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

and Peace and two of Quo Vadis, but her notices threw her into such despair that her elevation to Princess Royale came just in time. In this field the competition was less fierce.
    Clotilde began to think of herself, at least pronominally, in the plural. She referred to “our people,” “our position,” “our duty.” Her first royal act, that of turning on the fountains at Versailles, was followed by a detailed plan very dear to her heart and not without its parallel in history. She set apart an area quite near to Versailles, to be called “Le Petit Round-Up.” Here there would be small ranch houses, corrals, barns, bunkhouses. Here branding irons would be constantly in bonfires and cayuses would leap wild-eyed against the barriers. To Le Petit Round-Up would come Roy Rogers, Alan Ladd, Hoot Gibson, Gary Cooper, the taciturn and the strong. They would feel at home at Le Petit Round-Up. Clotilde, in leather skirt and black shirt, would move about, serving red-eye in shot-glasses. If there were gun-play—and how can this be avoided where passionate and inarticulate men gather?—then the princess would be ready to stanch wounds and cool with her royal hand the pain-wracked but silent sufferer. This was only one of Clotilde’s plans for the future.
    It was at this time that she began to take her old Teddy bear to bed. It was at this time that she fell madly in love with Tod Johnson.
    Clotilde met him at Les Ambassadeurs, where she had gone with young Georges de Marine—the Comte de Marine, that is, who was seventeen and listless. Georges knew perfectly well that Clotilde knew Tab Hunter was in Paris. He knew also, because he belonged to the same fan club, that Tab Hunter would put in an appearance at Les Ambassadeurs sometime during the evening.
    Tod Johnson sat next to Clotilde in the banquette seats which faced the dance floor. She noticed him with a quickened breath, watched him with blood-pounding interest, and finally, under the roaring of violins, she leaned toward him and asked, “You are American?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œThen you must be careful. They will keep opening champagne if you do not tell them to stop.”
    â€œThank you,” said Tod. “They already have. You are French?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI didn’t think any French people came here,” said Tod.
    Georges kicked Clotilde viciously on the ankle, and her face reddened with pain.
    Tod said, “I hope you don’t mind. May I introduce myself? I am Tod Johnson.”
    â€œI know how you do these things in America,” Clotilde said. “I have been to America. May I introduce the Comte de Marine? Now,” she said to Georges, “you must introduce me. That is how they do it.”
    Georges squinted his eyes craftily. “Mademoiselle Clotilde Héristal,” he said evenly.
    Tod said, “That name rings a bell. Are you an actress?”
    Clotilde dropped her eyelashes. “No, Monsieur, except in so far as everyone is an actress.”
    â€œThat’s good,” said Tod. “Your English is wonderful.”
    Georges spoke without inflection in the tone he considered insulting. “Does Monsieur perhaps speak French?”
    â€œPrinceton French,” said Tod. “I can ask questions but I can’t understand the answers. But I’m learning. It isn’t all running together the way it did a few weeks ago.”
    â€œYou stay a while in Paris?”
    â€œI don’t have any plans. Would you permit me to order champagne?”
    â€œIf you will tell them to stop. You must not let them cheat you as though you were some Argentine.”
    That is how it started.
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    Tod Johnson was the ideal American young man—tall, stiffhaired, blue-eyed, well dressed, well educated by going standards, well mannered, and soft-spoken. He was equally fortunate in his background. His father, H. W. Johnson, the Egg King of Petaluma,