Royal Visit

The voice on the telephone was polished and authoritative, as befitted a Grand Marshal of the Court of Belgium. "My Reverend Mother," it announced, "I am going to surprise you: His Majesty the King is visiting some schools this afternoon, and he has decided to begin with your institute." The mother superior of Heverle's School of the Sacred Heart for Girls gasped: "His Majesty? This afternoon? Oh, what an honor. How can we thank the court?" "It is not," said the voice on the telephone suavely, "a matter of thanks, but a sign of the particular interest His Majesty has in your institution."

The Beautiful Angels. Three minutes later, a small, brisk motorcade drew up at the school's entrance. From the lead car, a snappy, red M.G., jumped two young men who identified themselves as Inspectors of Criminal Police, Royal Court Division. Another young man calling himself Chief of Protocol Baron Jacques Franck left the second car and asked to see the mother superior. "No preparations," he insisted. "Just call a governing council meeting, for the presentation to the King, then call an assembly of the students and serve a wine of honor." "What kind do you advise?" asked the agitated mother superior. "Champagne will do," said the protocol officer loftily.

While this colloquy was taking place, a black 1951 Buick had pulled up and disgorged three passengers. "I am the Comte Jean de Medeult," said the first. "I am the Chevalier Charles des Acremonts," said the second. The third, tall, shy, bespectacled and even younger than the others, needed no introduction. At sight of him, several young nuns went hurrying down the school corridors crying, "The King is here."

A cooking class working on crepes Suzette tossed their delicate flapjacks into the air and raced for the hall. Several teachers marched their classes to the assembly hall, conducting hasty rehearsals of the national anthem on the way. A nun assigned to unlock the main chapel door was so rattled that she could do nothing but rattle the key in the lock. The royal party passed her by and filed through another door. "How beautiful," said one of them, "are the angels here."

Vive le Roi! Some 1,300 girl students were waiting breathlessly in the assembly hall when the school's chaplain sidled up to one of the royal equerries and said, nodding at the guest of honor, "I don't believe that's the King at all." The equerry exploded in indignation. "This," said affronted Majesty itself, "is the first time such a thing has happened to me." He drew himself aside to let his underlings clean up the ugly matter. A second chaplain, however, had turned suspicion into action and rushed to the police station by motorbike. He returned with a posse of cops just as the girls were waving their handkerchiefs and crying "Vive le Roi!" at the distinguished figure on the stage. At the sight of the cops, the royal party headed for the gates.

During the flight, the "King" could not forbear slowing down occasionally to acknowledge the continued cheers of his people. At the gates, the cops grabbed the lot of them--all Louvain University students who had borrowed their fathers' automobiles to stage the royal visit.

Unfortunately the arrest came before the phony King, an 18-year-old medical student named Hugo Engels, could make his supreme gesture--a speech proclaiming a full day's holiday for the school.

Next day, Belgium's real King, Baudouin I, 21, asked that no charges be brought against the pranksters. Said the young pretender (who looks strikingly like Baudouin): "I have lived the most wonderful half hour of my life."

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