by Michael Bond
‘Anyway, Pamplemousse,’ the Director broke into his thoughts, ‘ours is not to reason why. I have to admit I asked myself the same question when I first heard of the venue. But it appears it is one of those occasions when outsiders know more about the history of a country than do its inhabitants.
‘In order to find the answer one has to turn to the life and works of Alexandre Dumas. You know, of course, that he compiled one of the great culinary works of all time: Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had to confess it was a gap in his education. ‘I am aware of it, Monsieur, but I have never read it.’
‘Ah, then you must, Aristide, you really must. It is more than a mere cookery book – it is a distillation of things learned during a whole lifetime of good eating and entertaining. It deserves to stand alongside the works of Brillat-Savarin. Sadly, it was his last work. He delivered the manuscript to his publisher, Alphonse Lemerre, in March 1870. Shortly afterwards the Franco-Prussian War broke out and publication was delayed. He died at his house just outside Dieppe while it was still at the printers.’ Reaching down, the Director opened a desk drawer and removed a large, leather-bound volume. ‘I will lend you my copy. I’m sure it will appeal to you.’
‘Merci, Monsieur.’ Feeling that in accepting the offer he was somehow entering into a commitment, but unable to see a way out of his predicament, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached across and took the book.
‘As is so often the case,’ continued the Director, ‘love of food and cooking went hand in hand with the appreciation and love of other good things in life; art – he was a great friend of Monet – conversation, and, naturally, of women. One summer he took a house called the Villa André on the outskirts of Vichy in order to begin work on yet another sequel to The Three Musketeers. Before he started work he decided to put himself in the right frame of mind by preparing a banquet for a few close friends who were staying with him at the time. His collaborator, Auguste Maquet, was there … the painter Courbet … and Courbet’s mistress, Madame de Sauvignon.
‘And what a meal, Aristide. Let me read you a little of the menu.
‘They began with a recipe of Dumas’ own invention – Potage à la crevette, and for an hors d’oeuvres they had lampreys – cooked as they should be – in their own blood; a rare delicacy these days. Asperge came hard on the heels of the lampreys, followed by ortolans roasted on the spit.
‘But the main course, the pièce de résistance, served after palates had been cleansed by water ices, was Rôtie à l’Impératrice.
‘You start with an olive, remove the stone and replace it with some anchovy. Then you put the olive into a lark, the lark into a quail, the quail into a partridge, the partridge into a pheasant, the pheasant into a turkey, and then the turkey into a suckling pig. The rest is up to the chef.
‘They ended the meal with peaches in red wine, pears with bacon, and fromage.
‘Think of the ergonomics of preparing such a feast, Aristide. Imagine going into a boucherie or a poissonnerie today with such an order and asking them to ensure that every ingredient is in exactly the right state of readiness. And remember, this was long before the days of electric refrigeration.
‘No doubt after such a feast the rest of the company departed to take the cure in nearby Vichy and left him in peace to write.’
‘And it is that feast Le Cercle de Six are hoping to recreate, Monsieur?’
‘Down to the very last detail.’
In spite of all he had said, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself wavering. It was an opportunity that might never occur again. Already he could see an article for L’Escargot – the staff magazine. Feeling a movement at his feet he glanced down and then wished he hadn’t. The Director would not be pleased when he saw the state of his carpet. Pommes Frites, who had been hanging on his every word, was positively trembling with excitement. Drool issued unregarded from his mouth.
‘I will see what Madame Pamplemousse has to say.’ He knew exactly what Doucette would have to say when he arrived home and broke the news to her that their holiday would have to be put back. He was in for a bad evening. Lips would be pursed; sighs interspersed with recriminations. It wouldn’t be the first occasion. His time in the Sûreté had been one long series of cancelled holidays.
‘I will do my best, Monsieur. I cannot say more.’
‘Good. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ The Director rose from his chair. ‘Let us shake hands on it, then I will recharge our glasses so that we may drink to the venture.’ For some reason he appeared to be growing agitated again; his hand, usually firm and dry, felt moist.
‘You must have your photograph taken on the night, Aristide,’ he called. ‘Madame Pamplemousse may like one for the mantelpiece.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse contemplated the back of the Director’s head. He seemed to be taking an inordinately long time over the simple task of pouring a second glass of champagne.
‘May I ask, Monsieur, what is so special about the occasion that Madame Pamplemousse would like a photograph of me for the mantelpiece? She is well used to seeing me eat.’
Privately he felt it would be the last thing he would want to give Doucette. It would act as a constant reminder of things that might have been. It would always be ‘the picture taken of Aristide enjoying himself the year we had to postpone our holiday’.
He realised the Director was speaking again.
‘I was saying, Aristide, it isn’t often we see you, how shall I put it? – à travesti.’
‘Comment, Monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse came down to earth with a bump, wondering if he had heard aright. ‘Did I hear the words “fancy dress”?’
‘You did, Aristide. I have given the matter a lot of thought and I think it will be singularly apposite if you go to the banquet dressed as d’Artagnan. It is not, I will freely admit, what is known in the world of the cinema as “type casting” – I would hardly describe you as the athletic sort. “Dashing” is not a word which springs immediately to mind, neither is “swashbuckling”. However, beggars can’t be choosers.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet. It was the final straw. ‘In that case, Monsieur,’ he said coldly. ‘I suggest you send someone else.’
‘Sit down, Pamplemousse. Sit down. You make me nervous when you jump up and down like that. Mrs Van Dorman is entering into the spirit of things. She is going in costume of the period. You can hardly let France down by appearing in a lounge suit.
‘Anyway, it isn’t possible to send anyone else.’ The Director strove hard to keep a note of irritation from his voice. ‘As you are well aware, June is a busy time of the year. We drew lots yesterday morning and you came up with the short straw. Or rather, in your absence Glandier drew it for you.’
‘Glandier!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. Things were starting to fall into place. He knew at the time it had been a mistake to take time off in order to go shopping with his wife. Shopping with Doucette was never a happy experience at the best of times; tempers were liable to become frayed. When she couldn’t find the dress she wanted she had a habit of staring at the empty rack as though hoping something would materialise. That it never did and never would made no difference. All the same, it hadn’t occurred to him that while he was drumming in Galeries LaFayette dark deeds were afoot.
‘Have you not seen Glandier at the staff annual outing, Monsieur? He is the one who always brings along his conjuring outfit. He does the three-card trick better than anyone I know. He can make a lapin appear out of his hat as soon as look at it. They say he even has a black cloth on the table when he dines at home so that he can practise in front of his wife!’
‘Pamplemousse!’ The Director looked mortally offended. ‘You are surely not suggesting …’
‘Oui, Monsieur. That is exactly what I am suggesting. I demand another draw.’
‘I am sorry, Pamplemousse. That is quite out of the question. The straws have been returned to the canteen. Besides, you are the onl
y one left. The rest of the staff have gone their separate ways.’
‘As quickly as possible I would imagine,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. ‘You probably couldn’t see them for dust.’
He ought to have known something was afoot from the smug way Glandier had said ‘Bonne chance’ when they met on the stairs that morning. He’d been carrying his going-away valise as well.
Other encounters came to mind; or rather, non-encounters. Looking back on it everyone had seemed only too anxious to hurry about their business, which was unusual to say the least. Most of them were away from base so much during the year they were normally only too pleased to seize on any chance of catching up on the latest gossip.
‘As part of our contribution to the event I have engaged a group of local thespians to play the part of Dumas and his guests – it will add a touch of colour. Mrs Van Dorman has expressed a wish to go as d’Artagnan’s projected mistress in the new work, a certain Madame Joyeux. All in all, it promises to be an exciting evening.’
‘I do not think that is a very good idea, Monsieur. It may be apposite if I go as d’Artagnan, but being accompanied by my mistress is fraught with danger.’
The Director clucked impatiently. ‘Must you take everything so literally, Pamplemousse? It will be in name only.’
‘It is precisely the name, Monsieur, which will bother Madame Pamplemousse most. She is even more likely to take it literally than I do when I tell her.’
The Director looked startled. ‘Tell her, Pamplemousse? Is that wise? Is it strictly nécessaire?’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
‘But this is most unlike you. Need she ever know?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows. ‘You have met Doucette, Monsieur. She will know. Over the years she has developed a sixth sense in such matters.’
‘Mmm. Yes, I see what you mean.’
‘Besides,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. ‘I have decided to turn over a new leaf. Life is too short to spend it arguing. Ever since La Rochelle …’
‘La Rochelle?’ The Director sat bolt upright and gazed at Monsieur Pamplemousse with interest. ‘What happened in La Rochelle, Aristide? You did not tell me about it.’
‘Nothing happened, Monsieur.’
‘Then what are you talking about?’
‘There was an unfortunate misunderstanding. Madame Pamplemousse telephoned me about something and the call was put through to my room.’
‘And?’
‘The chambermaid happened to pick up the receiver. She was turning the mattress at the time, and naturally she was breathing somewhat heavily.’
‘I must say, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely, ‘that in view of your past reputation I would be somewhat suspicious were I your wife – which, thank Le Bon Dieu, I am not – and I heard a young girl breathing heavily on the other end of the line.’
‘She was not young, Monsieur. That is why she was breathing heavily. I took a photograph of her to prove my point. Unfortunately, she happened to bend over just as I pressed the shutter release and Madame Pamplemousse came across the enlargement before I had a chance to explain. The matter has come up on a number of occasions since.’
‘All women nag, Aristide. They deny it, of course, but it is in their nature. Why only this morning my own dear wife informed me for the fourth or fifth time over breakfast that she never nags, and when I pointed out that repetition of certain remarks was in itself a form of nagging, all logic deserted her.’
‘I am simply saying, Monsieur, that in view of the present atmosphere I am – how shall I say? – on trial as it were. I wouldn’t wish Doucette to think I was deceiving her. Life would not be worth living. In the circumstances I shall have to tell her that I am being “accompanied” and I am not sure how she will take it.’
‘So be it, Pamplemousse.’ Clearly, now that he had got over the shock, the Director had filed it away in his mind as a domestic problem, and therefore no concern of his. ‘If it is of any consolation, I think you will find Mrs Van Dorman is hardly one of the grandes horizontales. As a captain of her profession she has too many other things on her mind. Success can be very time-and energy-consuming as I know to my own cost.’
The Director managed to combine his dismissal of the problem with an airy wave of the hand which suggested he, too, had other more important matters awaiting his attention and that it was high time Monsieur Pamplemousse went on his way. For his part, Monsieur Pamplemousse was more than willing to oblige before anything else happened to disturb his peace of mind.
‘Your costume will be ready on the night. Fortunately there is an opera house in Vichy, much given I am told to revivals of works of the period. Everything has been arranged. It will be delivered to your hotel two days from now. Your cheval will be waiting at the gates to the Villa André so that you can make your entrance.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was in the outer office before he absorbed the full import of the Director’s last words. He hesitated, wondering if he had heard aright, then knocked on the door again.
‘Entrez.’
The Director’s face fell as he caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse hovering in the doorway.
‘You used the word cheval, Monsieur? Do you mean … my deux chevaux?’
Once again the Director had difficulty in stifling his impatience.
‘No, Pamplemousse, I do not mean your deux chevaux, I mean un cheval. Had I meant deux I would have used the plural. If you are to play the part of a musketeer you must do things properly. You can hardly arrive for a nineteenth-century banquet at the wheel of a Citroën 2CV. It would be an anti-climax to say the least; somewhat akin to Cleopatra journeying down the Nile on a pedalo.’
‘But, Monsieur …’
‘Pamplemousse! I must say you are in a singularly difficult mood today. It is surely not asking too much of you to relinquish your car for one evening in the year. In short, to exchange your deux chevaux for the real thing. Besides, you said yourself you are having trouble with the door. It will be a good opportunity to have it mended. Vichy is known for equestrian pursuits. It must be full of blacksmiths.’
‘I shall need riding lessons, Monsieur.’
‘There is no time for such luxuries, Pamplemousse!’ barked the Director. ‘You will hardly need lessons in order to travel the hundred metres or so up the driveway to the Villa … A child of five could do it blindfold.
‘In any case, I am not asking you to spring from the saddle as if you were representing France in the Olympics. Help will be near at hand.’
‘But I am not insured,’ protested Monsieur Pamplemousse.
The Director picked up his telephone receiver. ‘I will get Madame Grante to deal with the matter immediately. She can arrange for a cover note to be issued. All it needs is a simple document. Fire and theft are hardly necessary. Third party possibly …’
‘It is not the third party I am worried about, Monsieur.’
‘Pamplemousse! I do not wish to hear another word.
‘I have arranged for you to meet Mrs Van Dorman tomorrow morning at the Hôtel de Crillon where she is staying. I will accompany you to effect an introduction, then I must leave you. It so happens I have an appointment there for déjeuner.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse listened to the Director with a growing sense of doom, wondering if there was more to come. He hadn’t long to wait for an answer.
‘One last thing before you go …’ The Director opened his desk drawer again and took out a small wicker-work container. Undoing the lid, he withdrew a graduated tumbler. ‘You may as well take this. It will save buying a new one. I used it once a long time ago when I was taking the cure at Vichy. I have washed it out, but if I were you I would give it another rinse before using it. My wife finds it useful when she is spraying the roses for greenfly.’
He slid the drawer shut. ‘You are fortunate to be going now. The season proper begins on 15th June, so you will miss the worst of the rush. After the 15th you can hardly get into th
e “Palais des Sources” for fear of being crushed by what our American friends call les Wrinklies.
‘A votre santé, Aristide. We will touch base at the Hôtel de Crillon tomorrow.’
2
FAMOUS LAST WORDS
Fresh from a last-minute briefing at Le Guide’s headquarters off the esplanade des Invalides, Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed the Seine by the pont de l’Alma, turned right along the cours Albert ler, negotiated the stream of traffic thundering round the place de la Concorde, and drew up outside the Hôtel de Crillon at precisely twelve noon.
As a commissionaire came forward to greet them, the Director consulted his watch. ‘Good work, Pamplemousse,’ he exclaimed. ‘I must say …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse never did discover what further accolade his chief was about to bestow on him, for the sentence remained unfinished, cut off in mid-flight as it were, as its begetter suddenly vanished out of the side of the car.
The look of disbelief on the Director’s face as he disappeared from view was equalled only by that of the commissionaire as he stood clutching the door of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s car, unsure whether to give priority to restoring it to its rightful place or rendering assistance to the figure sprawled on the pavement at his feet.
‘Pardon, Monsieur.’ The man’s normal air of aplomb deserted him as he made a fumbling attempt to hook the door back on. ‘Such a thing has never happened to me before.’
‘You will be hearing from my avocat in the morning,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse coldly. ‘It may teach you to take more care in future.’ He leaned across and peered out at the Director.
‘I am sorry, Monsieur, but I did warn you. As I said in your office only yesterday, since Madame Pamplemousse had her accident, opening the door is not always easy. It is an acquired knack.’