Free The Short Reign of Pippin IV by John Steinbeck

she remained forgotten until late in the evening.
    The Communists, acting purely from habit, painted “Go Home Napoleon” on the walls of the cathedral, but this slip both in history and in manners was taken by all with good humor.
    The coronation was completed by eleven in the morning. Then the wave of spectators rushed back to Paris for the parade which was to move from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe. This state procession was scheduled for two o’clock. It started at five.
    The windows along the Champs Elysées were sold out. A place at the curb brought as much as five thousand francs. The owners of stepladders were able to extend their vacations in the country by a week or more.
    The procession was artfully arranged to represent past and present. First came the state carriages of the Great Peers, decorated with gold leaf and tumbling angels; then a battery of heavy artillery drawn by tractors; then a company of crossbowmen in slashed doublets and plumed hats; then a regiment of dragoons with burnished breastplates; then a group of heavy tanks and weapon-carriers, followed by the Noble Youth in full armor. A battalion of paratroopers followed, armed with submachine guns, leading the king’s ministers in their robes of office, and behind them a platoon of musketeers in lace, knee-breeches, silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes with great buckles. These last moved along regally, using their musket crutches as staffs.
    At last the royal coach creaked by. Pippin IV, an uncomfortable bundle of purple velvet and ermine, with the queen, equally befurred, sitting beside him, acknowledged the cheers of the loyal bystanders and responded with equal courtesy to hisses.
    Where the Avenue de Marigny crosses the Champs Elysées, a crazed critic fired a pistol at the king, using a periscope to aim over the heads of the crowd. He killed a royal horse. A musketeer of the Rear Guard gallantly cut it free and took its place in harness. The coach moved on.
    For this loyal service the musketeer, Raoul de Potoir by name, demanded and received a pension for life.
    The procession moved on: bands, ambassadors, professions, veterans, peasants in nylon country dress, leaders of parties, and loyal factions.
    When at last the royal coach reached the Arc de Triomphe, the streets about the Place de la Concorde were still blocked with marchers waiting to get into the parade. But all of this is a matter of public record and of unparalleled newspaper coverage.
    As the royal coach paused at the Arc de Triomphe, Queen Marie turned to speak to the king and found him gone. He had propped up his royal robes and crept away unnoticed in the crowd.
    It was an angry queen who found him later, sitting on his balcony, polishing the eyepiece of his telescope.
    â€œThis is a fine thing,” she said. “I have never been so embarrassed in my life. What will the papers say? You will be the laughingstock of the world. What will the English say? Oh, I know. They won’t say anything, but they’ll look, and you’ll see in their eyes that they remember how their queen stood and sat, stood and sat for thirteen hours without even going to the—Pippin, will you stop polishing that silly glass?”
    â€œBe silent,” Pippin said softly.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYou have it, my dear, but be silent.”
    â€œI don’t understand you,” cried Marie. “Where in the world do you find the right to tell me to be silent? Who do you think you are?”
    â€œI am the King,” said Pippin, and this had not occurred to Marie. “That’s funny,” he said. “I am, you know.” And it was so obviously true that Marie looked at him with startled eyes.
    â€œYes, Sire,” she said, and was silent.
    â€œStarting to be a king is difficult, my dear,” he said apologetically.
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    The king paced back and forth in Charles Martel’s room.
    â€œYou don’t