giggles. The room maids must be getting near.
He glanced down at Pommes Frites as they set off. Pommes Frites looked up and wagged his tail. It was a good sign. One good sign, followed almost immediately by a second, for he licked his lips, and if Pommes Frites was licking his lips it could mean only one thing: life was returning to normal.
5
LâINSTITUT DES BEAUX ARBRES
It took Monsieur Pamplemousse rather longer than heâd planned to get within striking distance of the Institut des Beaux Arbres, and even longer to find the entrance, which was half-hidden behind a clump of fir trees.
Reflecting that the Institut was well-named (most of the arbres were not only beaux, they were très grands as well, and badly needed thinning), he pulled in alongside some large wrought-iron gates standing in splendid isolation within a carved stone archway and climbing out of the car he applied his thumb to a bell-push. A disembodied voice emerged from a small grille above the button. He gave his name and almost immediately there was a buzz from the direction of the gate itself as an electric bolt-retainer slid open. There was a click and the loudspeaker was silent, cutting off the apologies he had been about to make for being late. He glanced at his watch. It was almost three oâclock.
Lunch had been a protracted affair. Word must have got around about his extravagance the previous evening, for a second assistant sommelier hovered about his table like a solicitous butterfly, the carte des vins already open at what he clearly considered to be an appropriately expensive page. At the waiterâs suggestion he had weakened and succumbed to a whole bottle of Pouilly-Fumé instead of the half-bottle of rosé heâd had in mind; a Baron de âLâ â82 from the estate of the Ladoucette family in Pouilly-sur-Loire. Totally delicious, it prompted an entry in hisnotebook as a reminder to repeat the experience at the earliest opportunity â God, Monsieur le Directeur and Madame Grante in Accounts permitting.
The combination of the wine, food from a cold table positively groaning with temptations, coupled with a somewhat protracted but undeniably thorough survey of such doudounes as were on public display around the pool that day, left him in the end with the bare minimum of time to rush back to his room, grab the bottle containing Pommes Fritesâ sample from the door of the fridge and his Leica from the case, before making an equally wild dash for Evian and the nearest gare. Heâd been in and out before the maid, busy replenishing the stocks of perfume and unguents in the bathroom, even realised what was happening.
The journey to Evian had been slow; the normally quiet lakeside road busier than usual. Lausanne, on the far side of Lac Léman, was shrouded in autumn mist, the hills beyond barely visible. In one village an unlikely-looking, life-sized painted cut-out of a cow eyed him dolefully as he waited his turn in the traffic which had piled up behind a delivery van parked outside an épicerie. It looked decidedly less happy than its real-life counterparts in the fields he had passed on the way down, and he could hardly blame it.
After Evian he headed for the D22 and then turned left in the direction of the mountains, taking a road which grew steadily more narrow and winding. Wooden chalets with tightly shuttered windows dotted the hillside. Alongside them stood piles of neatly sawn logs ready for the coming winter. They were all so similar and so like toy musical-boxes that it wouldnât have been surprising to see a giant key on the outside of each one, to wind them up again in the spring.
Gradually the chalets retreated, to be replaced by isolated farms; the road became steeper, the drop more sheer, making it difficult to overtake anything in front â even the occasional cyclists enjoying a last seasonal fling as they pedalled their way laboriously uphill with lowered heads and bulging
He glanced down at Pommes Frites as they set off. Pommes Frites looked up and wagged his tail. It was a good sign. One good sign, followed almost immediately by a second, for he licked his lips, and if Pommes Frites was licking his lips it could mean only one thing: life was returning to normal.
5
LâINSTITUT DES BEAUX ARBRES
It took Monsieur Pamplemousse rather longer than heâd planned to get within striking distance of the Institut des Beaux Arbres, and even longer to find the entrance, which was half-hidden behind a clump of fir trees.
Reflecting that the Institut was well-named (most of the arbres were not only beaux, they were très grands as well, and badly needed thinning), he pulled in alongside some large wrought-iron gates standing in splendid isolation within a carved stone archway and climbing out of the car he applied his thumb to a bell-push. A disembodied voice emerged from a small grille above the button. He gave his name and almost immediately there was a buzz from the direction of the gate itself as an electric bolt-retainer slid open. There was a click and the loudspeaker was silent, cutting off the apologies he had been about to make for being late. He glanced at his watch. It was almost three oâclock.
Lunch had been a protracted affair. Word must have got around about his extravagance the previous evening, for a second assistant sommelier hovered about his table like a solicitous butterfly, the carte des vins already open at what he clearly considered to be an appropriately expensive page. At the waiterâs suggestion he had weakened and succumbed to a whole bottle of Pouilly-Fumé instead of the half-bottle of rosé heâd had in mind; a Baron de âLâ â82 from the estate of the Ladoucette family in Pouilly-sur-Loire. Totally delicious, it prompted an entry in hisnotebook as a reminder to repeat the experience at the earliest opportunity â God, Monsieur le Directeur and Madame Grante in Accounts permitting.
The combination of the wine, food from a cold table positively groaning with temptations, coupled with a somewhat protracted but undeniably thorough survey of such doudounes as were on public display around the pool that day, left him in the end with the bare minimum of time to rush back to his room, grab the bottle containing Pommes Fritesâ sample from the door of the fridge and his Leica from the case, before making an equally wild dash for Evian and the nearest gare. Heâd been in and out before the maid, busy replenishing the stocks of perfume and unguents in the bathroom, even realised what was happening.
The journey to Evian had been slow; the normally quiet lakeside road busier than usual. Lausanne, on the far side of Lac Léman, was shrouded in autumn mist, the hills beyond barely visible. In one village an unlikely-looking, life-sized painted cut-out of a cow eyed him dolefully as he waited his turn in the traffic which had piled up behind a delivery van parked outside an épicerie. It looked decidedly less happy than its real-life counterparts in the fields he had passed on the way down, and he could hardly blame it.
After Evian he headed for the D22 and then turned left in the direction of the mountains, taking a road which grew steadily more narrow and winding. Wooden chalets with tightly shuttered windows dotted the hillside. Alongside them stood piles of neatly sawn logs ready for the coming winter. They were all so similar and so like toy musical-boxes that it wouldnât have been surprising to see a giant key on the outside of each one, to wind them up again in the spring.
Gradually the chalets retreated, to be replaced by isolated farms; the road became steeper, the drop more sheer, making it difficult to overtake anything in front â even the occasional cyclists enjoying a last seasonal fling as they pedalled their way laboriously uphill with lowered heads and bulging
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