Read Online Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure by Michael Bond - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Bond
Ads: Link
as he did so that with all the resources of the French language at his disposal he would still have been hard pressed to find words strong enough to describe adequately his feelings; it needed a dog of Pommes Frites’ sensitivity to come up with exactly the right sound.
For a moment or two he was tempted to go in search of a telephone and call the Director. With luck, he might even be able to persuade Pommes Frites to put on a repeat performance down the mouthpiece.
He thought better of it. He’d had enough of groping his way around in dark glasses for one day. That apart, if he knew the Director, he would be neither amused nor sympathetic, particularly if he happened to be in the middle of dinner. Dinner! He gave an involuntary groan. Pommes Frites let out another howl in sympathy. There was a protesting knock on the wall from the adjoining room.
‘ Merde !’ Monsieur Pamplemousse collapsed into the armchair in a state of gloom, memories of the meal he’d so carefully planned all too clear in his mind. His gastric juices went into overtime at the thought of what might have been. His dislike of Ananas grew stronger by the minute. No doubt he was already making up for lost time.
There was a movement from somewhere nearby as Pommes Frites curled up on the floor in front of him, resting his head lovingly across his master’s feet. Thank heaven for PommesFrites. Where would he be without him? How good it was to have the company of a good and faithful friend in one’s hour of need.
Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes while he luxuriated in the warmth which was slowly enveloping his ankles. It was really a question of who cracked first, himself or Pommes Frites. At least he had the advantage of knowing why they were there. Why and for how long they were meant to stay. Pommes Frites had no idea. He wouldn’t take kindly to a glass of water for his petit déjeuner every morning. Had they still been at home they would be going for a stroll by now – taking the air near the vineyard by the rue Saint Vincent; walking off the after effects of one of Doucette’s ragoûts. He could picture it all …
He sat up with a start. Thoughts of Paris reminded him that with all the things going on that day he had totally forgotten about the letter the Director had given him in his office. He felt inside his jacket. It was still there.
The envelope, which bore on its flap the familiar logo of Le Guide – two escargots rampant – contained a letter and a second smaller envelope made of curiously flimsy paper. The latter was sealed with red wax, embossed with a symbol which rang a faint bell in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s head. A warning bell? It was hard to say. Certainly there was something about it which left him feeling uneasy. Intrigued, he decided to put it to one side for the moment while he read the Director’s covering note. It was short and to the point.
‘My dear Aristide,’ it began. That was a bad sign. Either the Director wanted to curry favour or he had a guilty conscience.
I trust you will forgive my not being entirely frank with you in my office, but as you will see, there were very good reasons. Walls, Aristide, have ears, and the enclosed is for your eyes only. Even I, Directeur of Le Guide , am not privileged to be apprised of its contents. Therefore, I can only wish you luck in what I assume is yet another of those clandestine “missions” to which you have become so addicted, and for which you have acquired some notoriety. Take care, Aristide. Above all, take care! For once you are on your own. You can expect no help from Headquarters.
The letter, signed by the Director in his usual indecipherable scrawl, ended with a postscript. ‘Two other things while I write. Please assume that until such time as the order is rescinded, you have carte blanche with your P39s. Also, once you have read and digested the contents of the second envelope, please destroy it immediately. Both letter and envelope are made of
For a moment or two he was tempted to go in search of a telephone and call the Director. With luck, he might even be able to persuade Pommes Frites to put on a repeat performance down the mouthpiece.
He thought better of it. He’d had enough of groping his way around in dark glasses for one day. That apart, if he knew the Director, he would be neither amused nor sympathetic, particularly if he happened to be in the middle of dinner. Dinner! He gave an involuntary groan. Pommes Frites let out another howl in sympathy. There was a protesting knock on the wall from the adjoining room.
‘ Merde !’ Monsieur Pamplemousse collapsed into the armchair in a state of gloom, memories of the meal he’d so carefully planned all too clear in his mind. His gastric juices went into overtime at the thought of what might have been. His dislike of Ananas grew stronger by the minute. No doubt he was already making up for lost time.
There was a movement from somewhere nearby as Pommes Frites curled up on the floor in front of him, resting his head lovingly across his master’s feet. Thank heaven for PommesFrites. Where would he be without him? How good it was to have the company of a good and faithful friend in one’s hour of need.
Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes while he luxuriated in the warmth which was slowly enveloping his ankles. It was really a question of who cracked first, himself or Pommes Frites. At least he had the advantage of knowing why they were there. Why and for how long they were meant to stay. Pommes Frites had no idea. He wouldn’t take kindly to a glass of water for his petit déjeuner every morning. Had they still been at home they would be going for a stroll by now – taking the air near the vineyard by the rue Saint Vincent; walking off the after effects of one of Doucette’s ragoûts. He could picture it all …
He sat up with a start. Thoughts of Paris reminded him that with all the things going on that day he had totally forgotten about the letter the Director had given him in his office. He felt inside his jacket. It was still there.
The envelope, which bore on its flap the familiar logo of Le Guide – two escargots rampant – contained a letter and a second smaller envelope made of curiously flimsy paper. The latter was sealed with red wax, embossed with a symbol which rang a faint bell in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s head. A warning bell? It was hard to say. Certainly there was something about it which left him feeling uneasy. Intrigued, he decided to put it to one side for the moment while he read the Director’s covering note. It was short and to the point.
‘My dear Aristide,’ it began. That was a bad sign. Either the Director wanted to curry favour or he had a guilty conscience.
I trust you will forgive my not being entirely frank with you in my office, but as you will see, there were very good reasons. Walls, Aristide, have ears, and the enclosed is for your eyes only. Even I, Directeur of Le Guide , am not privileged to be apprised of its contents. Therefore, I can only wish you luck in what I assume is yet another of those clandestine “missions” to which you have become so addicted, and for which you have acquired some notoriety. Take care, Aristide. Above all, take care! For once you are on your own. You can expect no help from Headquarters.
The letter, signed by the Director in his usual indecipherable scrawl, ended with a postscript. ‘Two other things while I write. Please assume that until such time as the order is rescinded, you have carte blanche with your P39s. Also, once you have read and digested the contents of the second envelope, please destroy it immediately. Both letter and envelope are made of
Similar Books
