may have been, but they lacked the one essential ingredient, love. The local name for indigestion had been ‘an attack of the Claudes’. Even in his own day, when Claude’s father had been in charge, it had always been a case of take it or leave it.
It was the other side of the Dulac family who had all the talent; the talent and the ambition to go with it. All around him stood living proof of that.
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the notebook he kept concealed in a pocket of his right trouser leg. There was no harm in adding to his store of knowledge. As he removed his Cross penfrom an inner pocket and stood poised to write, a sixth sense made him aware that someone was watching him through a gap in the net curtains. He stood for a moment, pretending to be lost in thought, then suddenly looked round, but whoever it was must have read his thoughts and anticipated accordingly. The curtains fell back into place before he had a chance to catch sight of who was behind them.
It was probably only his imagination, but as he made his way back down the street to where he had left the Twingo, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a prickling sensation down the back of his spine. He was determined not to give way to it and look back. Ever sensitive to his master’s moods, Pommes Frites suffered no such inhibitions. He hung around the hotel entrance for a while as though expecting something to happen and when it didn’t he left his mark before he went on his way wearing one of his enigmatic expressions. A keen observer might have noted that he didn’t bother leaving any further marks
en
route
as was his usual wont, although given the fact that nothing had passed his lips since early morning that wasn’t so surprising.
Each lost in their own thoughts, they stayed that way as Monsieur Pamplemousse doubled back on himself and after a brief excursion round the restof the village, drove out of Pouligny following the signs to Dulac. He passed a small working quarry, rounded a bend in the road and there it was spread out before him.
In strictly family terms, the contrast between the old guard and the new could scarcely have been greater: the one seedy and down at heel; the other, perched on the side of a hill a kilometre or so outside the village at the end of a narrow, purpose-built tarmac road; chic, modern, forward-looking.
Viewed from a distance it looked more like a fictional space laboratory than a hotel; mostly single-storied, but with a large domed main building in the middle, rather as though it had been conceived by an architect from a catalogue of parts, instead of starting from scratch on a drawing board. Perhaps it had been, but Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help wondering what its shelf life would be. The call nowadays was for something new, and built-in obsolescence wasn’t the sole prerogative of the automobile industry, but it was no wonder the local authorities had screwed Dulac into the ground before granting planning permission.
The only sign of life came from a flock of birds suddenly rising into the air as a man emerged from an area of beech trees to his left. Weaving an unsteady path, he picked his way across a small stream cascading down the hill; a tributary of thetributary that flowed through the village, one of the many thousands that eventually ended up as the mighty Loire when it reached the sea in Brittany.
Whether it was the snow or he had been drinking was impossible to say; perhaps a bit of each, for he was making slow progress. He had a canvas bag over one shoulder, and Pommes Frites pricked up his ears at the sight of a large black dog ambling along behind, making the most of the snow. They must have been together, yet they looked strangely apart. The whole thing, the presence of water and cover, two basic necessities for the survival of wildlife, the behaviour of the man and his dog, made Monsieur Pamplemousse suspect a poacher at work, although the man didn’t seem to be making any bones about it.
It was the other side of the Dulac family who had all the talent; the talent and the ambition to go with it. All around him stood living proof of that.
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the notebook he kept concealed in a pocket of his right trouser leg. There was no harm in adding to his store of knowledge. As he removed his Cross penfrom an inner pocket and stood poised to write, a sixth sense made him aware that someone was watching him through a gap in the net curtains. He stood for a moment, pretending to be lost in thought, then suddenly looked round, but whoever it was must have read his thoughts and anticipated accordingly. The curtains fell back into place before he had a chance to catch sight of who was behind them.
It was probably only his imagination, but as he made his way back down the street to where he had left the Twingo, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a prickling sensation down the back of his spine. He was determined not to give way to it and look back. Ever sensitive to his master’s moods, Pommes Frites suffered no such inhibitions. He hung around the hotel entrance for a while as though expecting something to happen and when it didn’t he left his mark before he went on his way wearing one of his enigmatic expressions. A keen observer might have noted that he didn’t bother leaving any further marks
en
route
as was his usual wont, although given the fact that nothing had passed his lips since early morning that wasn’t so surprising.
Each lost in their own thoughts, they stayed that way as Monsieur Pamplemousse doubled back on himself and after a brief excursion round the restof the village, drove out of Pouligny following the signs to Dulac. He passed a small working quarry, rounded a bend in the road and there it was spread out before him.
In strictly family terms, the contrast between the old guard and the new could scarcely have been greater: the one seedy and down at heel; the other, perched on the side of a hill a kilometre or so outside the village at the end of a narrow, purpose-built tarmac road; chic, modern, forward-looking.
Viewed from a distance it looked more like a fictional space laboratory than a hotel; mostly single-storied, but with a large domed main building in the middle, rather as though it had been conceived by an architect from a catalogue of parts, instead of starting from scratch on a drawing board. Perhaps it had been, but Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help wondering what its shelf life would be. The call nowadays was for something new, and built-in obsolescence wasn’t the sole prerogative of the automobile industry, but it was no wonder the local authorities had screwed Dulac into the ground before granting planning permission.
The only sign of life came from a flock of birds suddenly rising into the air as a man emerged from an area of beech trees to his left. Weaving an unsteady path, he picked his way across a small stream cascading down the hill; a tributary of thetributary that flowed through the village, one of the many thousands that eventually ended up as the mighty Loire when it reached the sea in Brittany.
Whether it was the snow or he had been drinking was impossible to say; perhaps a bit of each, for he was making slow progress. He had a canvas bag over one shoulder, and Pommes Frites pricked up his ears at the sight of a large black dog ambling along behind, making the most of the snow. They must have been together, yet they looked strangely apart. The whole thing, the presence of water and cover, two basic necessities for the survival of wildlife, the behaviour of the man and his dog, made Monsieur Pamplemousse suspect a poacher at work, although the man didn’t seem to be making any bones about it.
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