The Short Reign of Pippin IV (14 page)

Uncle Charlie said, “I will not hide from you that my position as your uncle has increased my business. I am doing very well, particularly with the tourists.”

“Then your loyalty is tied to profit. Would you be disloyal if you suffered a loss?”

Uncle Charlie went behind a screen and brought out a bottle of cognac. “With water?” he asked.

“How good is the cognac?”

“I suggest water. . . . Now. You want to turn over stones and find the insects underneath. One always hopes for virtue—right up to the point of exercising it. I hope I would stick with you to the death. But I also hope that I would have the judgment to join the opposition a few moments before it is generally apparent that it will succeed.”

“You are very honest, my uncle.”

“Can you tell me what is really troubling you?”

Pippin sipped his fine à l'eau. He said uncertainly, “The function of a king is to rule. To rule, one must have power. To have power one must take power . . .”

“Go on, child.”

“The men who forced the crown on me were not intent on giving anything away.”

“Ah! You learn, I see. You are becoming what is called cynical by those who fear reality. And you feel that you are a wheel unturning, a plant without a flower.”

“Something like that. A king without power is a contradiction in terms, and a king with power is an abomination.”

“Excuse me,” said Uncle Charlie. “Mice are moving on the cheese.” He went to the front of his shop. “Yes?” Pippin heard him say. “It is lovely. If I told you who I suspect painted it—No. I must say I do not know. Notice the brushwork here, see how the composition soars—and the subject, the costume— Oh! That? A nothing. Came in with a pile of trash from the cellar of a château. I haven't inspected it. I suppose you
could
buy it, but would it be wise? I would have to ask two hundred thousand francs because it would cost me that to have it cleaned and inspected. Consider again! Here, for example, is a Rouault about which there is no doubt . . .” There was a time of soft muttering, and then Uncle Charlie's voice. “Won't you let me dust it? I tell you I have not even inspected it.”

In a few moments he came back, rubbing his hands.

“I'm ashamed of you,” said the king.

Charles Martel went to a pile of dirty unframed canvases in a corner. “I must replace it,” he said. “I do my best to discourage them. Perhaps I would feel worse if I did not know they thought they were cheating me.” He carried the dusty painting to the front. “Ah, come in, Clotilde,” he said. “Your father is here.” He called, “It's Clotilde and the Egg Prince.”

The three of them came past the red velvet drapery which hung over the doorway, and their passage left a thin cloud of dust in the air.

“Good evening, sir,” said Tod. “He's teaching me the business. We're going to open galleries in Dallas and Cincinnati and one in Beverly Hills.”

“Shame on him!” said the king.

“I try to discourage them but they demand—” Uncle Charlie began.

“Very clever,” said the king. “But who tricks them into demanding?”

“I don't think that's quite fair, sir,” said Tod. “The first function of business is to create the demand and the second to fulfill it. Think of all the things that wouldn't be made at all if people hadn't been told they needed them—medicines and cosmetics and deodorants. Can you say, sir, that the automobile is wasteful and unnecessary—that it keeps people in debt for transportation they don't need? You can't say that to people who want automobiles even if they and you know it is true.”

“The line must be drawn somewhere,” Pippin said. “Has my fine uncle told you why the Mona Lisa was stolen?”

“Now wait, dear nephew!”

Pippin cried, “He usually starts it—‘I can't mention any names but I have heard'—Heard indeed!”

“It never made any sense to me,” Tod said. “The Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre. Right? And then, after a year, it was returned. Do you mean they returned a fake?”

“Not at all,” said the king. “The picture in the Louvre is genuine.”

Clotilde pouted. “Must we talk business?”

“Wait, Bugsy, I want to hear.”

“Go on, my uncle,” said the king. “It's your story. It's your—”

“I can't say I approved of it,” said Charles Martel, “and yet no honest person was injured.”

Clotilde said, “Oh, tell him and get it over with.”

“Well, I can't mention any names but I have heard that during the time the Mona Lisa was—away, eight Mona Lisas were bought by very rich men.”

“Where?”

“Well, wherever very rich men were—Brazil, Argentina, Texas, New York, Hollywood . . .”

“But why was the original returned?”

“Well you see, once the picture was returned, there was no further search for the—ah—thief.”

“Ah!” said Tod. “But how about the people who bought the fakes?”

Uncle Charlie said piously, “When you buy a stolen masterpiece, you are committing a crime. But even though they must hide the treasure, there do seem to be men capable of this. If, after they have bought, they discover the treasure to be a, shall we say, replica, these men are still not likely to discuss it. There are, I am told, rich men who are willing to be dishonest. I believe I am safe in saying there are none who are willing to admit they are fools.”

Tod laughed. “So if they had been honest—”

“Exactly,” said Uncle Charlie.

“Then why is the king against it?”

“He is sensitive.”

Tod turned toward the king.

Pippin said slowly, “I believe that all men are honest where they are disinterested. I believe that most people are vulnerable where they are interested. I believe that some men are honest in spite of interest. It seems to me reprehensible to search out areas of weakness and to exploit them.”

“Aren't you going to have some difficulty being king, sir?” Tod asked.

“He is already,” Clotilde said bitterly. “He not only wants to be above everything, every human weakness, he wants his family to be too. He wants everybody to be good—and people just aren't good.”

Pippin said, “Stop there, miss! I will not have you say that. People are good—just as long as they can be. Everybody wants to be good. That is why I resent it when goodness is made difficult or impossible for them.”

Uncle Charlie said vindictively, “Before they came in, you were talking about power. You were saying, I believe, that a king without power is emasculate. If that is so, my dear nephew, what do you think of the proposition that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely?”

The king said, “Power does not corrupt. Fear corrupts, perhaps fear of a loss of power.”

“But does not power create in other men the impulse which must cause fear in the holder of power? Can power exist without the ultimate fear that makes corruption? Can you have one without the other?”

“Oh, dear!” said Pippin. “I wish I knew.”

Uncle Charlie bored in. “If you took power, don't you think the very people who made you king would turn against you?”

The king threw up his hands, “And you told me to relax! To you these things are only ideas. To me—I eat them and dress in them, breathe them and dream of them. Uncle Charlie, this is no intellectual game to me. It is anguish.”

“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 chair.

“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 a 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. R. 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?”