On a bitingly cold morning in January, some 200 men and women, smartly attired in furs, wool coats, and fluffy pillbox hats, gathered at the Chapelle Expiatoire in Paris for a Requiem Mass. Who were the deceased? King Louis XVI and his wife, Marie Antoinette, who had been executed 232 years ago.
The men overseeing the memorial service wore white armbands embroidered with the fleur de lys, while young women wearing penny loafers and prudishly long skirts handed out the order of service. The chapel itself was an auspicious choice for the occasion. “[Louis XVI’s] remains were found under the site,” whispered the 68-year-old Duc de Damas with some pride.
But the star of the service was Louis Alphonse de Bourbon, the Duke of Anjou, a direct descendant of Louis XIV—the great-grandfather of the decapitated king—and a pretender to the now nonexistent French throne.
The would-be Louis XX looks like he could play a king in a Hollywood film. He is 50 years old, tall, tanned and broad-shouldered, and wouldn’t be out of place astride a caparisoned horse. Naturally, he plays polo, and has a background in finance, most recently at the now defunct Banco Occidental de Descuento in Venezuela (whose owner was his father-in-law). To his supporters, who call themselves the Legitimists, he is the rightful heir, and the current glimmer of hope in their lingering fantasy of restoring the French crown.
At the service’s conclusion, de Bourbon emerged from the chapel led by a procession of flag bearers and choristers, his wife, Marie-Marguerite, smiling by his side. Impassioned cries of “Vive le roi!” broke out from the waiting crowd, and de Bourbon spent an hour shaking hands and speaking to them. Some used the honorifics “Majesté” and “Monseigneur,” while others curtsied before asking for a selfie. The Duc de Damas gestured a gloved hand at the scene. “Every year the number of attendees grows, and what is extraordinary today is that about 80 percent of people who have come are young.”
To a casual onlooker, de Bourbon’s status as a king-in-waiting would seem assured were it not for one small problem: there is another rival to the throne.
Jean d’Orléans, the Count of Paris, or “Jean IV,” as he would like to be known, is also descended from Louis XIV, as well as Louis-Philippe I, the last French king. The 59-year-old has his own set of supporters, the Orléanists, and each year—just like de Bourbon—he hosts his own Requiem Mass for Louis XVI at a church in Saint-Germain. Balding, jowly, somewhat delicate, he resembles less the Hollywood version of a king than what might be termed the historically accurate version. He, too, has a background in finance, having worked at Lazard, Deloitte, and Banque Populaire.
Both d’Orléans and de Bourbon regularly engage with the French media, earnestly expressing their readiness to fill the king-shaped place vide (empty space) left by the establishment of the Second Republic in 1848. They often attend the same events, such as the reopening of Notre-Dame last December, and will most likely rub shoulders again at the Joan of Arc commemoration this May. But while their public interactions with each other seem cordial, their followers take to online forums to tirelessly debate the matter of who, in this entirely hypothetical situation, should actually be king.
Louis de Bourbon has all the affectations that are expected of contemporary royalty. When young he had what French Vanity Fair called an “allure de playboy.” He has the common touch too, publicly voicing his support for the gilets jaunes movement, and he is not above releasing royalty-themed swag—a Bourbon-themed card game called “Le Jeu Royal.”
However, he is Spanish and, in addition to his ties to French royalty, is descended from the Fascist dictator General Franco. (He was a pallbearer for Franco’s coffin in 2019, when the dictator was re-interred.) Born Luis Alphonso, he formally changed his name to Louis Alphonse in an apparent attempt to lean into his French ancestry.
His rival’s supporters often point out that a Spaniard, who splits most of his time between the United States, Caracas, and Madrid, and for whom French is a second language—he often stumbles over his words during speeches—is hardly the best option to understand the needs of France today. Still, in a 2017 television interview about his hypothetical restoration, de Bourbon remained steadfast: “If the day ever came, I would rise to it.”
But so, too, would d’Orléans: “I think France is monarchist at heart, and republican through reason,” Jean IV explained in an interview in 2019. He is generally a quieter figure than de Bourbon, and certainly quieter than his father, Henri, who sued de Bourbon’s father in 1987 over his “illegitimate” use of the royal arms—a lawsuit the French courts ruled as inadmissible.
To make matters even more complicated, lurking across the English Channel is a third claimant to the throne, the so-called Bonapartist pretender, 38-year-old Jean-Christophe, Prince Napoleon, a London-based investment banker. The great-great-great-nephew of Emperor Napoleon I, Jean-Christophe would be Napoleon VIII if he were to seize the throne, although he has chosen, perhaps wisely, to stay out of the successionist battle—for now.
While it may seem that Louis de Bourbon and Jean d’Orléans are involved in a quixotic if not farcical mission to prove themselves the rightful heir to a nonexistent throne, a small but growing number of people in France would like to see the monarchy restored. A 2016 survey revealed that 17 percent of people in France are in favor of the president being replaced by a king, and there are at least 16 active royalist political groups, some of which are unmistakably far-right. Indeed, on the eve of the Mass, there was the annual nocturnal march by members of Action Francaise, an anti-republican organization, bearing torches and royalist flags through the city, shouting, “Down with the republic” and “Glory to the king,” and carrying portraits of their martyred monarch.
Despite the different factions, the general consensus of the royalist groups is that presidents behave too much like kings. Emmanuel Macron is often accused of being a “republican monarch” enjoying a pampered and out-of-touch lifestyle at the Élysée Palace. “The Kingdom of France has the common interest at heart, whereas the Republic is all about individualism,” remarks Damien Pennes, 38, the founder of the Royal Legitimist party, created last December with the blessing of de Bourbon. “The king would serve everyone, without distinction of right or left. It’s about the common good, and it’s what was destroyed in the Revolution.”
Hermine, a 20-year-old student who volunteered at the Requiem Mass, agrees, saying she likes the idea of continuation and legacy that having a royal family ensures. “Macron doesn’t have children,” Hermine said. “And as such it’s all ‘après moi le déluge.’ It’s beautiful, to my mind, to have a family in power, because families continue. They have a duty to fulfill, and a legacy to maintain.”
“Macron is just a number,” says the Duc de Damas. “The monarchy as a system is independent of the powers and to pressure. Presidents just think, All right, I have five years ahead of me in which to make money, make chums in high places, et cetera. The king doesn’t have to do that.”
For Louis de Bourbon, the call of the throne is something more personal. “It’s a heritage,” he tells me. “I was born into the House of Bourbon, and as the eldest I must maintain this heritage and I must also make known what the kings of France have given the country.”
And what exactly did the kings bring to France? Louis shrugs, “Culture, castles. I think monarchy is an important institution that unifies the country. The king has a duty to look after his people. When we get into party politics, it divides.”
But for many, including Thomas, a 68-year old astrologer who attends the Mass every year, the restoration of a king remains little more than a pleasant fantasy. “It’s pure nostalgia for the sacred that has been lost.” As for de Bourbon, “Effectively, he has become a living monument. Royalty remains in our hearts, but they will never reclaim their power.”
Once the meet-and-greet outside the Mass had finished, de Bourbon and his supporters decamped to the nearby Brasserie Mollard for the annual three-course luncheon. But as the group began their walk, a man appeared out of nowhere and lunged at Louis XX. For a moment, thoughts of regicide, once again, flashed through the air. A brief, silent scuffle ensued, in which de Bourbon’s entourage placed the attacker in a headlock and pushed him away. Straightening their suits, they regained their composure and carried on as if nothing had happened. It’s not always easy being a pretender.
Saskia Solomon is a London-based writer and journalist
