The Short Reign of Pippin IV by John Steinbeck Read Free Book Online

time he was given the honorary title Honnête Jean, which he has carried with humility to this day. M. Veauvache said solemnly, “A sampling of opinion indicates that the French people will unite behind you as one man.”
    â€œWhom did you sample?” Pippin asked.
    â€œThat is beside the point,” Honnête Jean said. “In America, the home of the opinion poll, does anyone ask that insulting question?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Pippin apologized. “I guess it is because I am sleepy and confused and tired. I am not as young as I was—”
    â€œPoof!” said M. Flosse flatteringly.
    â€œAnd, too, I have been busy with—” He gestured upward. “Madame doesn’t bother me with news when I am preoccupied. You see, gentlemen, I am taken off guard.”
    â€œYou must be crowned at Reims,” cried M. Flosse, and his eyes brimmed with emotion. “We must follow the old customs. France needs you, Sire. Will you deny your country the security of your great bloodline?”
    â€œMy bloodline?”
    â€œAre you not directly descended from Pippin the Second?”
    â€œOh! Is that what it’s all about? But there have been so many other royal houses since—”
    â€œBut you do not deny your descent?”
    â€œHow could I? I believe it is a matter of record.”
    â€œDo you forbid us, Sire?”
    â€œThat’s silly,” said Pippin. “How can I forbid anything a republic might take it into its head to do, even destroy itself? I am the broken tip of a long dog’s long tail. Can I wag that dog?”
    â€œFrance needs—”
    â€œAnd I need sleep, gentlemen. Please leave me now and I will awaken some hours hence, hoping that you have been a dream.”
    And while he slept what has been called in the press the “Historic Nap,” students from the Sorbonne marched up the Champs Elysées, shouting “Vive le roi!” and “Saint Denis pour la France.” Four of them climbed the girders of the Eiffel Tower and raised an antique royal standard on the very top, where it fluttered triumphantly among the wind gauges.
    The citizens boiled into the streets, dancing and singing with excitement.
    Barrels of wine from the cooperative warehouses up-Seine were rolled through the streets and broached on the street corners.
    The Lords of the Couture rushed to their drawing boards.
    Schiaparelli, within the house, announced a new perfume called “Rêve Royale.”
    Special editions of L’Espèce, Cormoran, Paris Minuit, L’Era, and Monde Dieu rolled from the presses and were snatched up.
    The royal standard of Charlemagne appeared like magic in shop windows.
    The American Ambassador, with instructions from his government, sought in vain for someone to congratulate.
    The wave overflowed Paris, and concentric circles spread into the provinces, lighting bonfires and raising flags.
    And through it all, the king slept. But Madame made hourly visits to the kiosk for the new editions and piled them neatly on his desk for his perusal.
    Pippin might well have slept through the night and into the next day had not the anti-aircraft batteries disposed about Paris fired a royal salute at two-thirty in the morning. Five citizens were killed and thirty-two were wounded by the fallback. The thirty-two wounded made loyal and enthusiastic statements from their hospital beds.
    The firing of the anti-aircraft guns awakened Pippin. His first thought was, It must be Clotilde coming in. What has she stumbled over now?
    A second salvo of anti-aircraft guns brought him up on his elbow, his left hand thrashing about, seeking the bed reading light. “Marie!” he called. “Marie! What is that?”
    Madame opened the door. Her arms were loaded with newspapers. “It is the Royal Salute,” she said. “ L’Espèce says there will be one hundred and one guns.”
    â€œMy God!” said Pippin.