That's what I've found on the internet today
Out-of-wedlock progeny surface
By ELEANOR HERMAN
THERE was no comment from the palace last week when the French
magazine Paris Match broke the story that Prince Albert of Monaco had
fathered a son, now 21 months old, with an African woman named Nicole
Coste. Ten pages of photographs accompanied the article, many of
Albert holding little Alexandre at different ages.
While the palace remained stonily silent, the prince's lawyer spoke
ominously of developing "a judicial strategy." Nor is this the only
paternity claim looming over the 47-year-old bachelor prince. A week
after he became ruler of Monaco on April 6, an American woman
announced that he is the father of her 13-year-old daughter, but she
has refused to allow a paternity test.
Despite the furor provoked by revelations of allegedly fathering
children out of wedlock, Albert merely has been following a hallowed
royal tradition. Until the dour moral strictures of the 19th century,
European monarchs were proud of their bastards, who were seen as
walking advertisements of royal virility.
In the 17th century, King Henry IV of France raised eight children by
various women in the royal nursery along with his six legitimate
children, much to the horror of the queen. The king visited his brood
frequently but had a hard time keeping the children straight. Aides
and visiting ambassadors noted in diaries and letters that he kept a
list in his pocket describing the children, detailing their names,
ages and mothers.
In the 1670s, the wit George Villiers, speaking of King Charles II of
England, quipped that "a king is supposed to be a father to his
people, and Charles certainly is father to a good many of them."
Charles acknowledged 14 bastards — nine boys and five girls. So many
of his sons were named after him that the king had a hard time
remembering which little Charlie had sprung from which royal mistress.
And in the early 18th century, King Augustus the Strong of Saxony was
the proud father of a reported 356 illegitimate children. Royal
mistresses hoped to bear the king as many children as possible,
knowing that each child ensured a lifetime of generous pensions long
after the love affair had soured.
Coste finds herself in just such a position. The ardor has turned to
ashes, but the former flight attendant claims she is receiving
payments from Prince Albert and is living in his Paris apartment
until her new house on the Riviera is completed. Moreover, her son
could stand to inherit a portion of the $1.6-billion Grimaldi
fortune. What he will not inherit is the throne. According to the
constitution, if Albert dies without legitimate heirs, the throne
passes to his older sister, Princess Caroline, and after her death to
her elder son, Prince Andrea.
Although Albert cannot give Alexandre a crown, perhaps he should
follow the tradition of Baroque kings and give him a title as a form
of paternal acknowledgment. Coste could try the clever strategy used
by Nell Gwynn, mistress of Charles II.
Gwynn often recounted to friends how one day in 1676, when the king
was visiting, she cried to her 6-year-old son, "Come hither, you
little bastard!" When the king scolded her, she said, "I have no
better name to call him by." Laughing, Charles replied, "Then I must
give him one," and soon after made the boy the earl of Burford and
later the duke of St. Albans. The child was given splendid apartments
in the palace and a generous allowance. The duke of St. Albans served
his country as ambassador to France. Maybe little Alexandre could one
day follow a similar path.
Modern monarchs tremble at the faintest whiff of scandal; they are
more frightened of the likes of Paris Match than their royal
ancestors were of invading Goths, Vandals and Vikings. At the first
hint of trouble, palace spokesmen circle their wagons in defense.
Tight-lipped and grim-faced, they deny rumors and refuse comment
while palace lawyers mutter vague threats of judicial strategies.
Today's princes commit the same sins as their more colorful
ancestors; they just pretend they don't. Yet somehow hypocritical
virtue is always less attractive than publicly professed vice.
The monarchs of past centuries boasted a panache greatly lacking in
their modern descendants. Swashbuckling kings strode through life
boldly, proud of their virility. Fragrant buxom mistresses, dripping
lace and diamonds, offered their wares shamelessly. And palace
corridors echoed with the pitter-patter of beloved royal bastards.
Perhaps in the near future, the serene pink palace of the royal house
of Monaco will resound with the same cheerful echoes.
