The Short Reign of Pippin IV by John Steinbeck Page A

prospective customer.
    â€œYou might be interested,” he said to Tod, “in a group of paintings I have heard about. They have just come to light. Buried during the Occupation—”
    â€œUncle—please!” said Clotilde.
    â€œI don’t know much about painting, sir,” said Tod.
    â€œPerhaps you will learn,” said Charles Martel happily, and later, after he had telephoned the Chase Bank, Paris Branch, he said to Clotilde, “I like that young man. He has an air. You must bring him again to call on me.”
    â€œPromise me you will not sell him pictures,” the princess pleaded.
    â€œMy dear,” said her great-uncle, “I have made certain discreet inquiries. Should I rob this young man of beauty and art simply because he is rich? Figure to yourself how many are two hundred and thirty million chicks. If one took twenty centimeters as the approximate length of one chicken, they would be—let me see—forty-six million meters, which is forty-six thousand kilometers, which is a procession of chickens extending nearly twice around the world at the equator—imagine!”
    â€œWhat would they be going around the world for?” Clotilde asked.
    â€œI beg your pardon?” said Uncle Charlie. “Oh! Please ask your friend to show me again how to make those—those martinis. There is something I do not accomplish.”
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    Clotilde was surprised to find her father in the back room of the Galerie Martel, but she said, “Sire, I wish to present Mr. Tod Johnson. Mr. Tod Johnson, this is my father”—she blushed—“the king.”
    â€œGlad to know you, Mr. King,” said Tod.
    Uncle Charlie said delicately, “Not Mister— the .”
    â€œCome again?” said Tod.
    â€œIl n’est pas Monsieur King II est Le Roi .”
    â€œNo kidding!” said Tod.
    â€œHe is very democratic,” said Uncle Charlie.
    â€œI voted the Democratic ticket,” said Tod. “My old—my father would kill me if he knew. He’s a Taft man.”
    Pippin spoke for the first time. “Correct me if I am wrong. Have I not heard that Monsieur Taft is dead?”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean a thing to my father,” said Tod. “Let’s get this straight in my mind. What kind of a king?”
    Pippin said, “I do not understand.”
    â€œI mean like—well, they call my father the Egg King, and Benny Goodman is the King of Swing, and like that.”
    Pippin cried, “You know Benny Goodman?”
    â€œWell, not really, but I’ve sat close enough to his clarinet to get my ear splashed.”
    â€œWhat joy,” said the king. “I have the recording from Carnegie Hall.”
    â€œI’m more on the progressive kick myself,” said Tod.
    â€œAnd you are right in a way,” said Pippin. “This is creative and good, but you must allow, Monsieur Egg, that Goodman, he is classic—at least when he inserts himself in the groove.”
    â€œSay,” said Tod, “you talk good for a—”
    Pippin chuckled. “Were you about to say ‘king’ or ‘Frog’?”
    â€œHow about that?” said Tod. “You aren’t kidding me, sir?”
    â€œI am King of France,” said the king. “It was not my choice of profession.”
    â€œThe hell you are!”
    â€œThe hell I’m not.”
    â€œHow’d you learn talk like that, sir?”
    â€œFor a number of years I have subscribed to Downbeat ,” said Pippin.
    â€œWell, that explains it.” Tod turned to Clotilde. “Baby, I’m ape about him. He’s a Georgier George.”
    Uncle Charlie cleared his throat. “Perhaps Monsieur Tod would care to see some of the paintings I spoke about. Apparently they were hidden during the Occupation of France. Two of them are attributed to Boucher.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, attributed?” Tod asked.