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Authors: Michael Bond
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point went home.
‘The reason our founder never married,’ said the Director simply, ‘was because he was too immersed in his work. He was approaching sixty years of age when, for what was probably the first and only time in his life, he strayed from the path of righteous behaviour. And that only came about because he was taken ill while snowbound at a small hotel in the Auvergne.
‘It was hardly his fault the landlady’s daughterclimbed into bed with him before he was fully recovered. After a lifetime of abstinence, he must have had a lot bottled up.
Weakened as he was by the after-effects of influenza, it is all too easy to see how he must have found her blandishments hard to resist. By all accounts she was a comely girl.’
‘The winters are long and hard in the Auvergne,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘The inhabitants have to do something to pass the time.’
‘You should know, Aristide,’ said the Director pointedly. ‘But never forget, in the early days, our founder went everywhere on his Michaux bicyclette , and that was before the invention of the pneumatic tyre and sprung saddles. It might have played havoc with his manhood. At least, in later life, having traded his bicyclette in for an eight-cylinder Delage, he got it out of his system and in so doing proved the opposite to be the case.
‘As the English poet, Donne, famously said: “To err is human, to forgive is divine”.’
‘I am always telling my wife that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse sadly. ‘I am not sure she is in total agreement with his philosophy. She calls it “poet’s licence”.’
‘How many of us,’ said Monsieur Leclercq pointedly, ‘can say, hand on heart, we have only strayed but once in our lives?’
‘You mentioned a third prong,’ continued MonsieurPamplemousse, hastily changing the subject.
‘Ah,’ said the Director. ‘It is one of the main reasons why I sent for you, Aristide.’ He paused to mop his brow.
Clearly ill at ease, and, despite his words, looking far from pleased at being reminded of the task in hand, he rummaged in a desk drawer and produced a bundle of photographs. Riffling through them, he singled out one near the bottom of the pile.
‘This arrived on my desk yesterday morning. Fortunately, it came by special courier and was addressed to me personally, otherwise …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse braced himself, wondering what he was about to see.
‘It grieves me more than I can possibly tell you, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘but you do realise, of course, that in our founder’s day this kind of behaviour would have resulted in your instant dismissal.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the photograph. It showed the inside of a restaurant and bore many of the telltale signs of having been taken on a mobile phone.
A small section of the original must have been blown up out of all proportion. Pixels were in short supply.
‘It is a good one of Pommes Frites,’ he admitted, holding it down for him to see. ‘He looks very pleased with life.’
‘As well he might be,’ said the Director grimly. ‘ Poularde de Bresse en Vessie , if I am not mistaken.Helped on its way by a bottle of Montrachet. I trust it was a good year.’
‘I remember the occasion,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘We were in Lyon and I ordered the poularde because it is one of the chef’s specialities. I was handing Pommes Frites his share while I thought no one else was looking. Clearly, I was mistaken, although why anyone would wish to take a picture of us, I don’t know. May I keep it?’
Monsieur Leclercq heaved a deep sigh.
‘I fear not, Pamplemousse,’ he said severely. ‘We may yet need it for what our lawyers will undoubtedly refer to as Exhibit “A” when a case is brought to court.
‘As for why anyone should wish to photograph the scene in the first place, the answer is simple. It was sent to one of France’s most illustrious journaux , along with an article by an unnamed
‘The reason our founder never married,’ said the Director simply, ‘was because he was too immersed in his work. He was approaching sixty years of age when, for what was probably the first and only time in his life, he strayed from the path of righteous behaviour. And that only came about because he was taken ill while snowbound at a small hotel in the Auvergne.
‘It was hardly his fault the landlady’s daughterclimbed into bed with him before he was fully recovered. After a lifetime of abstinence, he must have had a lot bottled up.
Weakened as he was by the after-effects of influenza, it is all too easy to see how he must have found her blandishments hard to resist. By all accounts she was a comely girl.’
‘The winters are long and hard in the Auvergne,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘The inhabitants have to do something to pass the time.’
‘You should know, Aristide,’ said the Director pointedly. ‘But never forget, in the early days, our founder went everywhere on his Michaux bicyclette , and that was before the invention of the pneumatic tyre and sprung saddles. It might have played havoc with his manhood. At least, in later life, having traded his bicyclette in for an eight-cylinder Delage, he got it out of his system and in so doing proved the opposite to be the case.
‘As the English poet, Donne, famously said: “To err is human, to forgive is divine”.’
‘I am always telling my wife that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse sadly. ‘I am not sure she is in total agreement with his philosophy. She calls it “poet’s licence”.’
‘How many of us,’ said Monsieur Leclercq pointedly, ‘can say, hand on heart, we have only strayed but once in our lives?’
‘You mentioned a third prong,’ continued MonsieurPamplemousse, hastily changing the subject.
‘Ah,’ said the Director. ‘It is one of the main reasons why I sent for you, Aristide.’ He paused to mop his brow.
Clearly ill at ease, and, despite his words, looking far from pleased at being reminded of the task in hand, he rummaged in a desk drawer and produced a bundle of photographs. Riffling through them, he singled out one near the bottom of the pile.
‘This arrived on my desk yesterday morning. Fortunately, it came by special courier and was addressed to me personally, otherwise …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse braced himself, wondering what he was about to see.
‘It grieves me more than I can possibly tell you, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘but you do realise, of course, that in our founder’s day this kind of behaviour would have resulted in your instant dismissal.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the photograph. It showed the inside of a restaurant and bore many of the telltale signs of having been taken on a mobile phone.
A small section of the original must have been blown up out of all proportion. Pixels were in short supply.
‘It is a good one of Pommes Frites,’ he admitted, holding it down for him to see. ‘He looks very pleased with life.’
‘As well he might be,’ said the Director grimly. ‘ Poularde de Bresse en Vessie , if I am not mistaken.Helped on its way by a bottle of Montrachet. I trust it was a good year.’
‘I remember the occasion,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘We were in Lyon and I ordered the poularde because it is one of the chef’s specialities. I was handing Pommes Frites his share while I thought no one else was looking. Clearly, I was mistaken, although why anyone would wish to take a picture of us, I don’t know. May I keep it?’
Monsieur Leclercq heaved a deep sigh.
‘I fear not, Pamplemousse,’ he said severely. ‘We may yet need it for what our lawyers will undoubtedly refer to as Exhibit “A” when a case is brought to court.
‘As for why anyone should wish to photograph the scene in the first place, the answer is simple. It was sent to one of France’s most illustrious journaux , along with an article by an unnamed
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