is – bonne chance !’
Briefly crossing himself as he entered the room, Monsieur Pamplemousse was just in time to catch the Director doing exactly the same thing behind his desk. Both hastily converted the movement into a tug of their right ear.
It was not a good omen; nor was Pommes Frites slow in registering the fact that his water bowl wasn’t in its usual place. Having looked round the room and drawn a blank, he assumed his phlegmatic expression and settled himself down on the floor to await developments. It seemed to him that his master might be in for a bad time.
It wasn’t long in coming.
‘What, Pamplemousse, is the meaning of this?’ demanded Monsieur Leclercq, pointing to his desk.
‘Alerted by your use of the word estragon on my voice mail, I arrived back from Vonnas this morning, not having had any petit déjeuner I might add, and what do I find awaiting me?’
Glancing down at the desk, Monsieur Pamplemousse caught sight of a half eaten croissant lying in the ashtray. All became clear. It was no wonder the Director was in a bad mood.
‘It is a long time since I had the good fortune to visit Vonnas, Monsieur, but I still remember their petit dejeuner ; the basket of assorted brioches still warm from the oven, not to mention the freshly squeezed fruit juice and the home-made confiture . It was a wonderful start to the day. I fear the croissants in our canteen bear little resemblance to those of Monsieur Georges Blanc. To have had to forego them is indeed a tragedy.’
The Director stared at him for all of fifteen seconds. ‘Sometimes, Pamplemousse,’ he said at last, ‘and I say this more in sorrow than in anger, I think you live in a dream world. Would that you had the strength of mind to confine your fantasies to the upper reaches of the stratosphere where they belong, rather than act them out in real life.
‘ Croissants , good, bad, or indifferent are the last things on my mind.
‘Yesterday morning, here in this very office, in good faith I unburdened myself. I told you things I have told no other person, not even my wife…
‘Especially my wife…’ he added hastily.
‘And what happened? No sooner had I turned my back than you were off round to Madame Chavignol. Pommes Frites too! Your appetites whetted, neither of you could wait. You are each of you as bad as the other. What one doesn’t think of, the other one does!’
‘With respect, Monsieur , it was you who suggested we went there in the first instance.’
‘Do not try to shift the blame, Pamplemousse,’ boomed the Director. ‘What took place while you were there is a prime example of history repeating itself.’
Pausing to shift the ashtray, he picked up a sheaf of glossy photographs and held them aloft.
‘Véronique informs me these were delivered early this morning by an oriental gentleman who refused to leave his name. He was under strict instructions to deliver them to me personally. It was only with great difficulty, and because I was late arriving, that she persuaded him otherwise . Fortunately he relented after she had given her word that no one else would open the package.
‘How Madame Chavignol knew you worked for Le Guide , goodness only knows.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could have told him, but he wasn’t going to. It was only while sitting in the Square Samuel-Rousseau he realised to his dismay that in his haste to escape Claudette’s clutches he had left his notebook on her bathroom radiator. Fortunately the notes were of no value to anyone else for they were written in his own particular form of shorthand. However, it had Le Guide’s address in the front for return in case of loss. It wouldn’t have taken her more than a moment to put two and two together.
‘It is pas grave , Monsieur,’ he said, trying to make light of it.
‘ Pas grave ?’ repeated the Director. ‘ Pas grave ? It is little short of a catastrophe ! These photographs are worse, far worse than the ones Pommes Frites took of
Briefly crossing himself as he entered the room, Monsieur Pamplemousse was just in time to catch the Director doing exactly the same thing behind his desk. Both hastily converted the movement into a tug of their right ear.
It was not a good omen; nor was Pommes Frites slow in registering the fact that his water bowl wasn’t in its usual place. Having looked round the room and drawn a blank, he assumed his phlegmatic expression and settled himself down on the floor to await developments. It seemed to him that his master might be in for a bad time.
It wasn’t long in coming.
‘What, Pamplemousse, is the meaning of this?’ demanded Monsieur Leclercq, pointing to his desk.
‘Alerted by your use of the word estragon on my voice mail, I arrived back from Vonnas this morning, not having had any petit déjeuner I might add, and what do I find awaiting me?’
Glancing down at the desk, Monsieur Pamplemousse caught sight of a half eaten croissant lying in the ashtray. All became clear. It was no wonder the Director was in a bad mood.
‘It is a long time since I had the good fortune to visit Vonnas, Monsieur, but I still remember their petit dejeuner ; the basket of assorted brioches still warm from the oven, not to mention the freshly squeezed fruit juice and the home-made confiture . It was a wonderful start to the day. I fear the croissants in our canteen bear little resemblance to those of Monsieur Georges Blanc. To have had to forego them is indeed a tragedy.’
The Director stared at him for all of fifteen seconds. ‘Sometimes, Pamplemousse,’ he said at last, ‘and I say this more in sorrow than in anger, I think you live in a dream world. Would that you had the strength of mind to confine your fantasies to the upper reaches of the stratosphere where they belong, rather than act them out in real life.
‘ Croissants , good, bad, or indifferent are the last things on my mind.
‘Yesterday morning, here in this very office, in good faith I unburdened myself. I told you things I have told no other person, not even my wife…
‘Especially my wife…’ he added hastily.
‘And what happened? No sooner had I turned my back than you were off round to Madame Chavignol. Pommes Frites too! Your appetites whetted, neither of you could wait. You are each of you as bad as the other. What one doesn’t think of, the other one does!’
‘With respect, Monsieur , it was you who suggested we went there in the first instance.’
‘Do not try to shift the blame, Pamplemousse,’ boomed the Director. ‘What took place while you were there is a prime example of history repeating itself.’
Pausing to shift the ashtray, he picked up a sheaf of glossy photographs and held them aloft.
‘Véronique informs me these were delivered early this morning by an oriental gentleman who refused to leave his name. He was under strict instructions to deliver them to me personally. It was only with great difficulty, and because I was late arriving, that she persuaded him otherwise . Fortunately he relented after she had given her word that no one else would open the package.
‘How Madame Chavignol knew you worked for Le Guide , goodness only knows.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could have told him, but he wasn’t going to. It was only while sitting in the Square Samuel-Rousseau he realised to his dismay that in his haste to escape Claudette’s clutches he had left his notebook on her bathroom radiator. Fortunately the notes were of no value to anyone else for they were written in his own particular form of shorthand. However, it had Le Guide’s address in the front for return in case of loss. It wouldn’t have taken her more than a moment to put two and two together.
‘It is pas grave , Monsieur,’ he said, trying to make light of it.
‘ Pas grave ?’ repeated the Director. ‘ Pas grave ? It is little short of a catastrophe ! These photographs are worse, far worse than the ones Pommes Frites took of
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