The Short Reign of Pippin IV Read Free

Bleues were, if anything, sloppier and more frowzy than the Existentialists, while their stern-faced gyrations in le jitterbug caused many a French father to clench agonized fists over his head.
    From the arts, Clotilde went directly into politics. At sixteen and a half she joined the Communists and held the all-time record of sixty-two hours of picketing the Citroën plant. It was during this association with the lower classes that Clotilde met Père Méchant, the little Pastor of the Pediment, who so impressed her that she seriously considered taking the veil in an order of nuns dedicated to silence, black bread, and pedicures for the poor. St. Hannah, patron saint of feet, founded the order.
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    On February 14, a celestial accident occurred which had a sharp effect on the Héristal household. A pre-equinoctial meteor shower put in an untimely and unpredicted appearance. Pippin worked frantically with the blazing heavens, exposing film after film, but even before he retired to his darkroom in the wine cellar off the stable he knew that his camera was not adequate to stop the fiery missiles in their flight. The developed film verified his fear. Cursing gently, he walked to a great optical supply house, conferred with the management, telephoned several learned friends. Then he strolled reluctantly back to Number One Avenue de Marigny, and so preoccupied was he that he did not notice the Gardes Républicains in shining cuirasses and red-plumed helmets, milling their horses around the gates of the Elysée Palace.
    Madame was concluding an argument with Rose, the cook, as Pippin climbed the stairs. She emerged from the kitchen, victorious and a little red in the face, while the sullen muttering of the defeated Rose followed her down the hall.
    In the salon she told her husband, “Closed the window over the cheese—a full kilogram of cheese suffocating all night with the window closed. And do you know what her excuse was? She was cold. For her own comfort the cheese must strangle. You can’t trust servants anymore.”
    Monsieur said, “One finds oneself in a difficult situation.”
    â€œDifficult—of course it’s difficult with the kind of trash who call themselves cooks—”
    â€œMadame—the meteor shower continues. This is verified. I find I must procure a new camera.”
    The outgo of money was definitely in Madame’s province. She remained silent, but Monsieur sensed danger in her narrowing eyes and in her hands, which rose slowly and saddled her hips.
    He said uneasily, “It is a decision one must make. No one is to blame. One might say the order comes from Heaven itself.”
    Madame’s voice was steel. “The cost of this—this camera, Monsieur?”
    He named a price which shook her sturdy frame as though an internal explosion had occurred. But almost immediately she marshaled herself with iron discipline for the attack.
    â€œLast month, M’sieur, it was a new—what do you call it? The expenditure for film is already ruinous. May I remind you, M’sieur, of the letter recently arrived from Auxerre, of the need for new cooperage, of the insistence that we stand half of the cost?”
    â€œMadame,” he cried, “I did not call down the meteor shower.”
    â€œNor did I decay the casks at Auxerre.”
    â€œI have no choice, Madame.”
    She seemed to grow to a tower with castellations, and darkness hung about her like a personal thunderstorm.
    â€œM’sieur is master of the house,” she said. “If M’sieur wishes to allow the meteors to bring bankruptcy down on the heads of his family—who am I to complain? I must go to apologize to Rose. A kilo of strangulated cheese is a laughable nothing compared to the blobs of light on film. Can one eat meteors, M’sieur? Can one wear them to keep out the night damp? Can one make wine barrels of these precious meteors? M’sieur, I leave