Marrying Off Mother Read Free Page A

Monsieur Clot was yelling, struggling to rise from the chaise-longue.
    â€˜Your heart, your heart, remember your heart,’ shouted the doctor.
    â€˜Yes, yes, remember your heart,’ shrieked Madame Clot.
    â€˜I will deal with him, Monsieur Clot,’ said the handsome young man, glaring at me from ferocious gentian-blue eyes. He looked the sort of muscular young man who could bend horseshoes out of alignment with his little fingers.
    â€˜Let me get at him, let me tear out his jugular vein,’ shouted Monsieur Clot, ‘the illegitimate thief.’
    â€˜Your heart, your heart,’ the doctor shouted.
    â€˜Henri, Henri, keep calm,’ shrilled Madame Clot.
    â€˜I will disembowel him,’ said the muscular young man.
    The trouble with the French is that they love to talk but not to listen. One sometimes gets the very strong impression that they don’t even listen to themselves. When you get embroiled in a turmoil of French citizens like this, there is only one thing to be done. You must out-shout them. Filling my lungs to the utmost capacity, I roared ‘Silence’ and silence fell as though I had waved a magic wand.
    â€˜Monsieur Clot,’ I said, bowing to him, ‘may I make it clear that I am not an assassin or a bandit and that I am not, to the best of my knowledge, illegitimate. Having said that, I feel I can vouchsafe to you the fact that I have in my possession a pig whose name is, I believe, Esmeralda.’
    â€˜Ahhhh!’ cried Monsieur Clot, his worst fears confirmed.
    â€˜Silence!’ I barked and he fell back on the chaise-longue with a delicate, slender and beautifully manicured hand spread, like a butterfly, over that portion of his anatomy in which he suspected his heart to have its abode.
    â€˜I met Esmeralda in the forest,’ I continued. ‘She shared my lunch with me and then, when I had ascertained in the village who her rightful owner was, I brought her back.’
    â€˜Esmeralda here? Esmeralda returned? Where? Where?’ cried Monsieur Clot, struggling to rise.
    â€˜Slowly, slowly,’ said the doctor. ‘Remember your heart.’
    â€˜She is outside in my car,’ I said.
    â€˜And . . . and . . . what ransom do you demand?’ asked Monsieur Clot.
    â€˜I don’t want a ransom,’ I said.
    Monsieur Clot and the doctor exchanged eloquent glances.
    â€˜No ransom?’ said Monsieur Clot. ‘She is an extremely valuable animal.’
    â€˜An animal beyond price,’ said the doctor.
    â€˜An animal worth five years’ pay,’ said the muscular young man.
    â€˜An animal worth more than La Reine Elizabeth’s crown jewels,’ said Madame Clot, bringing in the feminine angle with a touch of exaggeration to gild the lily.
    â€˜Nevertheless, I do not want a ransom,’ I said, firmly. ‘I am happy to return her to you.’
    â€˜No ransom?’ said Monsieur Clot. He sounded almost insulted.
    â€˜No ransom,’ I said.
    Monsieur Clot glanced at the doctor who simply, palms outstretched, shrugged and said, ‘Voilà les Anglais.’ Monsieur Clot shook himself free of both the doctor’s and the muscular young man’s grip and rose to his feet.
    â€˜Then, monsieur, I am deeply, deeply in your debt,’ he said and snatched off his beret and placed it over his heart, his head bowed. Then he carefully replaced the beret on his head and ran across the room at me like a badly manipulated puppet and clasped me in his arms. His beard whispered like silk against my cheeks as he kissed me with all the vehemence that only a Frenchman can exhibit when kissing a member of the same sex.
    â€˜Mon brave, mon ami,’ he said, clasping my shoulders, looking deeply into my eyes, the tears trickling like transparent tadpoles down his magnificent beard, ‘take me to my beloved.’
    So we went outside, woke Esmeralda and she climbed out of the car to be embraced, patted and