles was a madhouse of scurrying noblemen, trying on, shortening, lengthening, mending, and walking before mirrors in the robes of their station, the king in his corduroy jacket and crash helmet walked to the guard post at the gate, winked at the captain of the guard, with whom he had struck up a friendship, and passed into his hands a package of Lucky Strikes.
Pippin knew that the captain was in the service of the Minister of Secret Police—but then, he was also in the service of the Socialist party, the British Embassy, and the Peruvian Purchasing Agency, and half-owner of a patisserie in Charonne, just off the Boulevard Voltaire. Capitaine Pasmouches reported to each of
his clients about all the others, but he genuinely liked the king and he genuinely liked Lucky Strikes.
"This way, M’sieur,” he said, and escorted the helmeted and goggled Pippin to the guards’ house, where the motor scooter reposed under a tarpaulin. “Will you be going near Charonne, M’sieur?” he asked.
“I can, I suppose,” said the king.
“Could you carry a note to my wife at the Patisserie Pasmouches?”
Gladly,” said the king. “It’s a little out of my way, of course.” And as he pocketed the folded paper he said, “Of course if there should be inquiries—”
“I have seen nothing, M’sieur,” said the captain. “Even to M’sieur the Minister, I have seen nothing.”
The king kicked the starter and mounted the scooter. “It is plain to see that you carry a marshal’s baton in your boot, my Captain,” he said.
“You are amiable, M’sieur,” said Capitaine Pasmouches.
It was very considerably out of his way, but the afternoon was pleasant and sunny, a good day for riding and a relief from the towering nonsense of Versailles. The king presented the note to Madame Pasmouches, who treated him to a cup of coffee and an assortment of petits fours.
After compliments given and taken, the king scooted in the howling traffic of the Place de la Bastille, gunned along the Rue de Rivoli, crossed at the Pont Neuf, and turned into the Rue de Seine.
The shutters of Charles Martel were closed and so was the door. Pippin banged on the door with his fist, and no response came from within. He moved aside and waited patiently until the door opened a crack, then placed his toe firmly in the opening.
Uncle Charlie complained, “Can’t a man have privacy even of a gallant nature?”
“I don’t believe it,” said the king.
“Oh! Come on in. What is it that you want?”
The king slipped into the darkened gallery and saw that the walls were bare and that large wooden boxes stood about, packed and ready to be nailed shut.
“You are going on a trip, my Uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t you invite me to sit down? Why are you angry with me?”
“Come in, then. The chairs are covered. You will have to sit on a box.”
“You are running away?”
“I don’t trust you,” said Uncle Charlie. “I can put two and two together. You’re up to something. And you will lose, my child. I don’t see any reason why I also should lose because of your foolishness.”
“I came for advice.”
“Then I'll give it to you. Go and be a king in a proper way and stop sticking your nose into business and—and government, where it isn’t wanted. That’s my advice to you. If you would take it, I could unpack.”
“You told me once that I was a patsy—a royal patsy. A patsy is a kind of pawn, is it not, something to be used as long as possible and then lost without grieving?”
“I suppose so. But when a pawn tries to do the work of government—then the pawn is a fool.”
Pippin seated himself on a crate. “Will you give me a glass of brandy?”
“I don’t have any.”
“What is that bottle I see back there?”
“That is marc.”
“Perhaps, then, a thimbleful of marc. You must be terrified, my Uncle, to have lost your courtesy.”
“I am terrified. And I’m afraid for you.”
The king said, “A king can move one square forward, backward, sideways, aslant, but a patsy—or a pawn—only ahead. Thank you, Uncle Charlie, won’t you have one with me? Won’t you drink my health? Must your sense of guilty disloyalty make you hate me?”
Uncle Charlie sighed very deeply. “I am ashamed,” he said at last. “However, my shame will not change my course. I am going to America for a while, until—until it blows over. I don’t know exactly what you intend to do, but I know it is disaster. And you are right about one thing. There is no excuse for discourtesy. Forgive me!”
“I know how you must feel, but I have thought deeply about this, my. Uncle. A king is an anachronism—a king doesn’t really exist.”
“What do you propose1?”
“Simply to make a few suggestions, based on my observations.”
“They will guillotine you. They don’t want suggestions.” “That is one thing I have learned. A king must be worthy of the guillotine. And maybe one or two of my suggestions might take root.”
“I’ve always hated martyrs.”
Pippin drank his marc and shuddered. “I’m not a martyr, Uncle Charlie. A martyr trades something he has for something he wants. I am not ambitious.”
“What are you then—mischievous?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe only curious. And surely not brave.”
“I used to think I knew you. How about Marie? How about Clotilde? Have you no feeling for them?”
“That is what I came to see you about, to ask you to look after them—that is, if an occasion should arise.”
“How about yourself?”
“I am being dramatic. I think the time and my office require it. I can take care of myself.”
“You plan to do this thing tomorrow?”
“Yes. And I would be glad if you invited Madame and Clotilde to visit you tomorrow—perhaps you could take them on a little trip into the country. Perhaps the young Mr. Johnson might assist you. He has an automobile. A weekend on the Loire. There is a beautiful little inn at Sancerre. But I imagine you know it.”
“I know it.”
“Will you do it?”
Uncle Charlie cursed filthily for several seconds.
“Then you will do it!” said the king.
“It’s a trick! You think you have the right to maneuver me because we are related. It is a detestable piece of blackmail.”
“Then that is settled!” said Pippin. “Thank you, Uncle Charlie. I don’t anticipate trouble and so I anticipate trouble.” He arose from the crate.
“Oh, have another drink,” said Uncle Charlie. “I think I have just a few drops of brandy.”
“You make me very happy,” said the king. “I knew I could depend on you.”
“Merde!” said Uncle Charlie.
Half a mile from the Palace of Versailles, Pippin turned his scooter off the road and into the forest. He pushed it over the deep carpet of fallen leaves far back from the highway. In the lee of an outcropping of stone he dogpaddled the fallen autumn leaves away, then put his scooter in the hollow, and covered it with leaves. He piled a few wind- fallen branches on top to hold the leaves in place. Then he walked out of the forest and continued on foot.
At the gate he told the captain, “I delivered your letter. Madame says to tell you she will take care of it. She would like you to telephone to Ars et Fils and tell them, so they may tell her when you can come in. I must say her cakes are delicious.”
“Thank you, M’sieur. Where is your machine?”
The king shrugged. “I had a small accident. It is being repaired. A kind tourist brought me nearly here. Naturally I did not want him to—”
“I understand, M’sieur. There has been no inquiry.”
“I guess they’re all too busy with themselves,” said the king.
At dinner the queen said, “Your Uncle Charles has asked Clotilde and me to drive to Sancerre. I don’t think this is a time—”
“On the contrary, my dear. I shall be busy at the convention. And you need a holiday. You have worked hard and long-”
“But I have a million things—”
“Quite between us, my dear, I think it would be well to take Clotilde away from Paris for a few days. Just as a matter of policy, you know—she is talking too much to the newspapers. Sancerre, eh? I remember it as a lovely little town with a great wine if you can get any of it.”
“I’ll think about it,” said the queen. “I have so much on my mind. I wonder, Pippin, whether I should tell you now —the agents absolutely refuse to terminate the lease at Number One Avenue de Marigny. They insist that a leas
e is a lease, no matter what the government.”
“Perhaps we can sublet it later.”
“Just one more thing to worry about,” said the queen. “You know how tenants are. And most of my mother’s furniture is still there.”
“You need a little holiday, my dear. You’ve had too many responsibilities.”
“I wonder what I should take.”
“Just simple things for motoring and a warm coat. It may be quite chilly on the river this time of year. I wish I could go with you.”
The queen looked at him speculatively. “I don’t like to leave you just at this time.”
He took her hand and turned it palm upward and kissed it. “It’s the perfect time,” he said. “I’ll be so busy with the convention, you would not even see me.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “So much talk and politics buzzing around. I’m tired of the nobility, my dear. I’m bored with politics. Sometimes I wish we still lived in our little stablehouse. That is a very pleasant neighborhood. But the concierge is impossible.”
“I know,” said the king, “but what can you expect of Alsatians?”
“There you have it,” said the queen. “Alsatians—provincials, I say. Only interested in their tight little lives. Provincials! Do you think I should take my fur coat?”
“I strongly advise it,” said the king.
Everyone has seen photographs of the historic opening of the convention to deliberate the Code Pippin. Every newspaper and magazine in the world printed at least one version of it. The half-circle of rows of seats, filled with robed delegates, the speakers’ rostrum and the high, thronelike chair of the Chief Minister, whose duty it was to control and govern the proceedings.
The photographs show the eager faces of the delegates in every manner of ceremonial costume; the galleries filled to overflowing with ladies, also costumed and coroneted; the guards at the doorways in slashed doublets and carrying halberds. Not visible in the pictures are the bales of papers, the mountains of books of precedent, the ledgers, briefcases, even small filing cabinets which rested on the floor among the delegates’ feet, containing the weapons wherewith each party planned to save France by aggrandizing itself.