(See Cover]
By 4 p.m., the blinds, shut tight all day against the Riviera sun, snapped open. A bustle of servants and bodyguards on the second floor of Cannes' Carlton Hotel proclaimed the fact that His Majesty was awake. Shortly afterwards, a fat man with a prematurely balding head and a rakish hussar's mustache, appeared on the hotel terrace, plumped his 225 pounds into a wicker chair and ordered a Coca-Cola. He wore the standard summer garb of the well-dressed Riviera yachtsman—grey flannel slacks, navy blue jacket and white yachting cap. The plump, darkly pretty young woman who accompanied him wore a similar costume. For 15 minutes, His Majesty sat in massive silence. An aide brought him a newspaper. He scanned the headlines, threw the paper on the floor and jumped to his feet. Within a few minutes, in a swirl of salutes and a swishing of Cadillacs, the young couple was off to a cocktail party.
Another day had begun for Farouk I, King of Egypt, Sovereign of Nubia, Sudan, Kordofan and Darfour, and for his young Queen, who are currently in the 13th week of their honeymoon.
"Je Vous Ai Eu!" In his 31 years, Farouk I has become known principally as a glutton, a high-stakes gambler and a wolf. On the Riviera this summer, he has added diligently to his reputation. The Carlton Hotel (where he and his entourage occupy 32 rooms at $2,000 a day) keeps chefs working round the clock because His Majesty might feel hungry at any hour of the day or night. For a typical lunch, he may consume bouchees a la reine, sole, mutton chops, chicken fricassee, a whole roast chicken, a whole lobster, mashed potatoes, peas, rice, artichokes, peaches, pomegranates and mangoes.
During most of his stay at Cannes, Farouk appeared regularly at the casino at 10 p.m. Seating himself at the "tout va" (no limit) table, his hairy chest showing through the opened neck of his shirt, he would snap his fingers, and an attendant would place a stack of chips in front of His Majesty. He tossed in the square white discs, worth a million francs ($2,850) each, as though they were marbles, and when he won, he shouted "Je vous ai eu! [Got you!]," roaring with laughter. When he lost, he laughed too. Croupiers, whom he often left hoarse and groggy after all-night sessions, had a nickname for the huge, lusty man who puffs eight-inch cigars and gambles with machine-like energy—they call him The Locomotive. In one week The Locomotive lost $160,000 at chemin de fer.
But of late, the King has been staying away from the casino. Observers have noticed other evidence that he is beginning to settle down. During past seasons in the sun, His Majesty has shown great interest in Riviera beauties (a local engraver used to be kept busy carving such dedications as "Pour Suzette," "A Jeanette" into souvenir rings and bracelets which the King liked to pass out among his female acquaintances). This year he has eyes only for his bride. Moreover, the flabby King is taking exercise—he has been observed splashing at the Eden Roc pool like a melancholy walrus—and he works two or three hours a day with his advisers, keeping the long-distance lines to Cairo humming.