The Short Reign of Pippin IV by John Steinbeck Page B

“Aren’t they signed?”
    â€œWell, no. But there are many indications—the colors, the brush technique—”
    â€œI’ll lay it on the line, sir,” Tod said. “I thought of buying a present for my father. You see, I want to stay away from the business a little longer and I’ll have to put the bite on him. I thought a real nice present might grease the slide—not that it will fool him. He’ll know what I’m up to, but he may go along with it. He doesn’t mind being fooled if he knows about it.”
    â€œThese paintings—” Uncle Charlie began.
    â€œYou say Boucher. I halfway remember him from Art Appreciation. Suppose I buy a Boucher with no signature. Know what will happen? Father will get an expert—he’s hell on experts. And suppose this Boucher is a phony. You see the position I’d be in—hustling my own father.”
    â€œBut a signature would save you that difficulty?”
    â€œIt would help. Understand, it wouldn’t be certain. My father is no dope.”
    â€œPerhaps we had better look at something else,” said Uncle Charlie. “I know where I can put my hand on a very nice Matisse with a signature. There is a ‘Tête de Femme’ of Roualt, very fine—or maybe you would like to see a veritable swarm of Pasquins. These will have a great future value.”
    â€œI’d like to look at everything,” said Tod. “Bugsy said you were doing something wrong with the martinis.”
    â€œThey do not taste the same.”
    â€œAre you getting them cold enough? Mac Kriendler once told me that the only good martini is a cold martini. Here, let me mix you one. Will you have one too, sir?”
    â€œThank you. I should like to discuss with you your father, the king.”
    â€œEgg King.”
    â€œExactly. Has he been this for a long time?”
    â€œSince the depression. He hit bottom then. That was before I was born.”
    â€œThen he invented his kingdom as he went along?”
    â€œYou might say that, sir. And in his line there is nobody who can touch him.”
    â€œHe has a principality, your father?”
    â€œWell, it’s a corporation—kind of the same thing if you control the stock.”
    â€œMy young friend, I hope you will come to see me very soon. I wish to discuss the king business with you.”
    â€œWhere do you live, sir? Bugsy wouldn’t ever tell me. I thought she was ashamed.”
    â€œPerhaps she was,” said the king. “I live at the Palace at Versailles.”
    â€œHoly mackerel!” said Tod. “Wait till my old man hears this—”

As though in celebration of the king’s return, the summer slipped benignly over France—warm, but not hot; cool, but not cold.
    The rains waited until the flowers of the vines exchanged their pollen and set their clusters densely, and then gentle moisture stirred the growth. The earth gave sugar and the warm air breed. Before a single grape ripened, it was felt that, barring some ugly trick by nature, this would be a vintage year, the kind remembered from the time when an old man was young.
    And the wheat headed full and yellow. The butter took an unearthly sweetness from the vintage grass. The truffles crowded one another under the ground. The geese happily stuffed themselves until their livers nearly burst. The farmers complained, as their duty demanded, but even their complaints had a cheerful tone.
    From overseas the tourists boiled in and every one of them was rich and appreciative so that the porters were seen to smile—whether you believe it or not. Taxi drivers scowled in a good-humored way, and one or two were heard to say that perhaps ruin would not come this year, an admission they will not care to have repeated.
    And what of the political groups now firmly rooted in the Privy Council? Even they had an era of good feeling. Christian Christians saw the churches full.