Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure Read Online Free Page B

salt into the wound, the kind of bizarre coincidence he could well have done without. Experience in the Force had taught him that most people have a double somewhere in the world, but more often than not their pathsnever cross, or if they do, they pass each other by in the street without recognising the fact, aware only of experiencing something slightly odd – a feeling of déj à vu .
    It was his particular misfortune to have a double whose face was constantly in the public eye, made larger than life by being plastered on hoardings the length and breadth of France, and consequently in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s opinion – despite the element of self-criticism it implied – made ten times less inviting.
    As he led the way along the corridor towards the restaurant car, he glanced into the compartment where Ananas was holding court. Adopting a pose which ensured that his profile was clearly visible to anyone passing, he was deep in conversation with a somewhat vicious-looking individual. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that Ananas’ companion looked as if he might have even stranger proclivities than his master, which would be saying something.
    If Ananas recognised himself in Monsieur Pamplemousse he showed no sign, but then he probably didn’t encounter the same problems. On occasion even the simple act of eating in a restaurant became something of a bore, with its routine of pretended mistaken identity, while other diners tried to make up their minds whether or not they were in the presence of the real thing.
    Croissants , toast, confiture and café arrived with lightning speed, and by the time they were passing through Brétigny he was sipping a glass of jus d’orange and feeling better.
    He wondered idly where Ananas might be going at this time of the year. Perhaps his television programme was having a break. He was too sharp an operator and had too much at stake to let someone else take over while he was away. For all their present loyalty, the public were a fickle lot and he would be well aware of the double risk of having either a stand-in who was more popular than himself or someone a great deal less so. Either way he could stand to lose.
    Ananas had first appeared on the scene some years before as ‘Oncle Hubert’ on a children’s television programme. ‘Oncle Hubert’ had a ‘way’ with children. Particularly, as things turned out, with little girls.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse could have told his many fan clubsa thing or two. There had been a near scandal which, in the less liberal climate of the time, would have meant the end of his career had it ever come to light. As it was, strings must have been pulled by someone on high, for ‘Oncle Hubert’ had conveniently disappeared for a while, ostensibly suffering from nervous exhaustion due to overwork.
    When he resurfaced under his adopted name, it was as Chairman of a particularly infantile afternoon panel game, which by some quirk of fate caught the public’s imagination. In a relatively short space of time the viewing figures rocketed to the top, carrying Ananas with them and the accolade of a prime spot two evenings a week. From that moment on he had never looked back. Almost overnight he became that strange product of the twentieth century – a ‘television personality’ – whose views on matters of moment were sought and listened to with awe. Without doubt, Ananas would be careful not to court disaster again.
    At eight twenty-five they reached the start of the twenty kilometres or so of concrete monorail north of Orleans – test-bed for an Aerotrain that never was. By then the sun had broken through and Pamplemousse’s mood was lifting. Even the sight of Ananas at a table further down the restaurant car didn’t dampen his spirits. Like royalty, Ananas never soiled his hands with money, even when the need arose – which wasn’t often, so the bill was being paid