The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  The owner smiled back with reserve. “Then may I invite you, my esteemed Comte de Chauvinaux, to sample this outstanding millésime? It comes from the house of Mumm and is characterized by . . .”

  Isabelle, who pretended to inspect the champagne bottles in the racks, listened breathlessly to the shopkeeper’s words. What a civilized way to do business! While the owner took an order for thirty crates of champagne, she surreptitiously looked at him more closely.

  Isabelle estimated that he was in his early fifties. His dense dark-brown hair was cut with military precision; his hazel eyes, crowned by strong brows, were intense. His skin was lightly tanned, the lines of his face even and soft, but not weak. On the contrary, with every movement he made and every sentence he spoke, the man radiated vitality. The dark-gray suit he wore was the epitome of the clothier’s art, and Isabelle had never seen such perfectly tailored men’s clothes on even the most dashing officers of the imperial bodyguard in Berlin. His black leather shoes had been polished so highly that he could probably use them for a mirror. In her mind, Isabelle whistled appreciatively. What a good-looking man!

  Although, to all appearances, he had no more than glanced sidelong at her, from the moment his young customer stepped into his shop, Raymond Dupont observed her closely. At the age of fifty-five, he was a connoisseur of not only fine champagnes, but also beautiful women, although he knew that he probably defined beauty a little differently than most men, who might not have liked the young woman’s tousled locks. Raymond, however, could almost sense the resilient bounce of her hair beneath his hands. Like warm autumn leaves, he thought. Another man might assert that the freckles that dappled her cheeks looked common or even rustic. But in Raymond’s eyes, they brought her milk-white complexion to the fore. Her cheeks, chin, and nose might be considered by some to be a little too accentuated, as on the face of a porcelain doll. But Raymond knew that her face would transform in time and that nobler features would appear. She would go from being pretty to being classically beautiful—a transformation that very few women were capable of. But this young woman was a rose in the process of emerging. Like a champagne that needs time to mature, he thought, as the Comte de Chauvinaux departed.

  He inhaled deeply, as if he might breathe in the young woman’s aura. She was a head shorter than he, but her proud, upright bearing made her appear taller and even more charming. Bearing—in his eyes—was an important element of beauty.

  “My name is Raymond Dupont. I’m the owner of this establishment. How may I be of service, madame?”

  “I . . . well . . . I’ll be living in . . . Hautvillers and . . .” She took a small, uncertain step back.

  The stammering did not fit his image of her, and Raymond sensed that the young woman herself was annoyed about it. Was it because French was not her native tongue? Or was something else to blame for her agitation?

  Nervously, she stroked her skirt smooth with both hands, then she raised her eyes and firmly said, “I have to learn as much as possible about champagne as quickly as possible!”

  And that was all. No more explanation was forthcoming.

  “You’ll be living in Hautvillers? Congratulations! It’s a very lovely location. The famous monk Dom Pérignon lived there, once upon a time. He did a great deal to advance the making of champagne. If you have the time, you should go for a stroll and visit his grave.”

  The young woman nodded but did not respond to his banter. So she was not especially talkative or coquettish or affected, as he had so often experienced.

  What an enchanting vision—ravishing, even! Raymond smiled. He should really have been preparing for the visit of his next extremely wealthy customer, Madame Depeche, but he surprised himself when he said, “Would you like to taste the champagne? One learns best by doing, don’t you think?” With a sweep of his hand, he invited his visitor to follow him to where several armchairs were grouped around a heavy table. For Raymond, champagne was something to be taken seriously, and pretty chairs artfully set around a delicate table would have been out of place. The last thing he wanted his customers wondering about was where to put their elbows and legs. He wanted their senses to be stimulated—or even better, aroused. As if making passionate love, a devotee of champagne ought to be able to forget the world around her and simply feel, smell, taste, and see . . .

  “May I ask what . . . that would cost?” the woman said, lowering her eyes slightly.

  “Why, nothing, of course,” replied Raymond airily. “Or did you see me charge my customer for tasting the champagne just now? Now, please.” He took three bottles of champagne that had been sitting in ice in a large silver bucket behind the counter. They had been intended for the arrogant Madame Depeche, who was coming in search of new champagnes for her picturesque restaurant on the banks of the Marne. But because she had no sense of taste of her own and relied entirely on his, he could present her with others.

  “You’re German?”

  “Forgive me. I haven’t introduced myself at all. My name is Isabelle Feininger. And yes, I’m from Germany. From Berlin, actually.” She reached out her hand to him, and a smile appeared on her face for the first time. Raymond felt her relax a little.

  Feininger? He became more alert. Wasn’t there a German winemaker in Hautvillers by that name? A strange fellow. Raymond had never crossed paths with him, but he’d heard about him occasionally. Was she his wife? Or was the name just a coincidence?

  “Then you must certainly know that there have been many Germans here in the Champagne region, and they profited greatly from their products. Think of Mumm, Heidsieck, and Krug. Even today, there are many wine specialists who find their way here from Germany.”

  “For me, it’s rather that the opposite is true—I know nothing about champagne. In Berlin, they normally serve sparkling wine at parties and celebrations. They say that Kaiser Wilhelm gets downright angry if anyone dares open a bottle of champagne. Though, my father did serve champagne on special occasions, so I have had the opportunity to enjoy it from time to time,” said Isabelle.

  There was no vain boasting in her words. No inordinate high-society conceit. She spoke so casually of Kaiser Wilhelm that he might have been a close friend. And she was not wearing perfume; all Raymond could smell was a trace of lemon. When it came to tasting wine, perfume only got in the way.

  “You know, you’ve just put your finger on the greatest difference between you Germans and we French?” he said, smiling. “A German wine lover opens a bottle of French champagne only on grand occasions. We French, on the other hand, open a bottle of champagne to make a grand occasion out of every moment.” He skillfully removed first the foil, then the wire muselet from the first bottle. Instead of then twisting out the cork, he first removed the metal cap from it.

  “This is what they call the plaque. For you, madame. A lucky charm—maybe it will work?”

  While she happily inspected the silver-colored plaque, he opened the bottle so that no more than a soft hiss could be heard. Then he repeated the process with the next two bottles. Three would be enough to start with. He poured two glasses half full and handed her one of them.

  “Champagne is a very special drink. A single swallow is enough to put one in the best of moods, but how great is the pleasure one takes from an entire bottle? It seduces people, enlivens any conversation, banishes sorrow and pain, and”—he paused for effect—“champagne is the drink for flirting.” Instead of looking her in the eye, as he would have liked, he regarded the white-gold liquid in his glass. “See all the millions of bubbles? I could look into a glass of champagne for hours without getting bored. And it seems I’m not the only one, because more champagne is produced, sold, and drunk today than ever before. People are simply addicted to it!”

  “And what do you think is the reason for that?” Isabelle asked seriously, apparently not seduced in the slightest.

  Raymond shrugged. “Companies in practically every sector of our economy are doing very well. New factories and firms are springing up eve
rywhere, like mushrooms. There’s a lot of money around and, for now, no hint of war or other conflicts on the horizon. We live in very good times indeed. But please don’t get the impression that champagne is just a passing fashion! Even under King Louis the Fourteenth, it was an exceptionally popular drink.” Raymond was relieved to see that she knew whom he was talking about. A lack of education would have ill-suited his guest. Education and charm—two more crucial elements of beauty. And the ability to move gracefully. Isabelle Feininger moved with the grace of a young deer.

  “They say that the Sun King wanted no other drink. The things he said, the things he did—these were observed in minute detail not only by the members of his court, but also high society in every country in the world. Louis the Fourteenth singlehandedly made the drinking of champagne a fashion. But enough history. Try it!” He raised his own glass encouragingly. “What we have here is a Dom Pérignon millésime produced in Hautvillers, the place you—”

  “I heard that same expression last night!” she interrupted him, and a faint blush colored her cheeks. “A millésime.” She let the word pearl off her lips. “What does that mean exactly?”

  He would have liked to know in which company she had heard the word. “With champagne, as a rule, wines from different years are mixed together. This allows a cellar master to use wines from a good year to balance out wines from weaker years, which in turn allows him to produce a consistent quality product year after year. One could call these kinds of champagnes ‘non-millésime,’ but most of the time that designation is simply ignored. With a millésime, on the other hand, only the grapes from one particularly good year are used, and this is noted with pride on the label. It has been some years since the last millésime . . .” Raymond could not prevent a soft sigh from escaping him. It had been “some years” for so many things . . .

  “But that’s not how it is with normal wine, is it? Only the grapes from one year go into a bottle.” A small crease appeared on her forehead.

  So she knows a little after all, Raymond thought. And she’s not afraid of asking questions. With an avidity that he had not felt for a long time, Raymond went on with his exposition.

  “This kind of complicated assemblage of wines from different years is, in fact, unique to champagne. And only three kinds of grapes are used. Pinot Noir, which gives the wine its long life; Pinot Meunier, which gives it its fruitiness and lightness in the glass; and the Chardonnay grape, without which a champagne would be coarse and boring. The proportion in which these three grapes are mixed is a closely guarded secret and varies among cellar masters. There is also an exception, and that is the champagnes that are made only from Chardonnay grapes, and—” He broke off when he saw that Isabelle was looking confused. “Madame?”

  “It’s just as I was afraid it might be—terribly complicated.” Isabelle sighed, raised her glass to her mouth, and drank a small mouthful. As she did so, her full top lip curled slightly. “A good drop,” she said, though she did not sound particularly euphoric.

  Raymond, who knew this reaction from many champagne tasting sessions, smiled in amusement, although he normally rolled his eyes on the inside.

  “Champagne is not there to be sipped, my dear. If that were the case, you could have gone straight to a cheap liqueur. One should enjoy champagne in large mouthfuls, because that is what brings out its aromas the best.” To confirm his words, he took a large mouthful from his glass and was happy to see that she did the same. Then she looked at him in amazement.

  “It actually tastes completely different now. Much . . . fuller!” She took another mouthful, closing her eyes in pleasure. “Am I mistaken, or does this champagne taste a little like cognac? And there’s something else, a woody note . . . and something smoky.”

  Raymond felt a shiver run through him. The abandon with which she dedicated herself to the champagne—there was something almost erotic in it. He cleared his throat and said, “What we have before us is a completely mature champagne, not some flighty, fickle thing. I also find the slight hint of orange and cinnamon very stimulating.”

  Isabelle looked at him wide-eyed. “That is exactly what I was just about to say, but monsieur”—she drank another mouthful—“there is something else again . . . marzipan?”

  Raymond held his breath. It was rare for an unpracticed palate to recognize these fine nuances. Isabelle Feininger seemed to have a true gift.

  “My compliments, madame! Marzipan. Or more accurately, a trace of bitter almond. The flavor is so distinctive that one can discern a Dom Pérignon millésime among hundreds of champagnes simply by tasting,” he said. “The second champagne we’ll try is made in a completely different way.”

  After trying two more champagnes, Isabelle’s eyes were gleaming like the most brilliant Brazilian tourmalines. Her lips seemed fuller than before, as if the tingling of the champagne had made them swell like the buds of flowers. She reached out her hand to the dealer, smiling.

  “Thank you very, very much for this wonderful tasting! You have opened a door for me into a world that I never even knew existed. Oh, forgive me, I don’t normally babble on so.” Embarrassed, she withdrew her hand. He could have held it for hours.

  Raymond smiled, but his chest ached. “I would really have been very disappointed if my champagnes had not worked their magic on you. If you would like, madame, we can continue this lesson at any time.”

  Chapter Five

  With practiced ease, but under Leon’s watchful gaze, the coachman tied the two bicycles onto the huge flat back of his wagon. Then he did the same with the rest of their baggage. He drove the stretch to Hautvillers several times a week, and when Leon and Isabelle had booked the journey, he assured them that he knew the road well.

  “Your luggage weighs at least as much as a load of champagne bottles, so I won’t be pushing the horses very hard,” he said. “But if everything goes smoothly, we’ll be there in three hours.”

  Three hours, Isabelle thought as Leon helped her up onto the seat. Maybe she should take up cycling again after all; then she would be able to get back to Reims easily. The thought cheered her up and made it at least a little easier to say good-bye to the city that had already touched her heart.

  They were finally on their way to their new home. The sun shone brightly, as it ought to at the beginning of March. Birds were chirping for all they were worth, and the scent of the first forsythia blooms filled the air. Isabelle snuggled close to Leon, who had also climbed up onto the seat of the coach to sit between her and the driver.

  “‘Bonne chance,’ the man in the champagne shop said. Isn’t that nice? Good luck. We could really use some of that.”

  Leon put his arm around her. “One thing I have to give the Champenois—they really are very friendly,” he said, and told her again about the professional cyclists he had met the day before. They had given him many tips about the best cycling routes.

  “So much forest? I really did not expect that in Champagne,” Isabelle said to the coachman after they had seen nothing but trees for half an hour. Fallen leaves from the previous winter carpeted the ground between the still-bare trees, creating a morbid atmosphere. The sun, which had been shining as brightly as the daffodils in the front gardens of Reims, shed its light here through the trees in a pallid glow.

  “The world-famous vineyards are coming,” said the coachman, and grinned.

  And, indeed, at a certain point, the forest thinned out, the land opened up, and the sun shone down again from a cloudless sky.

  The driver turned around a curve and reined in the horses.

  “Et voilà!” He swept his hands wide, his gesture taking in the gently rolling landscape of the Montagne de Reims.

  Isabelle exhaled audibly. “This . . . is unbelievable!” Her gaze turned across thousands—no, millions—of grapevines, growing in rows as far as she could see. The vineyards here were not steep as they had been in the Palatinate; in places, the vines even grew on flat land. Like an ocean crossed by a low swell, thought
Isabelle, overwhelmed by the sense of distance and endlessness. But even more impressive was the knowledge that this landscape was the result of human work. Work and the blessing of God, she thought, and the notion felt utterly strange to her, something that had not come to her either in Berlin, with its enormous factory buildings, or in the Palatinate. She felt overcome by a strange emotion.

  “Somewhere in the middle of all that are our vineyards, too. Isn’t that amazing?” said Leon.

  Isabelle gripped his hand. Speaking quietly, she said, “I never imagined it would be so beautiful.” She nodded in the direction of the nearest grapevines. “What are those bushes standing at the end of every fourth or fifth row of vines?”

  “Roses, of course,” Leon replied casually.

  “Roses are almost as typical of the Champagne region as the grapevines,” the coachman said. “There’s a reason for them, too. In certain weather, the roses succumb to a mildew infection very fast, so if a winemaker sees a rose bush that’s been hit, he knows he has to treat his vines against the mildew.”

  “I’m sure it must be wonderful when the roses are in bloom.” She could not remember ever being so impressed by a landscape—she, a child of the city. This is where you belong, said a soft voice deep inside her.

  “See there?” The coachman was pointing to a village in the distance. It was situated atop a hill that was higher than most of the others around, which made it look somehow majestic and very close to the clouds. “Hautvillers.”

  Isabelle blinked several times. She had arrived. Hautvillers. Her new home.

  A steep main street wound up the hillside. Well-tended houses lined both sides of the street, with little space in between. None of the houses was more than two stories high, and it seemed to Isabelle that the residents were doing their best not to outshine the grapevines that, in places, grew down to the walls of the houses. Maybe that was the reason that everything here seemed to exist in such harmony. Almost every house was decorated with a wrought iron sign depicting the profession of the person who lived inside. As the horses stretched their necks forward and leaned into the steep climb up the main street of Hautvillers, their coach passed a basket maker, a general store, a laundry, and a cobbler’s workshop. Isabelle beamed at everyone she saw—after all, these people would be her new neighbors.