The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  “So how’s business on the Feininger estate?” Simon Souret asked, clinking his glass with Leon’s.

  “Very good for the start,” Leon replied. “I’m hard at work finding new customers.” He was suddenly unsure what he should say. While he was flattered that these men had accepted him into their ranks so quickly, they were the competition.

  “New customers. That’s wonderful! We have enough on our plates with the old ones, right, gentlemen?” the Trubert agent said, and he laughed so hard that his whiskers shook. “I’m just back from a trip to America. And a very successful trip, if I say so myself. Which is also the reason for our little . . . celebration.” The men laughed.

  “America?” Leon was suddenly all ears; he might be able to learn something from the man. “Where did your travels take you, exactly?” His question was met with loud guffaws from the others.

  Simon Souret grinned broadly—first at his colleagues and then at Leon. “All over the place. In Springfield, Missouri, in Knoxville, Dayton, Cincinnati . . .”

  “I don’t believe it!” Leon’s mind was racing. “We’ve got customers ourselves in just those cities,” he said, which touched off a new round of laughter. What was so funny about that? he wondered.

  “You have customers there? Or was it perhaps your deceased uncle, Jacques Feininger, peddling that sweet swill of his?” The salesman was still smiling, but his voice now had an edge to it. The men around them, one or two of whom had been throwing in the odd remark earlier, fell silent.

  “What are you trying to say?” Leon asked quietly, glaring now at Simon Souret.

  “I’m not trying to say anything. Wherever I went in the backlands of America, everyone assumed that the Feininger estate didn’t exist anymore.” He shrugged in mock sympathy.

  The Pommery agent took up the thread immediately and said, “And because you were so full of compassion for the poor abandoned customers, you offered them your Trubert champagne in consolation, right?” Then he turned to the others. “The son of a bitch beat us to it again!”

  “You . . . you stole Jacques’s customers?” Leon was suddenly so upset that he had difficulty getting the words out. The hostess and a few other guests turned to him.

  The man beside Leon clapped him comfortingly on the shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard. Next time, you’ll be the one luring away a maker’s clients.”

  “That’s how the game is played these days,” the Pommery salesman added. “On the plus side, you’ve saved yourself a trip to America.”

  Again, the men laughed raucously.

  “Let’s drink to that. The next round’s on me, again!” Simon Souret said pompously.

  Leon’s glass rang as he set it down hard on the bar. “I’ve lost my thirst!”

  Isabelle was already at Claude’s table before she realized who was sitting beside him. Micheline Guenin winked at her conspiratorially. But Isabelle’s smile froze when, at the next table, she saw Daniel Lambert. That man, with his loose tongue . . . that was all she needed! Luckily, he had not noticed her. He was deeply involved in a tasting session; there were several glasses and bottles in front of him. The way he swirled his glass, sniffed its contents, and examined the rosé-colored liquid was strangely intimate, and Isabelle looked away quickly. She went to one of the few free tables in front of the floor-to-ceiling transom windows.

  She wondered how long Leon planned to stand around with the men at the bar, when loud laughter from the group rang out. The last thing she wanted was to sit around alone, and she was eager to find out how much money he had taken in from champagne sales that day and what he was planning next. The fact that he was taking her out for dinner, at least, was a good sign.

  A rushed waitress came to her table, and Isabelle ordered a glass of water. Isabelle took a closer look around the restaurant. Almost all the tables were occupied, the visitors deep in animated conversations. Beer, wine, and champagne flowed freely, and the hostess behind the bar had her hands full keeping up with the orders. Isabelle immediately recognized her: it was the young woman with her hair casually tied up, the one Isabelle had seen in front of Le Grand Cerf the first time they went through Hautvillers.

  So that was la maîtresse. Close up, she’s even more attractive, Isabelle thought. Not so much as a blemish marred her skin, and the same was true for her figure: she had a slender waist and was as petite as a ballerina. Her legs, which showed beneath the flowing fabric of her skirt whenever she moved, were as long as a racehorse’s. As beautiful and bursting with vitality as the woman was, she could have stood up to anyone on a Berlin stage, and nothing about la maîtresse looked in any way disreputable or degenerate. Then again, she doesn’t seem particularly friendly, thought Isabelle, as she watched the woman hand Leon a glass of water.

  “The morals don’t show on the outside, do they?” Isabelle jumped as someone suddenly whispered in her ear.

  It was Carla Chapron, the cooper’s wife.

  “Can you read minds?” Isabelle whispered back with a smile.

  “Ignaz, may I introduce our new neighbor? This is the woman who drank sparkling wine with the emperor of Germany,” said Carla to her husband with pride in her voice. “May we join you?”

  Isabelle nodded quickly, relieved that she didn’t have to sit alone any longer.

  “See the man standing at the bar? Over on the left, away from the others?” Carla pointed covertly to a man in his early sixties. He was not as elegantly dressed as the group with whom Leon was standing; his pants and jacket looked more utilitarian, like the clothes Claude wore. His bushy moustache was a mottled gray-black; he had a double chin, a red nose and jowls, and his belly was so big that it touched the side of the bar. Just then, he seemed thoroughly amused at some joke that la maîtresse had just made, and his whole body quaked with laughter.

  “That is Alphonse Trubert,” the cooper’s wife murmured meaningfully. “Ghislaine’s lover. Or rather, one of her lovers.”

  Isabelle stared at the rather unattractive man in disbelief. He had to be twenty-five years older than his mistress. “What does Madame Trubert have to say about the way her husband dallies with his lover like this, in public?” she asked.

  Carla Chapron was about to answer when Leon came to the table.

  “My turn for an introduction,” said Isabelle. “My husband, Leon Feininger. These are our neighbors, Ignaz and Carla Chapron.” When Leon had greeted both, Isabelle asked archly, “Did you have a nice chat with the men at the bar?”

  “Depends,” Leon growled. “But you didn’t miss anything.”

  The next moment, instead of the waitress who had come to the table earlier, la maîtresse herself slammed a carafe of water and a few glasses on the table. “Do you want something to eat, too?” Rarely had a question sounded so hostile.

  Isabelle gave Leon a puzzled look, but when he did not react, she said, “Yes, we would.”

  A smile played across the lips of la maîtresse then. “But of course, madame. I recommend the baked andouillette.”

  Isabelle raised her eyebrows. It was not something she knew.

  “A specialty of Champagne, but really quite distinctive,” said Carla in a tone that Isabelle could not place.

  “Baked sausage? We love that in Germany. Two, please,” said Leon, without asking Isabelle. Ignaz Chapron ordered the same.

  The sausage looked like a pale German bratwurst. It had been crisply baked and was smothered in browned onion rings. Two slices of bread lay on the edge of the plate—Isabelle found the sight so inviting that her stomach let out a low growl.

  She had just sliced off the first piece of sausage when she noticed a smell. Something vaguely fermented. It smelled like . . . horse urine. She looked around, perplexed. Where was it coming from? And why didn’t someone close the window? A reek like that during dinner was anything but appetizing. But no one else seemed to have noticed it, and Leon and the cooper were digging into their food enthusiastically. Isabelle pulled herself together and put the first piece of s
ausage into her mouth.

  The feeling that she was about to retch was almost overwhelming. It was only with the greatest effort that she managed to choke down the sausage, and then she had to hold her hand over her mouth to smother her coughing and gagging. What . . . was . . . this?

  Ignoring the inquiring looks of the others at the table, Isabelle began to examine the sausage more closely. Sticky, gelatinous chunks in different shades of white and pink had been pressed together into a kind of aspic—the sausage was absolutely nothing like a German bratwurst. Isabelle turned to Carla and asked her hesitantly, “So what is this . . . andouillette made of?”

  “Oh, you need countless ingredients to make it, and every butcher has his own recipe.” Carla’s eyes lit up, and she was obviously enjoying the opportunity to describe the special sausage. “One will use the stomachs of calves, cows, and ducks, but our butcher here in Hautvillers swears by adding lamb’s stomach to the mix. Then you add the intestines of the same animals and their kidneys, spleens, and udders. Everything is cut up very fine, which helps bring out the distinctive flavor. And so as not to damage that, practically no spices are used at all. And it’s a real treat cold.” Carla Chapron sounded so proud that one might have thought that she’d come up with the recipe herself. “Do you like it?”

  Isabelle, whose nausea had only worsened with Carla’s enumeration of the ingredients, said miserably, “It’s really a very . . . special sausage, isn’t it?” She could not stand the smell of the innards anymore.

  A short time later, the hostess returned to clear the table. With her eyebrows raised, she looked at Isabelle’s all-but-untouched plate.

  “You didn’t like it? You’re probably just used to boring old potatoes.” The disdain in her voice was unmistakable. “You’d better get used to it. There’ll be a lot more that you’ll have trouble swallowing.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “We had a wonderful evening. We drank wine and chatted away and laughed.” Micheline Guenin sighed wistfully. “Claude tells such good stories. I could listen to him for hours.”

  A smile flickered on Isabelle’s face as she looked from the washbasin to her neighbor, who was leaning against the window. Micheline sounded like a young girl in love!

  She had gone to visit the Guenin sisters briefly to borrow a piece of soap. The basket of dirty wash was overflowing, and she could not put off the chore any longer, as much as she would have liked to. When Micheline had offered to help her, she accepted gladly. Since entering Isabelle’s house, the old woman had been going on about her evening at Le Grand Cerf. The picture she painted of Claude Bertrand was completely different from the one that Isabelle already had of him. Claude recited poetry? His cryptic humor had Micheline in tears? Well, it was always said that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.

  As wonderful as the evening had been for Micheline Guenin, Isabelle herself had found it terribly frustrating. And then, on the way home, Leon had told her that the agent from Trubert had apparently stolen away all their American customers. Isabelle had been stunned, scarcely able to believe what she heard. What an outrage!

  She and Leon had sat up together in Jacques’s office until late in the night, debating what this meant for them. Leon, for the time being, was ready to write off the American customers and look for others closer to home, but Isabelle was not so willing to admit defeat. She wanted to write a letter to all the customers explaining the situation and asking them to reestablish the business relationships Jacques had started. In the meantime, Leon could court a new clientele in France. With this plan, Isabelle had fallen asleep at around two in the morning, exhausted but at least a little calmer.

  The air in the laundry was so stiflingly hot that sweat was rolling down Isabelle’s forehead. With wet hands, she tugged at the window, but apart from breaking a nail, nothing happened. She sighed and made a mental note to repair the window as best she could when she was done with the laundry.

  “Should I add more soap, or is it too foamy already?” she asked, looking at the opaque broth in the vat in which her delicate knickers and camisoles were drifting around like belly-up fish. Micheline was too busy staring dreamily out the window to answer, so Isabelle reached for the scrubbing brush as she had always seen Irmi, her mother’s maid in Berlin, do.

  “For goodness’ sake, don’t!” Micheline cried. “Fine things like those need a gentle hand. Look, like this.” She reached into the lukewarm water with both hands and began to knead the thin fabric carefully.

  Isabelle watched attentively. Running a household was a lot of work but also a lot of fun, she had been surprised to discover. Just the previous afternoon, she had hauled all of the Persian rugs out of the house, slung them over a rail, and beat them until the color came through properly again. Now, whenever she went through the rooms, the first thing that caught her eye were the carpets, and she was happy with what she’d achieved. She would have been ten times happier to take the first orders from Leon and process them, but as long as there was nothing for her to do on the business side, she could certainly make herself useful around the house.

  “Done!” said Micheline, pulling Isabelle out of her thoughts. Leon’s underwear and Isabelle’s lace knickers and camisoles were already hanging wet and white in neat rows on the clothesline.

  Almost tenderly, Micheline smoothed a pair of Isabelle’s underwear flat. “What I wouldn’t have given to be able to wear something like this when I was young. But for whom?”

  Isabelle, who was emptying the washtub, looked at the older woman. “May I ask why you . . . I mean—”

  “Why I never married?” Micheline finished Isabelle’s question. “It was how it is so often: the man I wanted married someone else. And I had no interest in the men who were interested in me. When it became clear that Marie and my brother would be childless, I thought it would be best if I stayed on the estate. An extra pair of hands couldn’t hurt, right? Not with all the work that needs to be done.”

  Isabelle smiled and nodded. But a moment later, she grew serious again. “Your brother and Marie must have been very sad when they realized that God was not going to give them any children.”

  “Oh, they had a child,” Micheline replied, which took Isabelle by surprise. “But the little one was not well. Not . . . normal.” Micheline was visibly sad as she relived the misfortunes of the past in her mind. “A boy. He was three weeks old when he died—it was a terrible thing. The doctor told them that there was a danger that the next child would be just as unwell, and Marie decided not to even try. After that, the three of us grew even closer.”

  Micheline’s story had begun to give Isabelle the chills. But a great love in her old age . . . she would wish that for Micheline with all her heart.

  “Not everything in our lives goes the way we once dreamed it might. But sometimes you get a second chance. And I don’t care what Marie says about it, I’m going to take that chance!” Micheline’s eyes shone as she turned back to the window, as if she hoped to see Claude outside just at that moment.

  “Did Monsieur Bertrand mention to you that he might like to find a new job?” Isabelle held her breath.

  Micheline looked back at her in surprise. “No! Should he?”

  Isabelle hurriedly assured her that he did not.

  “Well, you really put a fright into me,” said Micheline, laughing. “I can’t begin to imagine Claude moving away. Enough of that! You said earlier that you had a lot of work ahead of you today; if you like, I’d be happy to help you with some of it. Over there, all I’m going to hear are Marie’s admonitions and how improper a romantic liaison is at my age. Honestly, I’m not in the mood for that at all.”

  A short time later, the two women were hard at work on the furniture in the living rooms, rubbing in a special liquid with old rags. It was a polish made of a few spoonfuls of oil, red wine, and a pinch of salt—a secret recipe of Micheline’s that quickly took care of all the scratches in the lackluster wood. That afternoon, when Isabelle stood back and admir
ed their handiwork in the golden sunshine falling through the high windows, she felt pride and satisfaction.

  “It might sound strange, but I’m in love with this house,” she murmured. “Whenever I go through the rooms, all I want to do is touch the furniture or stroke the velvet curtains. Whenever I walk past one of the windows, I have to stop and enjoy the magnificent views.” A little embarrassed, Isabelle smiled at Micheline. “Even today, I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else again. I feel so . . . like I’m where I belong!”

  When they were done with the furniture, Micheline showed Isabelle how to cook potatoes and brew coffee properly.

  “There’s so much to learn. In the house, the yard, the vineyards. In Jacques’s study, too. And all of it is important one way or another. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it all in,” Isabelle cried despairingly.

  “Give yourself a little time, my dear. Reims wasn’t built in a day, either,” said Micheline with a wink. Then she untied her apron and said good-bye for the day.

  Isabelle watched the old woman leave. She should give herself time? She and Leon had no time to spare! The last bit of money they had was disappearing like morning frost in the March sun. The competition had snatched Jacques’s American customers away, and they’d exploit every other weakness she or Leon showed, any way they could. They could only protect themselves if they kept their eyes and ears open and came to grips with the estate as quickly as they could.

  Turning her thoughts back to the house, Isabelle wished Clara would send her a few cookbooks with simple recipes. Then she could at least check off the kitchen and cooking and spend her time on more important things.

  When, a few days later, the postman really did bring a package for her, Isabelle let out a shriek so loud that it made the man jump. “Mail from Berlin!” As she signed for the package, she glanced past the postman and caught sight of Daniel Lambert on the opposite side of the street. He knocked on the door of the house of la maîtresse and went in without waiting.