Free Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure by Michael Bond

delivery of groceries. How and where Pommes Frites had managed to get hold of it was academic. The important fact was that somehow or other he had.
    With trembling hands, Monsieur Pamplemousse carried the parcel over to the table and pulled the string away from the outside, up-ending the contents as he did so. To say that he was taken aback by the result was to put it mildly. Even Pommes Frites looked startled. Putting his paws up on the table he gazed down open-mouthed as a string of sausages spilled out; large ones, small ones, medium sized – as they landed so they seemed to grow in size until it was hard to believe that the parcel he had been carrying could have contained so much.
    For a moment or two Monsieur Pamplemousse stood transfixed, a look of wonder on his face. He couldn’t remember having seen quite so many sausages since he last attended the annual Boudin Festival at Mortagne-au-Perche.There were more than enough to feed a regiment. Then he sprang into action.
    Undoing his valise, he removed a smaller case, the one containing the emergency kit issued to all those who worked for Le Guide. Designed to cover every eventuality in the minimum of space, it was a miracle of compactness; not a single cubic centimetre was wasted. Spare notebooks, maps, report forms and writing instruments were contained in the lid. Below that was a felt-lined tray for the Leica R4, two spare lenses – wide and narrow angle, a motor winder and various filters and other accessories. Below that again, other compartments contained a pair of Leitz Trinovid binoculars, a compass, map magnifier, water purifying tablets (Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped several into his pocket, they might come in useful later) and a book containing emergency telephone numbers. Last but not least, in the very bottom of the case there reposed a funnel, a small butane-operated folding stove, a collapsible pan and a box of storm-proof matches.
    In all his years with Le Guide he’d never had occasion to use the last three items. Nor, for that matter, had any of his colleagues, as far as he knew, apart from Glandière, who covered the Savoie region and sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time.
    Now he blessed the man who had designed it. A man of foresight, a leader among men. He turned and looked down as something long and sinewy began slapping the side of his leg.
    ‘Pommes Frites!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are très, très méchant. ’ But the tone of his voice gave lie to the words, and Pommes Frites’ tail began to wag even faster as he followed his master into the bathroom in search of some water.
    Quite frankly, in order to save time, he would have been perfectly happy to dine on a smoked or dried sausage; a Saucisson de Lyon, for example, or perhaps one from Arles, even a raw sausage or two, but if his master intended cooking them first, then so be it.
    The stove alight and the water beginning to show signs of movement, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to the difficult task of deciding on an order of priorities. With such a wealth of sausages at his disposal, the choice would not be easy. As amember of several distinguished societies – the A.A.A.A.A., the Association Amicale des Amateurs d’Andouille Authenti que, La Confrérie des Chevaliers du Goûte-Andouille, whose energies were directed towards the perfection of the andouil lette, not to mention the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Goûte- Boudin, who were very protective about that other classic of French cuisine, and the Frères du Boudin Noir et Blanc, his loyalties were divided.
    In the end, much to Pommes Frites’ approval, he decided on a representative selection. One by one, Andouillette, Saucisse de Toulouse, Saucisse d’Alsace-Lorraine, Saucisse de Campagne, and Boudins Noirs et Blancs disappeared into the bubbling water until the pan could hold no more.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse thought the boudins looked particularly mouth-watering. He’d once taken part in the annual competition at Manziat to